


Harry Potter and the Lady Thief

by Starfox5



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aurors, Blood Magic, F/M, Gentleman Thieves, Heists, animagi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 67
Words: 601,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starfox5/pseuds/Starfox5
Summary: Alternate Universe. Framed as a thief and expelled from Hogwarts in her second year, her family ruined by debts, many thought they had seen the last of her. But someone saw her potential, as well as a chance for redemption - and Hermione Granger was all too willing to become a lady thief if it meant she could get her revenge.





	1. Expelled

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters in the Harry Potter books or movies.
> 
> This story is set in an Alternate Universe. A number of canon events didn't or won't happen. The society of Wizarding Britain is a bit different and a number of characters will act differently as well. 
> 
> Original prompt by CG99.
> 
> I'd like to thank fredfred for betaing. His help has improved the story a lot.

****

**Prologue**

**Near Blagdon Hill, Devon, Britain, August 23rd, 1981**

He knew he was too late the moment he arrived and saw the Dark Mark floating in the pitch black sky. He ignored the Auror raising his wand in his direction, just as he ignored the older Auror grabbing her partner’s arm and pulling it down. All of his attention was focused on the burning cottage. His home. Green, cursed flames were leaping through the roof and out of the windows.

A dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards were struggling to control the fire, to keep the flames from spreading into the garden and nearby fields, their red and grey robes tinted green by the fire’s glow. For a second he felt hope. Maybe Martha had managed to escape with Jane. His wife wasn’t a member of the Order, nor a duellist, but she was a talented witch, and…

He spotted the two bodies laid out at the gate, covered with white sheets. An adult and a child. His family. He trembled, stumbling towards them. One Auror got in his way, saying something he didn’t hear. He pushed the man away and fell to his knees before the bodies, reaching out to lift one of the sheets.

Then he screamed.

*****

“Mundungus?”

He didn’t react and kept staring at the ashes of his home. The fire had, finally, burned itself out. The Aurors had gone, as well. They had tried to talk to him, but he had ignored them. He had never cared much for them, anyway.

“I offer my heartfelt condolences, my friend. To suffer such a loss…”

He tensed up and clenched his teeth. He had expected him, had expected those words, had heard them before, even if not addressed to him. But to hear them, now, after… “Save it, Albus!” he spat.

When the old wizard didn’t answer he turned his head to look at him. Albus met his eyes, and his expression was so understanding, he wanted to hex the old man. No, to curse him! “Where were you?”

“There were multiple attacks all over Britain, most of them aimed at the homes of Order members. I did what I could, but it was not enough. Gideon and Fabian were murdered, as was Edgar and most of his family.”

“And my family.” He stared at the old man.

Albus inclined his head in response.

“I should have been with them. I should have protected them.” Together, they would have managed to escape. Snuck out and disappeared. He was good at such things - it was why Albus had recruited him. And it was why he hadn’t been with his family tonight.

Again, the old man remained silent. He hated that, that understanding, that pity!

“Aren’t you going to ask if I succeeded at my mission? The oh so important reason I wasn’t with my family tonight?” He snarled at him, daring him to answer. “Aren’t you going to tell me how much we need to stand fast in our darkest hour, to prevent others from suffering the same fate as my family?”

Albus shook his head.

“Why not? Are you going to let me grieve a day, a week, before you have another ‘mission’ for your personal thief? A task to focus on, to take my thoughts off my pain?” He trembled with anger as he faced Albus. He didn’t let the old man answer and pulled the ledger he had copied inside Parkinson Manor earlier tonight and threw it to the ground.

“Here!” After a deep breath to regain control of himself, he went on: “Don’t speak to me again! I’m through with you, with the Order, with this whole damn war!”

Spinning on his heel, he apparated to an abandoned factory in muggle London. He had used the place before, to test spells and potions, and no one had ever bothered him here. He could cry here as long as he wanted, too.

And, Mundungus Fletcher added to himself as he pulled out the bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky he had pilfered from Parkinson’s desk after cracking the man’s strongbox, no one would bother him while he drank himself into a stupor either.

*****

**Chapter 1: Expelled**

**Hogwarts, March 31st, 1993**

“That’s it! That’s my grandmother’s necklace!”

Standing near her bed, Hermione Granger stared at the golden pendant dangling from the Auror’s hand, barely registering Greengrass’s words. How had this thing appeared in her trunk? “I’ve never seen that necklace before!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. How could it… “Someone must have planted it in my trunk!” That was the only explanation - she knew she hadn’t stolen it!

“And someone else who looked just like you was seen by Miss Parkinson, sneaking out of her dorm?” The Auror - John Dawlish, she remembered, was his name - didn’t bother to hide his derision.

“They could have used Polyjuice! Or else she’s lying!” Everyone knew that Parkinson was Malfoy’s girlfriend. Or wanted to be his girlfriend. And Malfoy had ample reasons for trying to get Hermione into trouble.

“The only one lying is you!” Greengrass snarled at her. “Filthy thief!”

She shook her head. “I didn’t steal that necklace! I didn’t!” She looked at Professor McGonagall. “I didn’t steal the necklace!”

But her favourite teacher wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll inform the Headmaster,” the old witch said, her face set in a grim expression.

As she followed McGonagall, walking between the two Aurors as if she was a prisoner being transported to jail, Hermione felt like crying - and even more so when she noticed how many of her fellow students were in the Gryffindor common room, watching her being led out, and heard them whispering behind her back. Hunching her shoulders, she kept her eyes down - she didn’t want to see them staring at her.

“Hermione! What’s going on?”

Harry! She whipped her head around, looking for her friend. There! He was standing near the entrance, still wearing his Quidditch gear - he must have just arrived. Ron was right behind him, and both looked confused, and concerned.

“Parkinson and Greengrass are framing me for theft!” she responded. “It must be Malfoy’s work!”

“Miss Granger!” McGonagall glared at her. “Don’t make this any worse!”

Hermione gaped at the teacher. What did the witch mean? Didn’t she realise that this was a setup? Didn’t she believe Hermione? Was McGonagall angry at her? She wasn’t a thief! “But…” she began, only to be interrupted by the old witch.

“Don’t say anything until we’re in the Headmaster’s office!” McGonagall snapped at her.

Trembling, Hermione followed the witch. How could her teacher think this of her! As they left the dorms, she tried to calm down. The Headmaster would fix this - he knew she wasn’t a criminal! He knew what Malfoy had done!

*****

“I see. This is quite a situation,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard.

“A situation?” Dawlish blurted out. “It’s an open and shut case! We have Miss Parkinson’s statement, and we found the stolen necklace in Granger’s trunk!”

Hermione bit her lower lip to stop herself from saying anything. Dumbledore had to know she was innocent!

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Dumbledore said. “I will need to talk with Miss Granger in private.”

“What?” Hermione and half the others in the room said in unison.

“That’s against Ministry regulations…” Dawlish started to object.

“This is Hogwarts, and Miss Granger is one of my students,” the Headmaster interrupted him.

“This is not a disciplinary matter, but a criminal matter!” Dawlish retorted.

“A student being accused of theft is most certainly a disciplinary matter,” Dumbledore corrected him, and Hermione felt her heart lift. But his next words destroyed her growing hope that he would nip this awful plot in the bud: “It remains to be decided whether or not this is also a criminal matter.”

“That is not your decision to make.”

“I never claimed it would be - only that as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, it is my prerogative to handle disciplinary matters. It should not take overly long.”

That apparently calmed Dawlish. It had the opposite effect on Hermione, of course, and by the time everyone but her and Dumbledore had left the Headmaster’s office, she had bitten her lower lip bloody to keep herself silent.

“Headmaster! I’m innocent! Someone planted the necklace in my trunk! Parkinson is either lying, or was fooled. It has to be a plot by Malfoy! You have to believe me!”

“I do believe you, my dear.” Dumbledore’s smile was gentle. “This does look like Lucius’s handiwork.”

She nodded rapidly. “He’s trying to get back at me for foiling his plot against Harry earlier this year!”

“Indeed. Though I would say that he does not simply want revenge, but also to remove you from Harry’s side, to prevent you from foiling further plots.” Dumbledore nodded gravely.

That… that… Hermione clenched her teeth before she cursed in front of the Headmaster. The depths to which Malfoy and his father would stoop! “So… how can I prove my innocence?”

The old wizard hesitated to answer, and she gasped. He sighed. “Alas, that may prove impossible, Miss Granger.”

“But I am innocent! Even if they do not believe me, they can interrogate me with Veritaserum!” She knew exactly how well that worked, after all.

“I am afraid to say that that cannot be allowed to happen, Miss Granger.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Why not?”

“The Aurors, well-prepared by Lucius, would most certainly not limit their questions to the matter at hand.”

She gasped, finally understanding. “You mean…” He knew! Of course he’d know, he was Dumbledore!

“Indeed. While it is very impressive for a second year to have brewed Veritaserum - a feat even many who have passed their N.E.W.T.s have trouble with - you broke the law in doing so. And to make matters worse, the illegally brewed potion was then used on young Mr Malfoy.” She shivered, and he smiled sadly at her. “The punishment for brewing a restricted potion is not overly harsh, but to use Veritaserum on someone…” He shook his head. “Many among the members of the Wizengamot are well aware of how easily they would be ruined, should they be forced to spill their secrets, and will make an example out of you.” Or her friends, who had helped her use the potion on Malfoy.

She swallowed. “Azkaban?”

“Yes. A year at the minimum. But since you are a muggleborn, and the potion was used on the son of Lucius Malfoy…”

She sniffled. She wouldn’t survive that. “What… what can I do, then?” She couldn’t go to Azkaban!

“I could obliviate you of the critical knowledge, of course, but that would, if detected, which would have to be expected, invalidate your testimony under Veritaserum.”

“Can’t you limit the questions? They can’t just ask all sorts of questions, can they?” That was how it worked with muggle trials, wasn’t it?

“I am afraid that they can, provided they can claim to have reasonable suspicion of further crimes. Which Lucius will ensure - I am certain that he has anticipated this course of events. There is a reason that the use of Veritaserum requires explicit permission from the Wizengamot, unless the accused asks for it, and that such permission is very rarely granted when it involves a relative of a member of the Wizengamot. We are rather fortunate that you, as a muggleborn, are merely being accused of larceny, and not of a more serious crime.”

“But…” That was corruption!

“I am sorry, Miss Granger, but the only way to avoid Azkaban is to avoid being interrogated using Veritaserum.”

“But I can’t prove my innocence otherwise!” When he didn’t answer and simply looked at her with a sad expression, she understood. “You mean… I will be found guilty?”

“With only your word to put against Miss Parkinson’s, and with the necklace found in your trunk, it is a certainty. The most I can do is lessen the punishment.” He spread his hands with a rather apologetic expression. “An attempt to do more would be decried by Lucius and his allies as me trying to interfere with the course of justice, and might even lead to a harsher punishment.”

“But…” She couldn’t get punished for this!

“It saddens me to tell you this, in light of the fact that you find yourself in these circumstances for having helped your friend, but I do not see any other way to handle this without seeing you condemned to Azkaban.”

“What… what punishment should I expect?”

“Fines. I may not be able to exonerate you, but there are enough good people on the Wizengamot to ensure that a young witch will not be sent to Azkaban for theft - especially not for a first offence. I doubt that Lucius would even attempt to push for such a sentence, knowing how it would be received.”

“Even as a mudblood?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He frowned at her. “Miss Granger, while I am the last wizard to claim that the foul and foolish ideology of blood purity has no more adherents in Wizarding Britain, your blood status will not significantly change anything with regard to the sentence.” Chastened, she lowered her head. After a moment, he continued: “Although, and it honestly pains me to say this, your expulsion from Hogwarts is also unavoidable.”

She stared at him, blinking. That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She couldn’t get expelled. If she was expelled from Hogwarts, she’d lose her wand. She’d lose her education. She’d lose her friends!

He slowly shook his head in response to her silent plea, and she broke down in tears.

*****

**Hogwarts, March 31st, 1993**

“I’ve heard that they arrested Granger. For theft!”

“Yes. Aurors found her trunk full of stolen jewelry!”

“She’s been taken straight to Azkaban!”

Harry Potter clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to yell at the gossiping witches in the corner of the Gryffindor common room to shut up or get hexed. Hermione wasn’t a thief! She wouldn’t steal some stupid necklace. But she hadn’t returned to the dorms yet, nor had she been at dinner.

“Stupid witches spreading lies,” Ron mumbled, shifting around in the seat next to his. Harry’s friend looked as worried as Harry felt, though. “Tomorrow they’ll say she broke into Gringotts.”

To be fair, Hermione had stolen potions ingredients - but they had needed them to foil Malfoy’s plot. And Harry and Ron had helped her. He leaned towards Ron, who was scowling at the closest witch, Lavender. “Do you think this is another of Malfoy’s plots?” he whispered.

Ron looked at him as if he was confused. “Of course it is! She told us so when they took her away!”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “Do you think she might have stolen the necklace because Malfoy wanted to use it against us?”

“Oh.” Ron blinked. “But why didn’t she tell us? We’d have helped her!” he whispered back.

“I don’t know. But it’s all Malfoy’s fault either way.” Harry was certain of that. He suddenly stood up. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Come!”

“Huh?” Ron looked confused, but stood up anyway. “What do you mean?”

“We’ll go to Dumbledore!” Harry said. They should have done that right away.

*****

“Please sit down, Harry, Mr Weasley.”

Harry didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to stand, to pace, to do something, anything. But instead he sat down in response to the Headmaster’s invitation, as did Ron.

“I assume that you are here because of the incident with Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said.

He wasn’t smiling, not even a little, Harry noted with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hadn’t even looked as serious after Quirrell’s death, and Harry had played a rather large part in that! “Yes,” he said, nodding. After a moment, he went on: “She hasn’t returned to the dorms. Not even after dinner. And there are rumours that she has been arrested…” He trailed off, pressing his lips together.

“I am sorry to confirm that your friend has been arrested.”

Ron let a curse slip for which his mother would scourgify his mouth while Harry gaped at the Headmaster. “But… she wouldn’t steal a necklace! Not unless it was part of a plot by Malfoy!” Harry protested, leaning forward in his seat and almost jumping to his feet.

“Yes,” Ron chimed in, “she scolds us when we break the rules, too! The Slytherins are lying!”

Dumbledore sighed. “I am certain that Miss Granger hasn’t stolen Miss Greengrass’s family heirloom.”

“So she’ll get off?” Harry blurted out, then winced when he realised that he had interrupted the Headmaster.

Now Dumbledore smiled - but only a little. “She hasn’t stolen the necklace, but I have it on good authority that she isn’t actually innocent of any crime.”

Harry blinked. “What?” Hermione wouldn’t commit a crime, she wouldn’t! What was the Headmaster talking about… “Oh.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, “I am referring to the actions she took in dealing with your ‘curse’ earlier this year.”

“The Malaclaw venom? Harry almost died because of that!” Ron scowled. “We had to do something!”

“And it was Malfoy’s fault!” Harry added, rubbing his right arm. He had had to take a large dose of Skele-Gro after the crash that had destroyed his Nimbus 2000.

“Indeed it was. But the manner in which that knowledge was revealed has caused quite a serious problem.”

“What?” Harry tried to think of what they had done that would cause this. They had slipped a few drops of Veritaserum into Malfoy’s pumpkin juice during dinner…

“It was quite clever of you to arrange for a teacher to question him about the latest misfortune that had befallen Harry, but dosing anyone with Veritaserum is a serious crime.” Dumbledore looked from Harry to Ron and back.

“But… that’s got nothing to do with the theft!” objected Ron.

“No, but given the evidence arranged against her, the only way for Miss Granger to prove that she is innocent would require that she be questioned under Veritaserum - which would almost certainly reveal her own use of that potion. And the punishment for illegal use of Veritaserum is far harsher than for theft.”

“But…” Ron trailed off.

Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of this. “You mean… she’ll be found guilty for something she didn’t do?”

“In order to avoid being punished for something she did do,” Dumbledore said. With a noticeable frown, he added: “And to avoid incriminating her friends.”

“Oh.” Harry repeated himself. Hermione would do that. Like when she had lied to the teachers after the troll attack.

“But we helped her!” Ron exclaimed.

“Admitting your own culpability will not help Miss Granger; all such a confession would accomplish would be to see you two sent to Azkaban as well, and see your father ruined, Mr Weasley.”

“She’ll be sent to Azkaban?” Harry gasped. He had heard enough about the wizard prison this evening in the common room to know how horrible that would be.

“No, not for the theft which she is accused of having committed.” The Headmaster’s smile had appeared, but it was rather thin. “Do you now understand the situation in which Miss Granger finds herself?”

“Can’t we do anything?” Harry asked.

“I shall do my best to mitigate her punishment. She will not be sent to prison, I can assure you.” Dumbledore sighed. “But she will be expelled from Hogwarts.”

“What?” Harry looked at Ron. His friend seemed as shocked as he was. Hermione, expelled? Gone from Hogwarts? That was… she had once called that a fate worse than death.

“But only the Headmaster can expel a student!” Ron said. “You can refuse to expel her.”

“I could - but the school governors would take action against me, and I doubt that my successor would uphold my decision.” Dumbledore’s faint smile vanished again. “The events of this year and the year before have not been received well by the governors.”

Harry clenched his teeth. It was partially his fault, then. If he had paid more attention, hadn’t been so reckless, then Quirrell would still be alive, and Malfoy wouldn’t have been able to poison Harry.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” Dumbledore said, in a gentle voice. “As the Headmaster, and even more so, as a wizard of my experience, it was my responsibility. I should have handled things better. I was preoccupied by politics, but that is no excuse.”

Harry nodded, but he still felt guilty.

“But… where will Hermione go, if she can’t go to Hogwarts?” Ron asked.

“A witch as gifted as her has several options,” Dumbledore assured them. “Even after this affair.”

That made Harry feel a little better. Ron and he might lose their best friend, but she wouldn’t lose magic. “Will we see her again?” he asked. “Before she gets expelled, I mean.”

“Yes, of course. Although I expect that she will have to spend a day in the Ministry's custody first.”

Harry managed to smile at that, even if he felt like crying.

*****

**Hogwarts, April 2nd, 1993**

They were waiting for her when Hermione Granger came down the stairs, dragging her trunk behind her. Harry and Ron. Her best friends. Her only friends, even. There were others in the room as well, but she didn’t care for them. They didn't care for her either, anyway.

“Hey.” Harry shuffled his feet and tried to smile.

“Hermione.” Ron wasn’t doing any better.

She bit her lower lip then took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this. She had prepared for this. “I guess this is goodbye.” She wouldn’t cry.

It was obvious that they didn’t know what to say. “Did you talk with the Headmaster?”

Harry nodded. “We did.”

They knew then. Good. She couldn’t say anything more, not with an Auror standing behind her.

“I’ll write you. And we can see each other in the summer,” she managed to say.

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

None of them mentioned how difficult it would be to meet, with the Dursleys, and Ron not being familiar with muggle London, and her… expelled. “Good,” she pressed out, then lunged forward, gathering both of them together in a hug.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispered. “Malfoy’s just waiting for that.” It was bad enough that she had to take the fall; she wouldn’t let that bigot ruin her friends’ lives as well. She could feel them tense, but they didn’t answer. “Promise me!” she added.

“OK,” Harry said after a moment, and she felt Ron nod.

“That’s enough,” the Auror said in a gruff voice. “We’re leaving now.” She released her friends and looked over her shoulder at the wizard. He had his wand drawn. He would probably use it on her, too - he had taken her wand, so she couldn’t levitate her trunk, earlier.

Frowning, she turned away and bent down to pick up her trunk again. To her surprise, it was far lighter than before. She looked up, and saw Fred or George smile at her.

She smiled back, feeling a little better. Her ordeal would soon be over, too. She wouldn’t even have to spend another day in a cell, so she had been told, since her trial would take place that afternoon. She could do this. She had to.

Her smile didn’t last long. Along the route to the entrance, students were lined up - all of them Slytherins. But they should be in their classes or dorms right now! Some were simply staring and whispering, but many were jeering and sneering at her.

“Look at the thief go!”

“Check her pockets, I’m missing a Knut!”

“Have a good time in Azkaban!”

“Bye-bye, Beaver!”

“You should never have come to Hogwarts, mudblood!”

That was Malfoy. This was all his fault! She wanted to yell at him, to curse him, but she couldn’t. It would just make everything worse. She had to endure this, to show that she was better than them. No matter how much they doubted her, believed her to be a criminal, she knew the truth. She knew who the real criminal was here.

“Go back to the muggles, mudblood!”

Turning a corner, she saw Snape walking towards her, a scowl on his face. He was shooing the nearby students away, and for a moment, she felt relieved. Then she felt rage rise inside her. Snape should have stopped this from happening at all! There were no Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs around, only Slytherins. As if the bigot wouldn’t have been able to prevent this! He was just covering himself now that his students had already slung their slurs at her!

Hermione focused on her anger, her rage, and sneered at him, then held her head high and did her best to ignore the hecklers as she strode out of Hogwarts.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, April 2nd, 1993**

Sitting in the centre of a large chamber, magical chains binding her limbs to a wooden chair, with everyone looking down at her from their seats above her, wasn’t how Hermione Granger had wanted to visit the Wizengamot. Not at all.

Bu here she was, the accused, with everyone already convinced of her guilt, or so she thought, glancing at the faces of the assembled Wizengamot and the rest of the court. She could even spot Malfoy’s father, among the Wizengamot, and up high, among the spectators, his son. He must have asked his father to pull some strings to be allowed out of Hogwarts for this so he could gloat!

Dumbledore smiled at her, but the rest of the wizards and witches present didn’t. Especially not the fat witch standing in for the Minister for Magic - Dumbledore had managed to keep the Minister from interfering directly; Lucius Malfoy had been cultivating Fudge for years.

The fat witch cleared her throat. “Criminal trial of the second of April, 1993,” she spoke, her nasal voice amplified by a spell. “Hermione Jean Granger stands accused of multiple counts of grand larceny.”

What? Multiple counts of grand larceny? Hermione gasped and looked at Dumbledore. But the Headmaster seemed to be surprised himself.

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty!” she answered, still reeling from this unexpected change. “What am I being accused of?” she added. “I was arrested for theft!”

“The charges have been expanded due to new evidence,” the witch - Dolores Umbridge, Hermione remembered - explained with a cruel smile.

“I haven’t been made aware of this,” Dumbledore spoke up.

“It was all filed properly.” Umbridge’s smile widened.

Hermione expected Dumbledore to lodge a protest - that was impairing her defence! - but the old wizard simply sat down again. She felt even worse, now. And Malfoy, sitting high above her, was smiling!

“Take a note that the accused has pleaded not guilty,” Umbridge ordered.

“I still haven’t heard what I am being accused of in detail!” Hermione yelled.

“Another such outburst and you’ll be found in contempt of the court!” the other witch snarled at her. “Auror Dawlish, present the evidence against the accused.”

The Auror who had arrested her in Hogwarts stood up. “Witnesses for the prosecution: Miss Daphne Greengrass. Miss Pansy Parkinson. Miss Millicent Bulstrode. Miss Tracey Davis. Mr Allan Borgin.”

Hermione had never seen that man before. What was going on? She looked at Dumbledore, and saw that he was frowning. That was… she bit her lower lip. She couldn’t lose her composure. Not now. She forced herself to calm down, despite her growing desperation.

“Are you Hermione Jean Granger, born September nineteenth, 1979, resident of London?”

“Y-yes.” Hermione swallowed and once again bit her lip.

“Did you steal this necklace from Miss Greengrass?” Umbridge pointed at Dawlish, who was raising the necklace in the air.

“No.” She shook her head.

“Did you steal this ring from Miss Parkinson?”

“What? I’ve never seen that ring before!”

“Answer the question!” Umbridge snapped.

“No, I didn’t steal that ring!”

“Did you steal this diadem from Miss Bulstrode?”

“No!”

“Did you steal this bracelet from Miss Davis?”

“No!”

She looked at the sneering Slytherins. What were they trying to accomplish? Those pieces hadn’t been in her trunk. Had they placed them in her room after she had been arrested, to be ‘found’ in time for the trial?

But as she soon found out, Malfoy’s plot - and it had to be him behind all this - was a bit more intricate.

*****

“... to sum up: We have heard how the necklace stolen from Miss Greengrass was found in the accused’s trunk the morning after the theft. We have heard that Miss Parkinson, Miss Bulstrode and Miss Davis had been missing jewelry as well - a ring, a diadem and a bracelet, all very expensive, goblin-made heirlooms - but assumed that they had lost them, which is why they didn’t report the loss - until they realised that if the accused could steal from Miss Greengrass, she could have stolen from them as well. And, most importantly, we have heard the testimony of Mr Allan Borgin, who bought these three pieces of jewelry during the last few months, thinking he was helping out a young pureblood witch who had fallen on hard times. Against this stands nothing but the word of the accused - a muggleborn witch who could never afford such treasures. The evidence is overwhelming, and the punishment should fit the crime. I ask for her wand to be snapped and for her to be incarcerated for six months in Azkaban. Let this be a message to others tempted to steal and rob.” Auror Dawlish sat down.

Hermione was trembling when she noticed how many of the Wizengamot members were nodding in agreement. Azkaban! Half a year! She couldn’t… she would not survive that. Tears were running down her cheeks, but she didn’t care any more.

Dumbledore rose to speak for her. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The accused is a young witch; she has not yet finished her second year at Hogwarts. To think that she would be able to not only steal multiple times without getting caught, but also sneak out of Hogwarts, travel to Knockturn Alley and then sell the stolen pieces without any trouble, beggars belief. That she would stash stolen loot in her trunk, instead of hiding it somewhere else, makes this whole story even less plausible. No, she is not the culprit, but simply a scapegoat, another victim of the true culprit.

“But even should you believe this tale and find her guilty, you should consider her young age, and that this would be her first offence. Azkaban is a place for the worst criminals of Wizarding Britain - murderers, those who try to break the Statue of Secrecy, dark wizards and Death Eaters.” Hermione saw a number of Wizengamot members jerk at the last words.

“You all know the fate of those sent to Azkaban. Dementors, those vile fiends harboured there, will torture her, slowly draining her of any joy and happiness, leaving her a broken shell of herself. Six month there have seen hardened criminals reduced to insanity! Will you burden your conscience with doing such to a young girl, over theft?”

Hermione noticed that the witches who had done this to her now looked uncomfortable, shifting on their seats - even Parkinson. None of them spoke up, though. And Malfoy was smiling, even!

“Sending her to Azkaban would not be justice, but needless cruelty - fit for a Death Eater, but not for a member of the Wizengamot.”

As Dumbledore sat down, Hermione wiped the tears from her face and hoped fervently that his plea had been enough to sway the Wizengamot and spare her.

*****

**Hogwarts, April 3rd, 1993**

_Muggleborn Thief Fined And Expelled!_

Sitting down for breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry Potter winced when he saw across the table the headline of the Daily Prophet Percy was reading. He craned his neck, trying to read the front page, but he hadn’t gotten further than the author’s name - a Rita Skeeter - when Percy folded the newspaper up and handed it to him. The older boy didn’t say anything, but he smiled apologetically - or so Harry thought. It wasn’t an expression he often saw on Percy’s face.

Reading the article - Ron joined in a minute later, looking over Harry’s shoulder - Harry hissed with anger. There was a picture of Hermione’s wand being snapped in front of her. He could see her flinch, then press her lips together and stand straighter, when the two parts were thrown at her feet, before it started again.

He realised he had stared at the picture for a minute when he heard Ron exclaim: “Blimey! Have you read the paragraph about you?”

“What?” He hadn’t.

_According to our sources at Hogwarts, Granger was quite close to the Boy-Who-Lived, and deeply involved in the affair surrounding his almost fatal accident last autumn. While unconfirmed, the possibility of this criminal attempting to steal Harry Potter’s fortune through various means cannot be dismissed out of hand - many students describe her as ambitious and cunning, so she might have had long-term plans to that effect. Several of our sources went into detail about her practice of using her relationship with Harry Potter to escape punishment for her numerous offences. It is certainly a good thing that her corrupting influence has now been removed from both the Boy-Who-Lived and Hogwarts._

“Those… those…” He knew who those ‘sources’ were. Slytherins. He glanced over at their table, and saw a gaggle of them bent over a few newspapers, some pointing and laughing.

“Merlin’s beard!” Ron’s curse drew Harry’s attention back to the article. What else could this Skeeter have written? She had already turned Hermione’s alleged crime into a veritable crime spree that ‘had shaken Hogwarts to its founding stones’. He saw what his friend was pointing at, and hissed under his breath.

_Granger’s grades - she allegedly excelled in tests, but, according to other students in her year, she was lacking in practical talent - are now also suspect. A witch willing to steal an heirloom of the scion of an Old Family like the Greengrasses would certainly be able to cheat in tests. In hindsight, this should have been obvious - had the girl been truly as smart as she claimed, she would certainly have been sorted into Ravenclaw rather than Gryffindor. We can only hope that the school’s staff will investigate these accusations thoroughly - it would not do to have a cheater affect the standings of hard-working, honourable students._

Harry glanced over at the Ravenclaw table and noticed several of the students in their year looking quite satisfied. “Jealous gits,” he mumbled.

_One can but hope that her expulsion will spell the end of the recent string of scandals which have plagued Hogwarts - as our readers know, not only did the Boy-Who-Lived almost die in a potions-related accident, but last year Professor Quirrell was killed under mysterious circumstances._

Those had been the work of Malfoy and Voldemort respectively! And the Prophet was hinting that Hermione was responsible? Harry threw the newspaper article on the table, not caring that it landed right on a plate filled with sausages. He wanted to hex that journalist, the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws!

“Hey, Potter! Aren’t you glad you were freed from the clutches of the mudblood before she stole your family fortune, leaving you both orphaned and poor?”

Harry jumped up and drew his wand. His promise be damned, he wouldn’t let that stand!

But before he - or Ron, who had mirrored his own actions - could hex the foul git, the Headmaster’s voice cut through rising excitement: “Mr Malfoy! Twenty points from Slytherin and detention tonight!”

The Great Hall fell silent as everyone turned to look at Dumbledore. The Headmaster almost never raised his voice, much less disciplined students directly; he left that to the teachers. Teachers, Harry noted, who looked almost as surprised as most of the students. Even Snape.

Harry expected Malfoy to protest, but not even that arrogant idiot would dare to talk back to Dumbledore, and the git sat down instead.

“Did you hear me, Mr Malfoy?”

The Slytherin jerked and looked back at the staff table. “Yes, sir,” he pressed out.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, apparently satisfied, then vanished the Daily Prophet on his table.

“Serves the git right,” Ron whispered as both of them sat down again.

“It’s not enough though,” Harry answered. Not by far.

“We promised not to do anything,” Ron said - as if he hadn’t been about to hex the git a minute ago.

But Harry’s friend was correct - they had promised Hermione. Slowly, Harry started to grin. “Yes, we did promise. But,” he added, with a glance at Fred and George, “they didn’t.”

Ron’s smile matched those of his brothers’.

*****

**London, Kingston upon Thames, April 24th, 1993**

Hermione Granger was sitting in the garden, behind the old tree in the corner. She needed to be alone. Away from her parents and their silent accusations. And the telly covering the bombing in the City of London. And she wanted to enjoy the garden before they had to move out.

Which they would have to, once the house was sold. They would have to find a flat - a cheap one - near whatever new employment her parents could find after selling their dental practice. Which they needed to do because of her. She pulled out the broken pieces of her wand. She had kept them, despite the wand being ruined. It would serve as a reminder.

Her family was ruined, and it was all her fault. Her fault, but even more the fault of those despicable Malfoys and their friends. It hadn’t been enough for Malfoy to get her expelled with his plot and the lies of his friends - no, they had to go even further! All those lying witches, claiming she stole even more from them… and Borgin, claiming he had bought those treasures in good faith, for a fair price! The fines and damages were more than her family owned! And, as a muggleborn, she was lucky that the Wizengamot, which mostly consisted of purebloods who had inherited their seats, hadn’t sent her to Azkaban!

She clenched her teeth, rage filling her. They would pay! She didn’t know how, yet, but all who had conspired to ruin her would pay! Every single last one of them. Malfoy, Parkinson, Greengrass, Bulstrode and Davis. Borgin, of course. Umbridge, for hiding the new charges so Dumbledore couldn’t do anything in time. Dawlish, for going along with the plot. And Skeeter, for calling her a cheater! And all those who had sneered and slandered her at Hogwarts. The bigots and the jealous.

She would get her revenge!

When she noticed that her broken wand was sparking, she forced herself to calm down. A bout of accidental magic would cause even more trouble for her and her family. And they definitely couldn’t afford that.

Once again, she considered asking Harry for help. But that would ruin him, and she couldn’t do that. Not when it was her fault for not considering the consequences of her plan. For not researching enough. And to see him spend all his gold for her, after that awful article… But, she thought, maybe she could ask him to buy her a new wand? Nothing but the lack of money kept her from buying one - and the fact that any money she changed into Galleons at Gringotts would be confiscated right away by those loathsome goblins.

But even if she had a wand, she couldn’t return to Hogwarts, and she couldn’t afford to go to another school of magic. Dumbledore had told her that he’d do what he could to let her continue her education, but after sending her a selection of admittedly fascinating books to study, she hadn’t heard anything more concrete from him. She could ask Harry or Ron in her next letter to bother the Headmaster for her… No. She could wait a little longer.

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes. She had cried enough since the trial. She had lost this round, but she wouldn’t stay down. She would get her revenge!

“Miss Granger?”

The sudden question made her gasp and jump to her feet. A man was standing a few yards away, leaning against the fence - inside the garden. How had he managed to get so close without her noticing? She looked him over. He was wearing an expensive suit. Tailor-made, she thought. Polished shoes. A bow-tie, of all things. Immaculately shaved and coiffed. “Who are you?” she asked in return.

“Fletcher. Mundungus Fletcher.”

Mundungus? That sounded like a wizard name. She glanced at his hand.

He grinned and, with a flourish, produced a wand. “Indeed, I’m a wizard.”

“What do you want?” She hadn’t heard his name before.

“I’ve been looking into your trial. A clear set-up, in my opinion. You must have angered Lucius Malfoy a great deal for him to go to those lengths.”

“So?” She already knew that. Then she had another thought. Was the man here for her? Wasn’t ruining her and her family’s life enough? Had Malfoy hired the man to kill her?

She took a step back and glanced towards her house. If she sprinted… she wouldn’t make it.

“I’m not here to harm you, Miss Granger.” The man smiled, though a bit crookedly, in her opinion. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

“What?”

“As I said, I’ve been looking into your case, and into your history. You didn’t steal from those witches. But you could have. And you would have done it in a far less obvious way, right?”

Well, of course! She had stolen from Snape, after all, to brew the Veritaserum without getting caught!

“And you’re in dire need of gold.”

“Yes.” What was he proposing? Was he… certainly not!

“You have the talent and the motivation - and people already think you’re a thief. You have nothing to lose, I think.” He grinned. “Would you like to learn how to become a real thief, and rob those pureblood bastards blind?”

She blinked in surprise.

*****

 


	2. New Beginnings

**London, Knockturn Alley, April 24th, 1993**

Albus Dumbledore heard Mundungus before the other wizard returned to his flat - one of many stuffed into the decrepit-looking building in Knockturn Alley thanks to the overuse of Extension Charms. Unlike other wizards, Mundungus didn’t tend to apparate directly into his home, but preferred to check for intruders before entering - a cautious habit, and one that had served Albus’s old friend very well in the past.

The Headmaster wasn’t trying to hide, though, and he simply waited until the door was opened and Mundungus entered, leading with his wand.

“Good evening, Mundungus,” Albus said from the armchair he had conjured, raising a hand in greeting.

“Albus,” Mundungus said in a flat voice. He was wearing ratty robes again, but he was still looking far better - clean shaven, coiffed and sober - than the last time Albus had seen him. “I should have known you’d come.” And speaking like the educated wizard he was, instead of the gutter rat he had become for over ten years.

Albus nodded.

“That was your man, observing her home.”

Albus nodded again. He had hoped Mundungus would notice the guard he had posted at the Grangers’ - it showed that his old friend’s talents hadn’t been dulled by his Firewhisky excesses. Or not overly so, at least.

“Do you expect an attack on the girl?” Mundungus asked, walking over to sit down on a wooden chair that looked weathered enough to collapse under Filius’ weight.

He shook his head. “No. It is merely a precaution, in case I am wrong.” He had been wrong before, after all. And it would be good training for those of his friends in the Order who had let their skills grow rusty since Tom’s defeat.

“Good. You’ve been spectacularly, fatally wrong in the past.” Mundungus spat the words at him, and flicked his wand. An empty bottle flew into the thief’s hand, and he stared at it, then at Albus.

Albus merely let his smile widen a smidgen. He had failed his friend before, but he wouldn’t fail him now.

Mundungus scoffed. “Not very subtle.” He threw the bottle at the wall, but vanished it before it hit the peeling, faded wallpaper.

“Subtlety didn’t work before.”

His friend snorted. “I met the girl. Talked to her.”

“And she agreed to become your apprentice.”

“She agreed to take a few lessons from meself. Cautious chit.”

Albus noted how the Knockturn Alley accent was slipping back into his friend’s words. And how his posture started to change as he slouched in his chair. “Understandable, after her experiences.” Which were at least partially his fault. He hadn’t expected Lucius to go to such lengths against a young witch who had done nothing more than help save her friend. Plotting to send a young witch to Azkaban… he had managed to spare Miss Granger that, at least.

“Yeah. ’Er ‘experiences’.” Mundungus narrowed his eyes at Albus. “Why do ya want me to teach ’er? You all but ordered me to go to ’er.”

“Miss Granger is a very smart witch.” The smartest of her generation, as far as Albus could tell. “And yet she was sorted into Gryffindor.”

“Bleedin’ ’ell.”

“Indeed.” He grew serious. “While it would be a shame to see her talent wasted on the muggles, I am far more concerned about the possibility that, left alone, she would choose a rather questionable path to take revenge on those who wronged her.”

“You think better be a thief than a dark witch.”

Albus nodded. “One way or another, she will get even.” More than even, in his opinion - Miss Granger was not one to do things by halves.

“And so you picked me to be her mentor?” Mundungus threw back his head and laughed, though it sounded forced to Albus. His friend stopped laughing abruptly. “Di’n’ wanna let your traitor mentor ’er? Or is ’er blood too muddy for ’im?”

“Severus’s other duties would preclude such a task.” And, Albus thought, his prejudices would doom such a plan from its inception. That had been proven without a doubt when he had let young Mr Malfoy organise his mob to hassle Miss Granger on her last day at school. Albus had voiced his displeasure quite clearly at seeing his orders undermined like that. If Severus wasn’t needed for the coming troubles...

“Other duties? What, scarin’ the kiddies?” Mundungus narrowed his eyes again. “No… there’s something else. Something more important than Snape’s attitude.”

His friend’s wits hadn’t suffered overly much during his plunge into the gutters either, it seemed. Albus nodded. “The Dark Lord wasn’t killed, not entirely, in 1981. His shade lingered and surfaced last year.” Poor, brave Quirrell had paid with his life for another of Albus’s mistakes.

Mundungus hissed. “So that’s why you bothered me. You think we’re about to ’ave another war and you want your thief back - and another thief in case I buy it.”

“I have never stopped ‘bothering’ you to pull yourself out of the gutter,” Albus corrected him. He had merely let his attempts to help his friend lapse a bit longer with each failure.

“But ya’ve been preparing. I’ve ’eard about some ’effin Aurors askin’ odd questions lately.”

Albus nodded. He had pondered setting them on Lucius’s tools, but even a confession before the Wizengamot by the four young witches wouldn’t achieve anything, not at this point. It would be dismissed as the result of coercion or guile - probably with some spells arranged for additional plausibility. And any use of Veritaserum would see the questioner in Azkaban. No, better to set his friends on the real threat. Although Severus would have to keep his house in line - and impress upon the Slytherins that another attempt would have drastic consequences. The next year wouldn’t be pleasant for the four witches and Mr Malfoy, Albus would see to that. He hoped the others of the House of Green and Silver would learn the lesson.

“I shoulda known.” Mundungus swore a string of curses. Some even Albus didn’t know, and he made a note of them - maybe he would be able to surprise his brother next time they met.

“This doesn’t change anything with regard to Miss Granger.” Albus knew his friend - better than Mundungus knew himself these days.

“She wouldn’t stay away anyway, would she?”

“She is very loyal to her friends, among whom Harry Potter numbers rather prominently.”

Mundungus scoffed. “You’ve got your way. Now get on your way.”

Albus smiled as he rose and vanished his seat. Then he banished a small piece of parchment towards his friend.

Mundungus caught it and glanced at it. “What’s this?”

“The address of a flat more suitable for the teacher of a young witch,” Albus said.

“She’s gonna ’ave to learn about the seedier places too,” his friend muttered. At Albus’s raised eyebrows, he added: “But not until later, I guess.”

Smiling, Albus apparated back to the Forbidden Forest and checked the time on his watch. He was early enough to foil the latest scheme of the Weasley twins. The two purveyors of mischief were determined to take revenge on young Mr Malfoy on behalf of Miss Granger, and seemed to take the continuing failure of their efforts as a challenge. Maybe Albus would have to explain to them that their efforts would, ultimately, only benefit Lucius, who would use the opportunity for further attacks against Albus and his staff.

*****

**London, Greenwich, April 26th, 1993**

“Lumos!”

Hermione Granger smiled widely at the bright light shining from the tip of her wand. Her new wand, bought less than an hour ago in Diagon Alley. Made of walnut wood, 9¾ inches long, slightly flexible, with a dragon heartstring as its core, it seemed to sing in her hand, eagerly working magic with the slightest gesture. After three weeks without a wand, three weeks without casting a spell, three weeks without feeling like the witch she was, Hermione wanted more than anything to spend a day, or two, just casting every spell she knew, to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She had had her books to read, but reading about magic, studying the wand movements in the diagrams, had made her longing to cast spells even worse.

But, she thought with a glance at Mr Fletcher, who was watching her with a faint smile, they hadn’t come to this flat for her to play with her new wand. They had travelled here - by Apparition! Her first Side-Along-Apparition experience - so she could receive her first lesson from her new teacher.

So she took a deep breath and slid the wand into her equally new enchanted wrist holster, styled to look like a bracelet - and then had to resist the urge to test the QuickDraw Enchantment that would slip the wand into her hand at a mental command. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.” Fletcher snorted. “To go without a wand is among the more dreadful fates a wizard can suffer. Not the worst, not even close, of course.” The man looked a lot older when he said that, Hermione thought, and a lot more serious.

He quickly smiled again, though, and gestured towards the dining table. “Let’s take a seat. But first,” he added, and Hermione stopped halfway to the closest chair, “let’s change.” With that, he transfigured his robes back into the suit he had worn when he had fetched her from her home earlier today, then did the same to her own clothes, leaving her in jeans and a sweater. “We’re in muggle London, and we should attempt to fit in. Especially right now, with all the muggle policemen up in arms. Not that they would be able to enter this flat, or even notice it, but it's the principle of the thing - you need to develop a habit of doing this.”

Hermione nodded, feeling slightly guilty for forgetting about Saturday’s bombing in Bishopsgate in her excitement.

“The more you look like you belong, the less chance that a bobby or Auror will single you out.”

She nodded in agreement. That made sense. Then she blinked - she was already thinking like a thief. She wasn’t certain if that was a good or bad thing. But after her recent experiences with Aurors, she certainly knew that avoiding their attention was a good thing.

“So… before we start with any practical lessons - which we will, don’t look that disappointed - you need to learn the basics.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to teach you how to become a common criminal. I’m going to educate you in the art of the gentleman thief. Or, in your case, lady thief.”

“That’s still a criminal.” At his crooked smirk, she narrowed her eyes. A thief stole another’s property, usually by stealth and without using violence or force. That was the definition - Hermione had looked it up.

“Correct. But not a _common_ criminal. A gentleman thief has rules.” That sounded… more like from a book - a fictional book - or a movie to Hermione. She tried not to let her doubt show, though, as he continued. “The first rule is simple: Don’t kill. The penalties for theft are relatively light - relatively, mind you - but if you murder someone, it's the Kiss or Azkaban for you for certain. And the Aurors go after a murderer with much more effort - and violence - than a burglar. There are enough spells and other magical means to deal with, say, interlopers without killing them anyway."

She nodded and made a note. “That makes sense.” And Hermione didn’t want to kill anyone anyway. Well, maybe the elder Malfoy. He had tried to send her to Azkaban, after all, which she considered an attempt on her life.

“Of course it does - otherwise it wouldn’t be a rule. Thieves are practical.” He cleared his throat. “Second rule: Don’t steal from the poor. Not only is it poor form to steal from those who don’t have much to begin with, but it generally isn’t worth the effort anyway. And you never know if that hovel might turn out to be a Death Eater’s hideout.”

“Ah.” Hermione filed that tidbit about Death Eaters away in her mind while she wrote that rule down.

“Third: Keep mum about your profession. Never tell anyone who is not directly involved about your heists. And for ’eaven’s sake, don’t brag!” He scoffed. “Word travels fast. Even people you trust completely might reveal something - accidentally, or against their will.”

She bit her lower lip. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her friends - from Harry and Ron - but it made sense.

“Which means that your essential notes will have to be very carefully hidden, and any notes you don’t need any more have to be destroyed.”

She gasped. Destroying her notes? That… that…

“Trust me - you don’t want your... parents, or your boyfriend, to accidentally stumble upon the schematics for a house including the strongbox’s location.”

She blushed slightly at the ‘boyfriend’ remark - she didn’t have one, and she didn’t think anyone would be interested in her, bushy hair and buckteeth and all - but she could see how that would be a really bad thing. It wasn’t as if her parents knew anything other than that ‘Mr Smith’ was her new tutor. But… “Are you speaking from experience?” She regretted her question at once when she saw his face close up.

After a moment that seemed far too long to her, he went on: “Fourth rule: Never rat out your accomplices. Not only do informers tend to end up dead, but you will quickly run out of friends and contacts if you can’t be trusted.”

She thrust her chin up. She hadn’t tattled on her friends! Not ever! At least not at Hogwarts!

He chuckled. “Ah, I see.” He looked rather wistful, too, in her opinion. “Now, the next rule is obvious: Don’t get caught.” The way he looked at her made her think he was hinting at her trial - her conviction.

She scowled. “I wasn’t caught. I was framed.”

“Same thing, in the end. The best method to avoid getting caught is to avoid catching attention. Don’t be obvious. Don’t stick out. Don’t be seen, even. Always have an escape plan - and two more in case the first plan fails. Getting away is more important than getting the loot, never forget that!”

She nodded emphatically. She certainly had no intention of getting caught by the Aurors ever again!

“And in order to avoid getting caught, you need to always keep an eye out for traps, ambushes, and anything out of the ordinary. Patience and caution are much more important than courage, so you’ll need to rein in your inner Gryffindor.”

She frowned at that - she wasn’t brash, unlike others in her house. Her former house, she corrected herself with more than a little regret.

Once more he chuckled at her expression. “You’ll have to work on hiding your feelings as well. Anyway, those are the most important rules. They’ll keep you alive and out of prison.” He looked at her until she nodded, then smiled again. “Now, let’s start with a more practical lesson. Can’t let you forget how to cast spells, after all.”

Hermione perked up and let her wand slip into her hand. Finally!

*****

**Hogwarts, May 5th, 1993**

“This is weird!” Harry Potter said, putting his quill down and leaning back in his chair in the Gryffindor common room.

“What’s weird?” Ron asked, looking up from where he was reading a Charms essay Percy had written in his second year.

“I keep expecting Hermione to appear and quiz us. Or tell us to study harder.”

Ron snorted, but he didn’t sound amused. “Or tell us that we should have started studying earlier. Like last year.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed. “If you told me a few months ago I’d miss her nagging…”

Ron nodded. “Bloody Malfoy! It’s all his fault,” he muttered.

Harry looked around, then leaned forward and whispered: “Your brothers haven’t had much success.” He had expected much more than the few pranks they had managed to do.

“The Headmaster told them off.” Ron frowned. “Otherwise, Malfoy would be begging his father for a transfer to Durmstrang now.”

Harry knew that. “Still…”

“Would you go against Dumbledore?” Ron stared at him.

Harry was tempted to do so. Even knowing that Malfoy’s father would exploit any incident to further weaken Dumbledore’s position. “Each time I see his ugly face I want to hex him until he cries,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You and me both, mate,” Ron muttered. “But we’d get expelled as well.”

“It might be worth it,” Harry said. “We could study with Hermione’s tutor.” They’d still do the exams - Hermione had told them that Dumbledore would send her the questions. After the exams at Hogwarts, of course.

“Mum would kill me. And Hermione would kill us. We promised her that we’d leave the slimy git alone, remember?”

Harry sighed. He remembered - Hermione reminded them with every letter. And he really didn’t want to leave Hogwarts. The Dursleys wouldn’t let him study magic. It would be Stonewall High for him. “Bloody arse,” he spat.

Ron nodded. “He’ll get his. What did Hermione say in her last letter? Revenge is a dish best served cold?”

“Yes.” Harry had had to explain the saying to Ron.

His friend suddenly grinned. “Can you imagine what she’ll do to him with enough time to prepare?”

Harry smiled. He certainly could.

*****

**London, Greenwich, June 9th, 1993**

Hermione Granger frowned at the parchment in front of her. The written Charms exam had been harder than she had expected. Although given her lack of access to the Hogwarts Library, she should have anticipated that - she hadn’t been able to research the material as thoroughly as she should have. And she hadn’t had that much time to study either, what with the upheaval caused by her family’s recent move to a small flat in London.

She clenched her teeth. If the wizards and goblins had been reasonable, they would have let her parents keep their practice and pay the debts over time with their greater income. But they hadn’t been reasonable. Not at all. The whole thing was a travesty to start with, and would never have happened in a decent court - her parents wouldn’t have been held liable for her actions in the first place! But with the Wizengamot stuffed full of bigoted rich purebloods...

“Done?” Mr Fletcher asked, looking up from where he had been reading the Daily Prophet.

“Yes.” She dried the ink with a quick charm, then banished it towards the wizard.

He caught it, though with some difficulty, as she noticed, and stowed it in the scroll case on the low table near the couch. Once Hedwig brought Harry and Ron’s next letter, the owl would carry the case back to Hogwarts with the other exams she had taken, to be corrected by the teachers.

“Good. Then let’s get through the practical part.”

She didn’t frown when she stood, but she felt like doing so. Mr Fletcher wasn’t the best teacher when it came to casting spells. He wasn’t _bad_ , but the difference between him and Professors McGonagall or Flitwick was obvious. He was used to casting without incantations, and often without precise wand movements as well, and she usually had to resort to animated sketches in the books to learn the basic wand movements of a spell. Which limited her progress, since she had only limited access to such documents.

Mr Fletcher had said that Dumbledore owed her for failing to foil Malfoy’s plot, and that she should use that to get access to the Hogwarts Library over the holidays. She didn’t want to - the Headmaster had saved her from Azkaban - but on the other hand, she really missed being able to read whatever book she wanted…

And, she thought when she faced her tutor, there were Potions and Herbology to consider. And Care of Magical Creatures. She could handle Potions - having brewed Veritaserum by herself, with a pilfered cauldron and stolen ingredients, proved that. It wasn’t as if Snape deserved to be called a teacher anyway! But Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures needed practical lessons her tutor couldn’t provide.

“Ready?”

She stopped pondering her academical problems and nodded at Mr Fletcher. “Yes.”

“Good.” He conjured a small piece of wood on the floor. “Cast an Engorgement Charm on it.”

She knew that charm. “Engorgio!” The piece of wood grew rapidly, until it was the size of a table. She smiled - that was a good result for such a charm, according to her reading material.

He nodded. “Shrink it down.”

“Reducio.” She had gone through that spell in her head already while he had inspected the wood - those two charms were taught together for a reason.

“Good.” He took a step back and held his wand at the ready. “Now stand on top of the wood, and then cast the first charm again!”

She blinked. That wasn’t in the test notes she had received! She opened her mouth to protest, when she suddenly understood what he was doing.

“Exactly!” He grinned. “A nifty little trick to get over walls - or on top of roofs - with the right object. Don’t overdo it while we’re inside, though!”

She huffed. As if she’d forget that the ceiling wasn’t that high above her head! “Engorgio!”

The piece of wood rapidly grew again, but even expecting it, she couldn’t adjust for the sudden movement, and lost her balance halfway to the ceiling, toppling off the wood.

Before she hit the floor though, she suddenly froze in mid-air - Mr Fletcher had stopped her fall with another charm on the exam list. He shook his head. “And that’s the difference between learning how to cast a spell and learning how to use the spell.”

She frowned at him. “That was the first time I tried this!”

He inclined his head. “True. I expect you’ll do better the second time, then.” He cancelled his spell with a grin, and she dropped to the floor. “Or not.”

Hermione rubbed her rump - that had hurt! - and glared at him.

“Third time’s the charm?” He tilted his head slightly sideways with a grin.

Yes, Hermione thought while getting up - and resisting the urge to try and hit him with a Stinging Hex - Professors McGonagall or Flitwick would never have done this.

But then, they wouldn’t have taught her some of the uses for those harmless-looking spells either.

*****

**London, Enfield, July 11th, 1993**

Harry Potter spotted her before he regained his balance - magical travel, apart from flying, didn’t seem to agree with him, and Ron’s dad side-along-apparating him and his friend was no exception. Hermione was leaning against the bus stop sign, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. By the time he had managed to stand straight, she was already greeting them with a smile.

“Hello, Mr Weasley. Hi, Ron. Hi, Harry.”

“Hermione! There you are, just where you said you’d be! At the muggle bus stop!” He pointed at the sign and turned to Harry and Ron. “See boys? This is what muggles use to stop their busses, since they have no wands.”

Harry refrained from telling Mr Weasley that he had been taking buses for years. Ron’s dad had been kind enough to fetch him from Privet Drive, sparing him a lengthy trip.

“Are your parents here as well?” the older wizard asked, looking around.

“They’re at work,” Hermione answered, her smile slipping a little.

“Ah.” Mr Weasley nodded. “Do you live around here?”

Hermione’s smile disappeared completely. “We had to move here after we had to sell our house.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I forgot.” Ron’s dad had the grace to look embarrassed. “Terrible shame that affair! Terrible!”

Harry glanced apologetically at Hermione. He didn’t think that she wanted to talk about it - he knew her relationship with her parents was still rather strained. Even though the Grangers weren’t as bad as the Dursleys, they certainly weren’t fond of magic now.

“So… I’ll be off then, back to The Burrow. We have so much to prepare for our trip! International travel is complicated! Ron, take the Knight Bus home in time for dinner. And ask your friends before you assume something about muggles, will you?”

“Yes, Dad.” Ron didn’t quite roll his eyes, and Harry felt a touch of jealousy. He wished he had parents who cared that much about him. Hell, he wished he had parents, period.

Mr Weasley disappeared with a cracking sound, and the three were alone at the bus stop.

“Are you going on a trip?” Hermione asked.

“Ah…” Ron cleared his throat. “Right, yes, we are. Dad won the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. Seven hundred Galleons.” He looked almost embarrassed, Harry thought. “So, we’re going to visit Bill in Egypt for a month.”

Hermione smiled. “That’s great, Ron. When will you depart?”

“Last week of July - I’m going to miss Harry’s birthday.”

“It’s not as if I’m going to throw a party,” Harry said. “The Dursleys would never allow it.”

Hermione sniffed. “We’ll be celebrating your birthday, Harry,” she declared in that firm tone of hers that left no doubt that things would happen as she wanted.

Not that Harry would want to contradict her - he was looking forward to his birthday. They’d probably watch a movie, eat out...

“Ah, alright.” Ron glanced at him, then at Hermione with a strange expression, but quickly smiled again. “So, how are things with your tutor?”

“Ah, they’re going well. It’s not the same as Hogwarts, of course - I really miss Professors McGonagall and Flitwick - but according to the test I took, I would have done well on the exams. Even in Defence, which is quite surprising, since that’s not one of my better subjects.”  Which meant that she wasn’t the best in her year in Defence, Harry knew. Or rather, hadn’t been the best, since she was no longer a student at Hogwarts.

“Well, you won’t miss Snape,” Ron muttered. “Bloody git.”

Hermione nodded. “How that awful man remains a teacher I cannot fathom.”

“Dumbledore must have told him off, though - he’s been on his best behaviour ever since you left,” Harry said. Granted, the man’s best behaviour was still rather dreadful compared to the other teachers, but there had been an improvement. He didn’t think it would last past the summer though.

“Lockhart was a decent teacher, I guess.” Ron sounded as if he had to force the words out - he didn’t like the man. Harry shared the sentiment - especially after he saw how Hermione’s eyes lit up. Lockhart had just been too… full of himself.

“He won’t be returning for our next year,” he said. “Apparently, there’s been a zombie outbreak in Africa, and Britain is sending a force to deal with it.”

“I’ve read about that,” Hermione said, and once more, Harry felt nostalgic at the familiar tone, “there is speculation that this could be the work of survivors of the ICW Intervention of 1870. Or a splinter group of houngans from Jamaica trying to establish themselves there. My tutor thinks the houngans are trying to expand and are using that as a cover story,” she added.

“Who’s your tutor, anyway?” Ron asked. “You haven’t told us his name.”

Hermione flinched a little - Harry almost missed it - before she straightened. “I told you, Ron, he doesn’t want his name to be known. I’m persona non grata in wizarding society, after all, and being known to teach me could harm his reputation.”

“Dad doesn’t care about that,” Ron said, frowning.

“Well, he should! No one but Malfoy profits if your family gets dragged into my mess.” With a scowl, she added: “And Malfoy has profited far too much already.”

“So, what are we doing today?” Harry was as curious as Ron about Hermione’s mysterious tutor - he thought it was Dumbledore himself, but Ron thought that the Headmaster wouldn’t have the time to teach anyone - but he wouldn’t push their friend.

Hermione smiled again. “I’ve prepared a schedule!”

While their friend pulled out a rather large sheet of paper and started to explain, Harry exchanged a grin with Ron. Hermione would never change.

*****

**London, Greenwich, July 19th, 1993**

“My friends asked me about you again,” Hermione remarked as she walked down the street next to Mr Fletcher.

“Curious lot, are they?” He didn’t look at her as he answered, but she could see that he was grinning.

“They are concerned about me.” Being curious was not a bad thing, but she felt the need to defend Harry and Ron anyway.

“And you wonder why I gave a fake name to your parents.”

“No.” She glanced at him. He was now looking at her. “While you were a gentleman thief, you haven’t been one for some time.”

He snorted, and for a moment, he didn’t look like a middle-aged gentleman, but a … crook, she decided after a little deliberation. Then he sighed and simply looked old. “Yeah. ‘Mundungus Fletcher’ got a reputation. Not a good one, mind ya. Guttersnipe. Drunk. Petty thief. Not a name ya would want to be associated with. And not a good cover for a gentleman thief either.”

Hermione didn’t ask what had caused one of Dumbledore’s friends to become such a man. Nor did she ask if he had left his past behind. He was always shaved and perfectly coiffed, but that was easy with magic. The occasional trembling of his hands, or the expression he had once when they passed a Wine Merchant, though, were harder to hide. “So now you’re Mr Smith.”

“Yeah.” He sounded rough, then cleared his throat and went on in a much smoother voice. “Mr Smith, recently moved here from the Colonies, now whiling away his time as a private tutor in the Old Country.”

“Obviously a fake name, but people will assume you are simply one of the refuges - émigrés - from one of the wars in North America who wants to avoid trouble with old enemies. They won’t suspect that you are a thief.” She had put that together a week ago, after reading up on the situation in Magical North America - a conglomerate of small and usually extremist wizarding enclaves, at least half of them either at war, or close to starting a war, with their neighbours on any given day.

“Gentleman thief,” he corrected her. “Of course, I’ll be maintaining my identity as Fletcher too.” Once more he grinned crookedly. “There’s a lot places a bleedin’ gentleman would be thrown out of where a guttersnipe can enter jus’ fine.”

She managed not to shudder at his accent. “Will I be joining him on such… ventures?”

“No,” he said in a very flat voice. “Those are not places that a young witch should visit.”

She wasn’t certain if she should feel relieved or insulted, but she had a notion of what kind of witches would be found in those places. “What if I need to, to case a joint?”

“You’ll need to be older to fit in convincingly.”

He wasn’t looking at her as he said that, and she didn’t think he was being entirely honest with her, but she didn’t pry any further. She had no real desire to visit such places, after all. “What disguises will we be using today?” she asked instead. “Pureblood daughter from a good family?” Mr Fletcher had been drilling her in ‘proper pureblood manners’ when he hadn’t been teaching her more spells or checking her other work.

“That would be ‘illegitimate pureblood daughter from an affair with a witch of the continent’,” he corrected her. “You can’t pass as a British pureblood witch from a ‘good family’ - they all know each other. The older witches know the pureblood family trees better than a dragon  breeder knows his bloodlines.” She didn’t try to hide her revulsion at the images that conjured up inside her mind. He laughed. “They don’t try to breed their children as if they were animals, mind you - it’s politics they keep track of. And inheritances, of course.”

“Ah.” They passed a muggle café, and she waited before answering. “So… will we be using that disguise?”

“Not today. You still need to learn to act a bit better.” He snorted at her pout. “No, today we’ll case a joint - a muggle bank.” Her eyes widened. Would they...? “We’re not gonna rob it, mind ya. It’s just training for the real thing.”

“Gringotts?” She had heard stories…

“Merlin’s beard, no!” He was shaking his head. “No, the real thing will be a magical house - and we won’t break into one any time soon, either, don’t look so eager.”

She didn’t. Not really. But it would be good to do something… productive. Even if she hadn’t yet decided how to explain her career choice to her parents. Which she would have to, once she started to steal gold.

“Now… look at the bank there - without looking as if you’re studying it. We’re just waiting for the bus, father and daughter.” She glanced at the building. “How would you enter it?”

“Roof or upper floor windows,” she answered quickly. “From a broom.”

“You have no broom.”

“From a floating board, then.” She could do that, even though standing on a board that only her magic was keeping in the air was even more disturbing than flying on a broom.

“And once inside?”

“Unlocking Charm on all doors until I reach the vaults… no. There would be alarms on the doors.”

“Indeed.”

A Silencing Charm wouldn’t help - the doors would send out electronic alerts. Now how to deal with that… “I’ll have to find out who can disable the alarms.” She looked at him.

He seemed pleased. “Yes. And how can you do that?”

“Enter disguised and make someone else trigger an alarm, so I can observe what happens.” A Compulsion Charm would do it.

“That’s one method, yes. There are others, of course.”

“Do pureblood manors really have alarm charms on their doors?” That would be a hassle, she thought.

“Some of the more paranoid families do - at least on the less used or more important ones. But it’s the principle of the thing - you can’t just break in and grab some loot if you want to steal a fortune. You need a plan, and for that, you need a lot of information. Information best acquired in disguise.”

She nodded.

“And for that, you need to learn to act convincingly. You have a way to go there, too.”

She scowled. She was working hard on that. And she was making progress. Her parents didn’t suspect anything, after all. Not that they were speaking with her that much, these days.

“How’s your physical training progressing, by the way?”

Her scowl deepened. P.E. was the only class she had never liked. And after two years free of it, it had now returned with a vengeance.

Mr Fletcher laughed at her expression, utterly unimpressed with her glaring at him.

*****

**London, Enfield, July 31st, 1993**

“That was a great movie!” Harry Potter exclaimed when he and Hermione left the cinema.

“They made a lot of changes to the book,” his friend said, pursing her lips. “The characters acted quite differently. And I’m not entirely certain if they incorporated the latest discoveries about dinosaurs.”

Harry had to laugh, even though he should have expected that reaction from her. Of course she would have read the book beforehand! “Well, it was a good movie. Thank you for inviting me!” He smiled at her.

Her slight pout, a reaction to his laughter, disappeared, and she returned his smile. “It’s your birthday gift. Or part of it.” She pulled a small package out of her handbag. “Here’s the other part!”

“Thanks!” He took it and started to unwrap it while they walked. He knew it was a book before he even touched it, and tearing off the wrapping paper revealed a copy of ‘Jurassic Park’.

“Since you liked the movie I think you’ll like the book as well,” she said. “I mean, I didn’t know that you’d like the movie when I bought the novel, but it was a safe bet.” She was biting her lower lip though, he noticed, so she probably was worried he wouldn’t like it.

“Thanks! I’m sure I’ll like it - I can read it at Hogwarts, too, and remember the movie.”

The smile that had appeared on her face slipped a bit, and Harry wanted to hit himself for reminding his friend - and himself - that she wouldn’t be joining him and Ron at Hogwarts this year. “So… let’s get something to drink, OK?” he quickly said, pointing at the nearest café.

She nodded. “Alright.”

“My treat,” he added. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. “I insist.” He expected her to argue, but after a moment, she nodded. He was glad - he didn’t want her to spend even more money on him. Not when he knew how bad her family’s situation was. At least she was more sensible than Ron about such things.

His eyes widened. “I almost forgot: Ron sent a letter.” He dug around in his jacket and pulled out the envelope. Handing it over, he added: “There’re two pictures from Egypt inside as well.” She looked at the letter, hesitating. “Go ahead and read it.” It wouldn’t take her long, anyway, and they would be able to talk about it.

With a quick smile, she pulled the letter and pictures out. By the time the waiter brought their order, she had already finished. “That’s a really long letter. For Ron,” she said. Her own, of course, were generally longer.

Harry nodded. Sometimes, it had felt as if Ron was bragging about his trip. But then, Ron didn’t get to brag about much, so Harry didn’t really mind. Even if he would have loved to go to Egypt as well. Or just stay with the Weasleys. On the other hand, that would have meant leaving Hermione alone by herself.

And he doubted that he would have been able to enjoy his vacation knowing that.

*****

For a change, Harry was happy when he reached Privet Drive. That had been his best birthday, ever! And Ron was at least partially responsible for it, too, despite his absence - Harry and Hermione had talked at length about his letter, and had been able to avoid the touchier subjects.

He sighed, enjoying the evening for a moment, before he opened the door and entered the house. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were in the living room, watching the telly. Dudley would still be out, with his friends. ‘News and Sports’ had just began, from what he could hear.

After a moment’s hesitation, he entered the living room. “I’m back!”

Uncle Vernon turned his head and glared at him. “The news has started!”

Aunt Petunia frowned, then asked: “Did you have a nice day?”

“Yes.” Harry almost grinned. His aunt didn’t really care, but she insisted on the proper forms - the Dursleys were a normal family, after all, and a normal family asked after your day. “You?” he asked.

“We had a great day!” Uncle Vernon grumbled.

Aunt Petunia was about to go into more - boring - detail when she suddenly gasped and stared at the TV. “Dear Lord!”

Harry blinked. There was a report about a mass-murderer having escaped a special prison. He looked like a maniac on the picture they showed. “Sirius Black?” He hadn’t heard of the man.

His aunt was trembling. “I recognise that man!”

“What?” Harry and Uncle Vernon said in unison for the first time in their lives.

She nodded shakily. “He’s a wizard… he was one of your father’s friends. I met him at Lily’s wedding!”

“A mass-murderer?” Harry couldn’t believe it. His parents had been heroes!

“I can believe that,” Uncle Vernon grumbled. “Evil lot, all of them. Like that giant who cursed Dudley!”

“What… what if he’s looking for us?” Petunia asked, still trembling, before Harry could defend Hagrid. Vernon paled as well.

“I’ll mail Dumbledore,” Harry said. “He’ll know what to do.”

For once, neither Uncle Vernon nor Aunt Petunia disagreed about him contacting a wizard.

*****

**London, Greenwich, August 1st, 1993**

Someone had broken out of Azkaban! Hermione Granger was reading the article in the Daily Prophet for the third time, trying to spot any detail she might have missed. According to her research - and she had read what she could on that horrible prison after her close brush with being incarcerated there - Sirius Black was the first prisoner ever to have managed that feat.

“How could Black have escaped?” she asked, looking up from the newspaper at her tutor, who was currently reading Seeker Weekly.

“Inside job,” Mr Fletcher answered without any hesitation. “It’s not possible otherwise. He must have had help, probably from a guard.”

“A human guard?”

“Of course. The Dementors wouldn’t help anyone - they’d even attack the guards, if they could get away with it, and suck out their souls.”

Hermione shuddered on being reminded of the ultimate punishment used in Wizarding Britain - the Dementor’s Kiss. To go as far as to destroy a soul… She shook her head and rubbed her arms to banish the morbid thoughts that brought up.

“But to get inside help after more than twelve years… why wouldn’t he have escaped earlier?” That didn’t make much sense. Even a few months among Dementors tended to drive prisoners mad.

“Well, cui bono? Someone must have an interest in freeing a crazy Death Eater.” He was looking at her, expecting her to work it out.

She wasn’t entirely certain that he knew the answer himself in the first place, but she still tried to reason it out. “Having such a dangerous prisoner escape weakens the trust of the population in the Minister. So a political rival might have engineered this.” He nodded at her. She bit her lower lip, then went on: “Since he is a threat, whoever catches him will gain a lot of prestige. A rival of the Minister could use that to replace him.”

“Good guess, but the one who would profit the most, Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, isn’t the type to play such games. She would never set a prisoner free in such a plot.” He snorted. “If the bleedin’ witch had ’er way, she’d keep all prisoners forever.”

Hermione decided not to ask if he had personal experience with the Head of the DMLE. She cleared her throat. “But if she is such an ethical person, others could exploit the capture of Black.” People like Malfoy.

“They could. But Fudge is such a weak-willed wizard, they could probably simply bribe him and get what they want without going to such lengths.” He was back to speaking with a barely noticeable - and entirely fake, as she knew - American accent.

“So... maybe they want to use this opportunity to achieve something else. It might be a pretext to search the houses of his suspected accomplices or relatives. Or simply a way to ruin their reputation with rumours and suspicions.” She was simply speculating now.

“Aye, that could be it - but the most obvious victim of such a plot would be Malfoy, being both an ‘imperiused’ Death Eater, and the husband of Black’s cousin.” Mr Fletcher grinned. “Do you think Dumbledore would go that far?”

“It sounds a bit risky,” she said. It also sounded like a great way to get back at Malfoy, as long as Black wasn’t actually free to roam Britain.

“But you forgot the most obvious angle.”

“Which is?” She frowned at him. She didn’t overlook the obvious! Not often, at least.

“Gold. If Black gets killed - and the Aurors will not hold back when they find him, so that’s rather likely - his relatives would inherit the Black fortune.”

“Malfoy.” She spat out the name like the curse it was.

“Yeah. Would be a nice, neat way to get at that gold without having to wait a few more decades until Black croaks in Azkaban.”

She narrowed her eyes. “But… if Malfoy wanted Black dead, wouldn’t he have had the guard on the take simply kill Black in prison and make it look like an accident or an attempt to escape?”

“Good question.” He smiled at her. “Maybe he wants Fudge weakened as well - or is trying to blame Bones for this. Malfoy is a cunning man, and his plans reflect that.”

Hermione clenched her teeth, scowling - she knew that only too well. But she would get her revenge!

And, she thought, she would look into how one could escape Azkaban. If the worst happened, she wouldn’t languish there for a decade.

*****

**Little Whinging, No 4 Privet Drive, August 14th, 1993**

Weeding the garden was tiring work, but Harry didn’t mind - he was getting paid well enough for it, after all. Especially as the threat of Black meant working outside the house was seen by his relatives as being more dangerous. And it wasn’t as if he had anything more interesting to do. Harry wasn’t in the mood for losing another video game against Dudley, he had read all his books already and had done all his homework. And Uncle Vernon had asked Aunt Marge to cancel her visit due to the danger, which meant that so far the summer had been more pleasant than expected. On the other hand, the Dursleys had limited his trips to London to see Hermione to days when Dumbledore’s friends could protect both the house and Harry, and that had seriously cut down on the time Harry had been able to spend with his best female friend.

Straightening up after pulling out a particularly resistant weed, he narrowed his eyes when he saw, through the gap in the fence, the flattened grass near the tree in their neighbour’s garden. Over the last two weeks, he had become quite good at spotting the guards Dumbledore had placed at Privet Drive - even invisible, they had to pick a location from where they could observe the house’s entrances, or at least most of them, and usually something gave them away. A cat or dog staring at the spot - Mrs Figg’s cats seemed particularly apt at sniffing the wizards out - or some of the neighbours making a detour without any obvious reason.

But today none of the usual spots had been occupied. And from that tree the front door and the garage were not visible at all - Harry had been up that tree often enough in the past to know that. So why would anyone trying to prevent Black from breaking into the house be hiding there?

If that was Black… but the fugitive would have spotted Harry already, and he hadn’t been cursed.

“Heh!” He heard a chuckling laugh. “Spotted me, huh? Good instincts, Potter. I’m impressed.” The voice would have fitted an escaped prisoner - rough and harsh.

“Who’re you?” Harry stood up and put his hand on his wand holster - a late birthday gift from a friend of his parents, Dumbledore had called it when he had handed it over.

The air around the tree seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then a man appeared. An old man, with scarred face and… something that spun wildly in place of his left eye. And a peg leg! “I’m Moody.”

“Moody.” Nickname, first name, last name? Harry couldn’t tell with wizard names.

“The others told me you were a sharp kid. Guess they weren’t as rusty as I thought.” The man cackled. “Keep that attitude up. Constant vigilance!”

Harry felt slightly irked at the patronising tone. He had spotted all of his guards so far, after all! “What happened to your eye?”

“Lost it in a fight against a dark wizard.” Moody grinned, which wasn’t a comforting sight with his scarred face. He didn’t explain further.

“Can you see through walls with it?”

More laughter. “Really sharp kid. You’ll make a good Auror. I can see through walls, and behind me.” He suddenly stiffened, then frowned. “And you should return to weeding the garden. Neighbours’re coming home.”

A flick of his wand later, the man had disappeared from view. And the grass wasn’t showing any imprints any more.

Harry looked around for a little longer, then knelt down again to finish his chores. He could use the money for his next trip to London.

*****

**London, Enfield, August 15th, 1993**

“So... have you already spotted our tail today?” Hermione Granger asked sotto voce while acting as if she was very interested in the clothes on display in the window in front of her and Harry.

“Hm.” Harry leaned forward, probably to get a better angle on the mirror behind the window. “There’s been a rather clumsy fellow bumping into people behind us.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But that could be a decoy, to throw us off the real tail.” Mr Fletcher had been thorough about the tricks Aurors used when tailing a suspect. And how to throw them off. Unlike spotting invisible wizards, which a spell could do easily, spotting disguised wizards was very difficult - especially since they could use magic to change their disguises and hair colour. Not that she would let that deter her. You could never be too cautious, as her tutor was fond of lecturing her.

“I doubt that,” Harry retorted. “They don’t have that many people - they need to guard the Dursleys as well while I’m with you.”

He had a point, she admitted with a frown. “I hope they catch Black soon. You haven’t been able to visit often.” She could visit him, but spending a day with the Dursleys didn’t sound appealing at all, and if she and Harry left the house, they would need another bodyguard anyway.

“Yeah. I hope they catch the traitor soon.” Harry bared his teeth - he hadn’t taken well to her telling him what Black had done to deserve Azkaban, and Hermione hoped that Harry wouldn’t do anything foolish, should Black make an attempt on him.

She winced at the thought - she was being a little hypocritical, seeing as she was training to become a lady thief, which was certainly not a low-risk profession. On the other hand, she tended to think things through before acting, unlike Harry. Most of the time, at least.

“Another one stumbled over the curb,” Harry whispered. “Either we’re close to a meeting of Clumsy Anonymous, or that’s our tail.”

Hermione agreed with him. Then she had a thought. “Unless that’s Black.” After more than a decade in a small cell - the conditions for prisoners in Azkaban were even more horrible than she had thought before researching the matter - he might not be in a very good shape.

“He’d have tried something if that was the case,” Harry said. “A few times he had a clear line of fire.”

Hermione hadn’t noticed that! That failure irked her even more than the realisation that Harry didn’t see anything wrong with his method to check if their tail was Black or a friend. She glared at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She huffed. She couldn’t lecture him about his safety on the street. And her new favourite secondhand book shop beckoned.

She would tell him later, in private.

*****

**Little Whinging, No 4 Privet Drive, August 21st, 1993**

When the doorbell rang, Harry Potter peered through the window first, to check who was visiting them on a Saturday evening. Black might be crazy enough to simply walk up to the house - Hermione had told Harry in detail just what happened to prisoners in Azkaban.

But it wasn’t a stranger outside - it was Dumbledore. Or, he corrected himself, someone looking like the Headmaster. But the guard posted near the house hadn’t stepped in. They could have been dealt with, of course - if Harry could spot them, then so could a wizard capable of breaking out of Azkaban. Moody had been vocal about that during their second meeting.

“Who is it?” he heard Aunt Petunia ask from the living room, where the Dursleys were watching TV.

“Wizard,” he answered.

“Deal with him, boy!” he heard Uncle Vernon yell - he had expected that; they usually left ‘such matters’ to Harry.

He opened the window slightly. “How did you answer me when I told you how easy it was to spot the guards?”

The old wizard smiled. “I see you have been taking lessons from Alastor. You wrote me a letter, and I reassured you that the Black situation was under complete control and that you were entirely safe wherever you were.”

That was the specific wording. Harry still had his wand in hand when he opened the door. Dumbledore must have noticed, but didn’t comment. “Good evening, Headmaster.”

“Good evening, Harry.”

“I didn’t expect you today.” He was supposed to go to the Weasleys tomorrow, for the last week of the summer. “Did… did something happen?”

“Indeed, a serious matter, so to speak. Something best discussed in private.”  

For a serious matter, Dumbledore looked far too happy, Harry thought. But he gestured towards the stairs. “We can use my room, then. After you.”

The old wizard nodded. “I might impose on Alastor, should I need a new Defence teacher. You certainly seem to have taken his lessons to heart.”

“Not all of them,” Harry said as they took the stairs to his room. He wasn’t paranoid - there really was a mass-murderer out to get him. Normal boys didn’t get around the clock protection.

“Good. Alastor is a good friend, but he is a little too zealous, at times. Understandable, of course, given his experiences.”

They entered his room, and as soon as Harry closed the door, the Headmaster cast several spells he didn’t recognise on it. “Those will ensure that we are not overheard,” Dumbledore explained while he conjured an armchair for himself.

Harry sat down on his swivel chair. “So…”

Dumbledore sighed. “I must confess that I have not been entirely truthful with you - for a good reason, mind you.”

“What?” Harry tensed.

“I have known for two weeks that Sirius Black was no danger to you. But in order to catch a very dangerous criminal, I had to keep this knowledge secret. Even from you.”

“What?” Harry repeated himself.

“Sirius contacted me soon after his escape, and surrendered himself into my custody so I could verify his story. As it turned out, he was innocent of the crime for which he had been imprisoned - and the real culprit was still at large.” The Headmaster’s smile grew more grim. “That changed this afternoon. I’m happy to say that the man who betrayed your parents to Voldemort has been arrested and will be standing trial.”

Harry gasped. “So… Black was innocent?” Twelve years in Azkaban as an innocent… he didn’t even want to imagine how horrible that must have been.

Dumbledore nodded. “After so much time in Azkaban, he had lost a lot of his memories to the cruel attention of the Dementors, so Veritaserum would have proven less than useful. Fortunately, I had other means at my disposal.”

“Who was the traitor?” Harry felt his fingers digging into his thighs, and forced himself to relax.

“Peter Pettigrew. Another friend of your parents - and a spy for Voldemort.” Dumbledore grew serious. “I cannot know for certain yet how many he betrayed to the Death Eaters, but I fear he has been responsible for many more deaths than your parents and the twelve muggles he murdered to frame Sirius.” He reached out and patted Harry’s knee for a moment. “Justice will be done, trust me.”

Harry wasn’t entirely certain of that - first Hermione was framed and expelled, and now it turned out that Sirius Black had been framed and imprisoned for twelve years. Obviously, Wizarding Britain’s judicial system was somewhat less than reliable. He nodded anyway.

“Now, that said, there is another thing to discuss.”

“Yes?” Harry tilted his head as he looked at Dumbledore.

“Sirius Black was more than a friend of your parents. He is your godfather.” After a moment, he added: “Your parents intended for him to become your guardian should they die.”

Harry gasped again.

*****

 


	3. Past Sins

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 21st, 1993**

Sirius Black was pacing back and forth in the entrance hall. He would meet his godson Harry for the first time in almost twelve years. And Harry had spent all that time thinking Sirius had killed James and Lily. He would hate him. And rightly so - Sirius had failed his parents. Harry’s parents, that is. He had let the traitor escape. He had...

“Sirius!”

He whirled around and faced his old friend - whom he had failed as well - and barked. Barked? He blinked, then realised that he had changed into Padfoot without noticing. Again. Sirius quickly changed back. “Sorry.”

Remus shook his head. “You don’t want to greet Harry as a dog.”

He flinched. Things were easier as a dog. Clearer. Simpler. That had kept him alive, and sane - more or less - in Azkaban. As Padfoot, he didn’t worry much. He didn’t brood much over his past. He didn’t feel much guilt. He simply was what he was. “It’s just… he will hate me!”

“Why would he? You were unjustly imprisoned. You broke out to save him when you realised how close the traitor was to Harry. You brought the traitor to justice.” Remus shook his head. “He has no reason to hate you.” In a lower voice, he added: “I’m the one who has no excuse for never visiting him.”

Sirius didn’t have a good answer to that. He tried anyway. “You were not really yourself after the war. Not with all of us…” he trailed off, wincing. “And there’s your furry little problem.” Remus could use that as an excuse, couldn’t he? Get something good from his curse, for once. “You couldn’t get enough of the Wolfsbane Potion.” That would change, of course. What use was the Black fortune - all his now, as he was the last Black heir - if he couldn’t use it to help his friends? Or his godson’s friends. Hadn’t Dumbledore mentioned that a witch had gotten into trouble helping Harry, or something? Ah, Harry was his godfather’s son, already charming the ladies and getting them into trouble!

“I’m only dangerous for three days a month,” Remus muttered, looking even gloomier now.

Sirius grinned. “Ah! Finally you admit it! I’ve been telling you that for years, and you never accepted it!” He rubbed his chin in an exaggerated fashion and forced himself to smile widely. “Something else that you have in common with witches, now that I think about it - they also usually never believe me, and they are rabid beasts a few days per month as well…”

“Sirius!” Remus half-yelled, half-groaned in that achingly familiar way of his.

Sirius smiled for real now, remembering the good times, at Hogwarts, when… he blinked. He didn’t remember! Nothing detailed. Just some hazy images… and fragments of laughter and… he shook his head. His smile gone, he cursed under his breath. “He’ll understand, Moony.” But he wasn’t convinced himself. Remus should have visited.

And Sirius shouldn’t have been in Azkaban.

He noticed that he had changed into Padfoot again when he realised that the world hadn’t just figuratively lost all colour, and that the background noise wasn’t the moaning and ranting of the other prisoners in Azkaban, but the screams from his mother’s portrait, dampened by the enchanted wall Dumbledore had put up five minutes after Sirius had brought him to the Blacks’ ancestral home.

Which, he thought, after changing back into a wizard, wasn’t their actual ancestral home, being far too young for their family tree - but the Blacks didn’t talk about what had happened to their real ancestral manor in 1756. Not even after they had taken revenge for it.

He sighed. “Maybe we should do something useful, instead of simply waiting.” And brooding. And turning into dogs. “Most of the rooms here still haven’t been cleared of curses and traps.” Dumbledore had said he’d send a Curse-Breaker over, but the man hadn’t been available yet, and the Headmaster hadn’t had time to do more than Sirius’s bedroom - which had been filled with more traps than Sirius had expected, and all of them focused on his bed - and the kitchen.

Remus stared at him. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time we tried?” Sirius blinked at him, and Remus hissed. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Sirius shook his head. “No, no, I remember.” He shrugged. “We got a bit singed. No harm done. No real lasting harm done,” he corrected himself when Remus pointedly glanced at the sleeve of his brand-new robes. “We’ve been through worse at school.” At least he thought they had been… Weren’t Dementors supposed to only take the good memories?

“Yes.” Remus’s face showed a mixture of nostalgia and regret, so Sirius had guessed correctly. “But it also took us an hour to recover. Meeting Harry while you’re on fire is hardly better than meeting him as a dog.”

His friend was right, but Sirius wasn’t about to concede so easily. ‘Never admit anything, least of all your guilt or defeat’, hadn’t that been their maxim, back at Hogwarts? He couldn’t remember. Dumbledore had said his memories would return, over time… but had been cagey when Sirius had asked how long it’d take. “Bah.” He was about to launch into a tirade about being Gryffindors when the fireplace in the hall lit up. Harry!

He bounded over - bounded? He changed back again and spread his arms… and almost hugged Dumbledore. Sirius managed to turn his gesture in a credible bow, though. “Welcome to my humble and curse-infested home.”

“Thank you, Sirius. Remus.” The Headmaster smiled - he probably hadn’t been fooled - and stepped to the side. A second later, a body shot out of the fireplace and into the hall.

Sirius eyes widened. “Harry?”

Harry - Dumbledore wouldn’t have brought a stranger, would he? - sat up, rubbing the back of his head and mumbled what Sirius was certain were curses Sirius’s mother would be appalled to hear. His godson really took after him! “Yes? Sorry about that; magical travel doesn’t agree with me. Apart from brooms.” He stood up. “Mr Black…?” he trailed off as he offered his hand.

Sirius grabbed and shook it, enthusiastically. “Call me Sirius! Or Padfoot. You look like James…”

“... except I’ve got my mother’s eyes, I know,” Harry interrupted him, then winced. “Sorry, I just hear that all the time.”

Sirius chuckled. “Well, it’s true.” He hadn’t lost those most precious memories. His godson was cheeky too! “I’m sorry for not meeting with you sooner… I was in prison. Unjustly, you know.”

“Yes. The Headmaster explained it to me.”

“Did he?” Sirius glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded. One weight off his chest, he guessed - his memories were a bit spotty, after all. With that out of the way, it was time to talk about the main topic. He forced himself to smile widely again. “Good. Now… as soon as I’m officially exonerated, I’ll take custody of you and fulfill my duties as your godfather!” Harry looked surprised, and Sirius felt his stomach drop. “If you want me to, I mean…” he added in a smaller voice. Harry hated him!

“Ah… I think I do, yes.” Harry nodded. “Though we might get to know each other first?”

Sirius refrained from turning that into a double-entendre and nodded. “Have I mentioned I’m rich?” Kids liked gold, didn’t they? “If you need anything, you just have to ask; the Black fortune is at your disposal!” That should help his godson see that he was the best choice as his guardian.

Harry looked surprised again. “Err… how rich?”

Sirius grinned - honestly, this time. “Well… I’ve heard you know Malfoy, right?” Judging by the scowl on his godson’s face, he did know the tosser. Wait, that would be the tosser’s son. But, like father, like son… unless it was Sirius; he was an exception. He shook his head. “Anyway, we’re far richer than them!” Unless his family had managed to squander the entire fortune before they had all died off. But that was unlikely - as this cesspit of a house proved, they had lived more than frugally in his absence. Probably.

“Well, it wouldn’t be for me… and it would be very expensive, but I have this friend, my best friend - my best female friend - and…”

“Say no more!” Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. “Spending gold to impress your girlfriend is always a worthy expense!” Harry was his godfather’s godson!

“Err... she’s not my girlfriend,” Harry said.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Sirius could see that Remus had his face covered by his hands.

“What?”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 21st, 1993**

Harry Potter stared at Sirius Black - his godfather, the Headmaster had said - as the man looked first confused, then concerned and almost afraid. His clothes looked new, but Black looked haggard, his face pale and hollow-cheeked - a weird contrast with his well-kept beard.

“What?” Black repeated himself, looking from Dumbledore to the other wizard - whose name Harry hadn’t yet been told - and back. He wasn’t looking at Harry, though.

“Harry’s twelve,” the other man said.

“Thirteen,” Harry corrected him. He wasn’t twelve any more.

The other man was showing his teeth, too. “Thirteen. That’s not an age to... spend gold on a girl.” That made the offer to help Hermione sound… dirty.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Harry’s friend’s situation is a little more complicated than it may appear.”

“She helped save me from one of Malfoy’s plots, and, in revenge, Malfoy’s father had her framed for theft, and ruined her family,” Harry explained. “Her family was sentenced to pay a huge fine.”

Black nodded, apparently taking this at face value. “That sounds like the Wizengamot I know. Or rather, the Wizengamot I never knew, since I didn’t get a trial.”

For a moment, silence filled the room - a rather dark and dusty entrance hall, complete with a big stairway leading up to the first floor. Though the wall at the back looked new. Harry looked at the third man again. “So… who’re you?”

The man took a deep breath, but it was Black who spoke up: “That’s Remus. Remus Lupin. He was one of your parents’ best friends. We were inseparable in our Hogwarts years. If not for me, he’d have been your godfather.” Black was talking almost as fast as Hermione in a rush, Harry thought. And he was smiling widely again. “You may be wondering why we didn’t visit you, after the war.” Harry hadn’t but he hadn’t known about Lupin until now.

“Sirius!” Lupin hissed.

Black was undeterred, wrapping his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Well, I was in prison, as you know. Innocent, though. And Remus is a werewolf.”

“Sirius!” Lupin literally growled.

“He’s only dangerous for about three days a month - like witches - but since werewolves are considered dark creatures, and he couldn’t afford the Wolfsbane Potion, he felt too bad to visit you.” Black nodded. “That has changed, though, since he now has a job. He’ll be your new Defence teacher!”

“Ah.” Harry didn’t know what else to say. He had no idea about werewolves, other than muggle movies and comics.

“Oh…” Sirius blinked. “Please don’t tell anyone about his furry little problem, will you? That could get him fired. People are afraid of werewolves.”

“An unfounded, but unfortunately common, prejudice,” Dumbledore said. “Werewolves are wizards like you or me. Only under the full moon, three nights per month, do they transform. And only in their cursed form can they spread the curse. Even without the Wolfsbane Potion, which grants them control over their cursed forms, they can take precautions to avoid endangering others during that time.”

“Ah.” That made sense to Harry. At least for the moment.

“I’m very sorry I didn’t visit you,” Lupin said, shaking off Black’s arm. “I was in a bad place, after the war. I had lost all my friends, or so I thought, and…” He shrugged and didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” Harry said. He wasn’t certain if he meant it, but Lupin looked rather pitiful.

“So… that’s settled. Let me show you the house! At least the safe parts. Which aren’t that many, but we’re working on it!” Black exclaimed after a moment.

“The safe parts?”

“Oh, yeah. Most of the house is littered with traps and curses. My parents went a little crazy before their death.”

Harry silently wondered if that ran in the family as he followed the two strange men to the kitchen.

*****

“What are your impressions of your godfather and your future teacher?” Dumbledore asked Harry after they arrived in the small park near Privet Drive.

Harry shook his head before answering - Side-Along-Apparition didn’t agree with him either. “They seem…” He searched for a diplomatic way to say ‘mental’. “...to have gone through a lot?”

The Headmaster sighed. “Indeed. Both of them suffered a lot after the war, and little blame can be applied to them for it.”

Harry made a noncommittal sound.

“You may be sceptical, understandably so, but I can assure you that they are both good men - although fallen on hard times. Sirius has spent more than a decade under the cruel attention of the Dementors, and Remus has been struggling with his curse since he was a child, always afraid of being hated and feared by everyone should his secret be revealed.” He looked sternly at Harry.

“I won’t tell anyone!” Harry quickly said.

With a smile, Dumbledore continued: “Few knew about his secret and did not fear him. Your parents were among them, and they and most of his other friends were lost in the war. In addition to that, Remus has spent all these years hating his best remaining friend, thinking he was the traitor responsible for all of this. That burdens him more than anything, I presume.”

“I guess so.” Harry could understand that, but he still felt some resentment. If he had known about his parents, about magic earlier…

For a few minutes, they walked towards his relatives’ home in silence. “Will I be living with my godfather once he is cleared?”

“Only if you want to,” the Headmaster said. With a wry smile, he added: “And not before the house has been thoroughly cleared of curses and traps - and dust and dirt.”

“So… shortly before I graduate?”

Dumbledore laughed. “You may be underestimating what magic can achieve, my boy. I estimate that you could, if you want to, spend Christmas with Sirius in comfort and safety.”

That would mean he could see Hermione more often, Harry thought. Sirius lived in London, after all - much closer to her new home. And… “Sir. Do you think my godfather will help Hermione?”

“I have no doubt. Sirius is a very generous person, and keenly aware that your friend was framed as a result of her helping you. As well as that, Sirius has suffered a grave injustice at the hands of the Ministry himself, just like Miss Granger. Such a shared experience will make him rather sympathetic, I think. He cannot currently access most of his family’s fortune, but once he has been exonerated, that will change.”

“But it’s a huge sum.” Harry had thought he was rich, after seeing his vault, but he couldn’t have covered the Grangers’ debts even if he spent all his gold.

“Your godfather was not lying when he boasted about his wealth. He can afford it - though it will certainly not be a trifle, not even for the famous Black family fortune.”

That sounded good. “How long will that take?”

“Not too long. Pettigrew’s trial will be held this week, and Sirius’s should follow soon afterwards.”

Harry felt relieved. That meant he could tell Hermione the good news before he went to Hogwarts. If everything went well.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, August 23rd, 1993**

“The boys are in the garden, weeding, my dear. We didn’t expect you this early.”

“Thank you, Mrs Weasley. I’ll go find them, then.”

Previously, meeting the Weasleys hadn’t made Hermione Granger feel so conflicted. On the one hand, she hated the pity Mrs Weasley was showing her. She didn’t need the witch’s pity - especially not since the Weasleys weren’t really better off than her own parents. On the other hand, Ron’s mum had accepted her without reservations, convinced of her innocence. And shared her ire at the Malfoys. And the Weasleys knew what it meant to be poor. Although they had had a longer time to get used to it. A much longer time.

She stepped out on the porch of the house and looked at the nearby pond, then closed her eyes and faced the sun for a moment. Autumn was fast approaching, and you should use an opportunity when it presented itself, as Mr Fletcher was fond of saying. Provided it was safe to do so, of course.

But she hadn’t come here to sunbathe - and how she missed her summers in France! She had come to see her best friends. Shaking her head, she walked out to the garden. Harry and Ron stood there, looking at something in Ron’s hand. A gnome, she realised when she reached them.

“Harry! Ron!”

“Hermione!” the two chorused. She hugged Harry while Ron disposed of the gnome in his hand by throwing it over the fence before hugging her as well. He seemed to have grown and put on some muscle during his time in Egypt. And he had gotten a tan - or at least what people with his skin tone had after a long time in the sun.

She buried the jealousy thoughts of Egypt caused her to feel, then frowned. “Shouldn’t you turn them around a few times, to prevent them from coming back to the garden?”

“Well, yes. But one gnome more or less won’t matter. Can’t get rid of them for good anyway.” Ron shrugged.

Harry laughed. “Yes. I was tempted to get some for my aunt’s garden, but Ron persuaded me not to.”

“Really, mate - you don’t want to degnome your garden every day next summer!”

“Well… if all goes well, I won’t be living there next summer,” Harry said.

“Oh?” What had happened? Hermione hadn’t heard anything about this.

“Yes. My godfather, Sirius Black, has offered to take custody of me.”

“What?” She stared at him as his serious expression gave way to a smirk.

“Didn’t I mention that?” He was even laughing now. At her.

“No, you didn’t.” She pursed her lips. “And why would you want to live with an escaped mass murderer who wants to kill you?” Unless that wasn’t true. Hermione knew very well how wizarding justice worked.

“Well, he’s innocent, for one thing,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Ron cut in. “The real murderer was Scabbers!”

“What?” His rat?

“Yes!” Her friend was nodding emphatically. “He was an animagus. A wizard named Peter Pettigrew.”

One of Black’s supposed victims, she remembered. “Like Professor McGonagall?”

“Yes. He’s been hiding as Percy’s and my pet for years!” Ron shuddered and looked like he wanted to retch. “Black recognised him from that picture in the Prophet, broke out and told Dumbledore. And when we got back from Egypt, Dumbledore was waiting for us. Scabbers tried to run, but the Headmaster had him stunned, petrified and bound in an instant. Too bad he didn’t kill the rat!” he added with a scowl.

“If he had died, then Sirius would have trouble proving his innocence.” Harry was frowning at Ron.

“He slept in my bed!” Ron retorted.

Hermione wasn’t about to get into that argument. She could understand wanting revenge. All too well. “So, you’ll be moving to Black’s home then?”

“I’m not certain yet.” Harry sighed. “I’d like to leave the Dursleys, of course, and they would be happy to see me go, but… Sirius is not exactly… well, he’s been locked up for over ten years in Azkaban, and it shows.”

Hermione winced. That probably meant Harry’s godfather was dangerously unstable.

“I’ve heard people go crazy in Azkaban after a year!” Ron had the grace to blush when Hermione and Harry both glared at him. “Sorry.”

“Dumbledore says he’ll get better, but…” Harry shrugged. “I guess I have to see how he is come Christmas.” He smiled at her. “But there’s good news for you!”

“Yes?”

“Sirius is rich - really rich. He can pay your debts! And he said he’ll do it,” Harry added.

Her friend sounded excited, but Hermione was sceptical. Or cautious. “It’s a huge sum.”

“He’s much richer than the Malfoys.”

“Oh.” He could afford it, then. And without ruining himself, unlike Harry. “But would he want to spend so much gold on a stranger? Once he is feeling better.”

Harry blinked. “Well, I think so. If he wants me to live with him, he better do it!”

“Harry!” She frowned at him. “You can’t decide whether or not you’ll live with him over whether or not he pays my debts!”

“Sure I can! If he doesn’t want to help you after you got into trouble for saving me, then he obviously doesn’t care about me that much!” Harry grinned at her.

“He’s got you there, Hermione.” Ron grinned as well.

She huffed, but there wasn’t much she could say refute that. And, if she was honest with herself, she didn’t really want to say anything to refute it either.

If Harry’s godfather paid her debts, then she didn’t have to feel that guilty any more for wrecking her parents’ lives.

“So… how about a quick game of Quidditch?” Ron asked. “The weather’s perfect for it, and Mum won’t have lunch ready for an hour or so - Dad’s going to be late, seeing as he has to talk to the DMLE about Scabbers.”

“Well…” Harry glanced at her, then at Ron.

“Sure,” Hermione said, “let’s do it!” She tried to sound as enthusiastic as she could. The surprised - or even shocked - expressions on her friends’ faces helped.

“Really?” Ron was gaping at her.

“Yes, really.” Hermione smiled. Mr Fletcher had told her to get better at flying - a good thief needed to be a good broom flyer as well. Apparition and Portkeys could be blocked much more easily than a fast broom.

She would simply have to get a better broom than the decrepit ones she had flown at Hogwarts.

*****

**London, Enfield, August 23rd, 1993**

Hermione Granger doubted that she would ever be any good at Quidditch. Even now, many hours after the game, she felt despondent when thinking about it. She had done embarrassingly badly in every position they had put her. They had finally settled on her being Keeper, since ‘she might block a Quaffle by accident, at least’, as Ginny had put it, the little traitor. She set her jaw - she would master broom riding. She had to. And no piece of wood would get the better of her. She was a witch!

And she was procrastinating, she added to herself, sighing, when she glanced at her parents. Her mum was sitting at the table, going over bills, and her dad was reading a magazine. Shaking her head, she stood up. She had to do this.

“Mum? Dad?”

They looked at her, and she couldn’t help feeling that their tired smiles hid their justified anger at her. It was her fault, after all, that they had been ruined. Financially, at least. “Yes, dear?”

She took a deep breath. She had debated this - it was just hearsay, although Harry wouldn’t lie to her - but her parents needed to know. If only to give them some hope. “There is a possibility that my debts will soon be paid.”

“What?” Her parents looked more alarmed and suspicious than hopeful, she noticed.

“Harry has recently reconnected with his godfather, who has offered to pay my debts, since this all started when I helped save Harry. He hasn’t got control of his family fortune yet, though - some legal entanglements need to be resolved first.” That was a good, neutral way to speak about a charge of mass murder, she thought. Her parents didn’t need to know every detail, after all. “That shouldn’t take too long, though.” Her smile faltered a little when her parents still didn’t look like they believed her.

“Dear, we’re talking about a huge sum - a real fortune. For normal people, at least,” her mum said. “People don’t pay that much to friends of their godchildren. No matter how rich they are.”

“And even if that man did - and you haven’t mentioned his name yet, I noticed,” her father said, and she winced in response, “you - we - would simply owe him. Even if he said we wouldn’t. There’s always a catch.”

She pressed her lips together. “His name is Sirius Black.”

“The wanted murderer?” Her mother gasped.

“He was framed,” Hermione said.

“Framed?” He father sounded even more sceptical.

“Yes, framed. But they caught the real culprit, and so he’ll be exonerated soon.”

Her father’s scoff told her enough about his faith in wizarding justice.

“And he was in that wizard prison, with the Dementors?” Her mum’s face and tone told her that she knew what that meant for Black’s mental health.

“Yes.”

Her parents exchanged a glance she knew very well. They didn’t believe her. But she would prove them wrong. She would set this right, no matter what it took. And she would make Malfoy and the others pay for their crimes!

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, August 25th, 1993**

“This is your first time at the Ministry of Magic, right?”

Harry Potter nodded at Mr Weasley without really looking at him - he was busy taking in the sights in the Atrium. So many wizards were bustling about, coming and going from the half a dozen or more fireplaces lined up along one side - the same fireplaces from which he, Ron, Percy and Ron’s dad had just stepped out, or, in Harry’s case, stumbled out. And there was a big marble fountain with golden statues in the middle of the hall, between them and their goal - which seemed to be a lift guarded by two wizards in grey robes.

“Those are Hit-Wizards,” Percy said - he must have noticed Harry’s glance. “They’re wizards who specialise in magical combat, unlike Aurors.”

“Aurors are the police, right?” Harry asked. He had seen them, in their red robes, when they’d arrested Hermione.

“Yes,” Mr Weasley answered. “There aren’t as many Hit-Wizards as Auros - they mostly guard the Ministry and Azkaban.”

“In times of peace there is not much need of Hit-Wizards. Certainly not enough to justify the expense of paying a large number of them,” Percy cut in, in his typical, slightly pompous, manner.

“That might be true, but it means that when you suddenly need more Hit-Wizards, you have to hire and train them first,” his dad retorted. “It’s better to spend more gold in peace than needed than to spend Auror lives in war.” He sounded unusually serious to Harry - but then, they were here on serious business.

“Henry. Bertie.” Mr Weasley nodded at the two Hit-Wizards.

“Arthur,” the one on the left, Henry, responded. “Here for the trial?”

Mr Weasley nodded. “Yes.”

“Nasty business. You know the way.”

The doors opened, and the four stepped into the cabin. Once the lift was moving, Mr Weasley sighed. “What’s wrong, Dad?” Ron asked.

“It’s nothing.”

The three boys exchanged glances. Harry was certain it wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t as if he could push Mr Weasley. And neither Ron nor Percy seemed willing to pry either.

He shelved the thought when they arrived on the Wizengamot’s floor. There were more guards here - both Hit-Wizards and Aurors - and they were quickly ushered to the seats for the audience, which Harry found were in the topmost row of the Wizengamot Chamber.

Most of the seats were already occupied - but a number of people offered him their spot when they recognised him. For once, Harry was glad about his fame, though he could have done without the whispers behind his back. Or, as he realised when he overheard some ‘didn’t notice him for over ten years…’ comments, behind the Weasleys’ backs.

He was distracted by Mr Weasley pointing out various members of the Wizengamot as they started to file in.

“There’s Augusta Longbottom. She is the proxy for her grandson, until he comes of age.”

“Neville will be a member of the Wizengamot?” Harry asked. It was hard to imagine the rather shy boy in this Chamber, mingling with the other impressive wizards.

“Technically, he already is, but he cannot vote until he is seventeen years old,” Percy explained. “So his grandmother votes for him until then.”

“There’s Malfoy, the bloody bastard,” Ron spat through clenched teeth.

That was the man who had forced Hermione out of Hogwarts, Harry thought as he stared at the blond wizard. He looked very similar to Draco - just taller, and even more arrogant, in his opinion. Harry wished he could curse the git.

“Must be hard for him, judging a fellow Death Eater,” Ron muttered.

“He was under the Imperius,” Percy said, not bothering to hide his doubt. “Officially.”

“That’s enough, boys,” Mr Weasley said. “This is not the place for such talk.”

Chastised, the three remained silent until the chamber had filed and the trial began.

Harry didn’t pay much attention to the opening - he focused on Pettigrew, chained to the accused’s chair, down below, in the centre of the chamber, flanked by two Aurors. The wizard who had betrayed his parents and framed his godfather looked pitiful. A small, cringing man in tattered robes, stringy, unkempt hair falling to his shoulders. And his face… He looked like the rat he had been for so many years, Harry thought.

“...accused of treason, twelve counts of murder and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. How do you plead?”

“N-not g-guilty!” Pettigrew stammered. “I’m innocent! It was all Black!”

While Pettigrew’s plea was noted down and his personal information confirmed, Harry leaned over and asked Mr Weasley: “Treason?”

“Supporting the Dark Lord is considered treason,” Ron’s dad whispered back.

A stern-looking woman with a monocle was leading the interrogation. “Did you willingly join the Dark Lord?”

“No! No! I didn’t join him! It was all Black! He forced me!”

“Did you willingly take his Dark Mark?”

“No! I didn’t! I was under the Imperius!”

“Did you betray the location of James, Lily and Harry Potter to the Dark Lord?”

“No, it was Black! He is the traitor.”

Harry clenched his teeth. Whatever small amount of pity he had felt for the miserable wizard down there had vanished. “Damn liar!” he muttered as Pettigrew tried to blame his godfather for all his crimes.

“I hope he gets the Kiss!” Ron whispered, glaring at the man.

With Pettigrew denying every charge, the interrogation didn’t take long, and Madam Bones, the Head of the DMLE - Mr Weasley had pointed her out to him earlier - stood to address the Wizengamot.

“Honoured members of the Wizengamot! You have heard the denials of the accused. He claims he had been placed under the Imperius Curse by Black and forced to join the Dark Lord, to take his mark and to betray the Potters. He spins a tale about how he barely escaped Black after the murder of the Potters, and how Black just failed to kill him while murdering a dozen muggles! And yet he cannot explain how he was able to escape Black if he were under the Imperius Curse. Or why he didn’t come forward after Black’s arrest - nor went to St Mungo’s to have his finger regrown.”

“I was afraid for my life!” Pettigrew yelled. “I knew Black would escape! He...”

A flick of the left Auror’s wand cut Pettigrew off. “Silencing Charm,” Percy mumbled.

Madam Bones continued unperturbed. “But, most importantly, he cannot explain why he hid as a rat among a wizarding family for twelve years, living as the pet of two of the family’s sons, spending years at Hogwarts, in close proximity to Dumbledore himself, but never daring to seek the Chief Warlock’s protection. He has not offered to testify under Veritaserum either.

“Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The man bears the Dark Mark. His behaviour cannot be explained by him being under the Imperius Curse, nor by him being afraid of Black - not after the Dark Lord had been killed and Black had been sent to Azkaban. No, the only explanation for the accused’s actions is that he was a follower of the Dark Lord. If there is any doubt about this man’s guilt, which I do not believe there is, then I ask for an interrogation under Veritaserum. Otherwise I ask for a guilty verdict, and for the accused to be imprisoned in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life.”

Harry noticed that many were nodding in agreement with the witch as she sat down. Even Malfoy!

The Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, rose from his seat. “Mr Pettigrew, what do you have to say in reply to that?”

Mr Weasley whistled. “No one is willing to speak for him. That’s not surprising, given the charges.”

“Don’t they have lawyers?” Harry asked. He was no expert, but the accused had a right to a lawyer. At least on the telly.

“Lawyers?” Mr Weasley shook his head. “This is not a muggle court. Only members of the Wizengamot have the right to speak here. Apart from witnesses and the representative of the DMLE.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded.

Down below, Pettigrew was blathering: “I’m innocent! It was all Black’s fault! He imperiused me! I couldn’t help it! I was so afraid, even with him in Azkaban! I knew he would escape! He had even fooled Dumbledore! I… I… I’m innocent!” He broke down in tears and sobbed in his chair.

The Minister rose from his seat again. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! Those among you in favour of clearing the accused of all charges, light your wands.”

Very few wands lit up in response. Pettigrew wailed.

“Those among you in favour of conviction, light your wands.”

The entire chamber seemed to light up as dozens of lit wands were raised.

“The accused has been found guilty of all charges. Does the Wizengamot wish to alter the requested sentence?” One wand was raised in response. “The chair recognises Mr Malfoy.”

Murmurings filled the chamber as Malfoy’s father stood up. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The crimes this man has committed are without peer. Not only has he betrayed the Potters, whose son saved us all from the Dark Lord, but he also framed the scion of the Black family, a man who should be sitting among us now as the Head of his family, causing him to be imprisoned, despite his innocence, in Azkaban for twelve years! The Chief Warlock himself reminded us just recently of the fate of a prisoner of Azkaban; I do not think I need to add anything to that. For crimes such as these, the Dementor’s Kiss is the only appropriate punishment.”

The murmurs grew louder. Harry stared, his mouth hanging open. Malfoy had been the last wizard he had expected to ask, no, demand that.

“Blimey!” Ron muttered. “I didn’t expect that!”

“It helps to distance him from Pettigrew,” Mr Weasley explained. “He only escaped prison himself because he claimed to have been imperiused.”

“One rat sacrificing another rat to save himself.” Ron scoffed.

When the majority of the Wizengamot followed Malfoy’s suggestion and, once again, many wands lit up the chamber, Mr Weasley stood up. “Come on, boys. You don’t want to see what comes next.” Ron opened his mouth, probably to protest, but his dad glared at him. “No, you really don’t want to see that, Ron. Come on.”

They were not the only ones in the audience to leave.

*****

**London, Greenwich, August 26th, 1993**

_Sirius Black Innocent! Peter Pettigrew the Real Killer! Sentenced to Dementor’s Kiss!_

Hermione Granger shook her head as she read the front page of the Daily Prophet. “How quickly justice is done if you’re a pureblood and rich,” she muttered, more than a bit envious of Black’s good fortune.

“That’s the way things are in Wizarding Britain,” Mr Fletcher responded. “The rich get off. Though I wager that it’s the same among muggles.”

She hadn’t expected him to overhear her - he had been reading the sports section in his favourite armchair and had seemed to be focused on the Quidditch scores. Another lesson in not trusting appearances. And he wasn’t exactly wrong. “Yes, but it’s not usually that blatant,” she admitted. “Although that might be because there are too many newspapers and other media in the UK to be bought off.” She was getting a tad too cynical for her age, she thought. But the things the article had said about the Weasleys, the hints about how they had to be either stupid, or would have known about Pettigrew… Someone wanted Ron’s family to suffer for this, and she was certain she knew who.

Mr Fletcher laughed. “Yeah. Though the Prophet is an equal opportunity newspaper - if you have the gold, they’ll write what you want.” He put his own newspaper down. “But isn’t this good news?”

“It is.” Hermione was already feeling guilty about her envy. “Mr Black offered to pay my debts.”

“Did he, now?” Mr Fletcher tilted his head sideways. “That’s shockingly generous of him.”

Hermione frowned at the wizard’s tone. “Harry asked him to, and Mr Black thinks the world of his godson.” And, from what Harry had told her, he felt terribly guilty about the death of Harry’s parents.

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “That’s a hell of a sum to pay to get into your godson’s good graces - even if he’s the Boy-Who-Lived. On the other hand, the Black fortune is legendary. More than once I toyed with the notion of breaking into the house. But it was too dangerous.” He stared at her. “The Blacks earned their reputation as one of the most dangerous families in Britain. They know more dark curses than any other family, and they know how to use them as well. Black’s cousin Bellatrix was the Dark Lord’s right hand. Deadliest witch in decades. And Black’s got a reputation as well.” He snorted. “I bet that also played a role in his exoneration - he wasn’t present at his trial, but remained in hiding. So everyone knew that if they voted against him, he would know - and could get at them. Or their families. If you steal from the likes of him, you have to make dead certain that no one knows it was you, or they’ll hunt you down and kill you - slowly.”

She didn’t think planning to rob Harry’s godfather was a good idea - especially not after his generous offer. “He seems like a good man. He fought the Dark Lord, until he was unjustly imprisoned without trial.”

“I’ve met him a few times in the past,” he answered. Hermione filed that away with the other information her tutor had let slip about his past. “Brave and brash, the stereotypical Gryffindor - though that was before he went to Azkaban. That changes a man.”

Hermione knew that as well. “He might change his opinion about me too, once he recovers from that ordeal.”

Mr Fletcher laughed again. “You don’t ‘recover’ from bleedin’ Azkaban. I ’aven’t yet met anyone who did.”

She nodded.

“But it affects people differently. Most go mad in there, but some come out broken, and some come out… nastier. Crazier. Knew one cutpurse, got caught once too many times, and spent a year in Azkaban. ’E came back a killer. Didn’t cut purses any more - ’e cut people. Ta pieces. Took an Auror down with ’im when they ran ’im down.” He was staring at the wall now. “Never thought bleedin’ Cuttin’ Curses coulda done that.”

She shivered. “Well, Dumbledore thinks Mr Black is safe to be around.”

Mr Fletcher scoffed. After a moment, he took a deep breath, and continued, his accent gone again. “Even if Black pays your debt, even if he says it’s a gift, you’ll owe him. You’ll owe him big.” He grinned. “You want to get even with people - for good or ill.”

She couldn’t deny that. “I plan to get the gold back from the pureblood bigots anyway. With interest.”

He laughed, but not in a patronising way. “And with that said, let’s get started on today’s lesson. Today, we’ll study the Supersensory Charm. It’s not third year material, but after seeing how you did in your tests, I don’t doubt that you’ll cast it easily.”

Hermione smiled - she had done well in her mock-exams. Not as well as she would have had she stayed at Hogwarts, of course. But more than well enough. And she was determined to keep that up. She had to if she wanted to get her revenge.

*****

**Hogwarts Express, September 1st, 1993**

Harry Potter was looking out of the window, watching the landscape pass as the train wound its way up north, towards Scotland. Ron was reading the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly for the third time - today. “You know,” the redhead suddenly spoke up, “usually, Mum asks me if I’ve packed all my things. Today, she asked if I remembered the advanced locking charm Bill taught us in Egypt.”

Harry remembered the scene - he had been present, after all. And Mrs Weasley had been adamant that neither her children nor Harry would be framed as thieves. “Hermione wasn’t that impressed by the charm, though.”

“She’s Hermione. The charm will keep Slytherins out, at least.”

Harry could have pointed out that Hermione had been the one Malfoy and the other Slytherins had framed, but that wouldn’t have served any purpose. He had to trust that the measures the Headmaster had said he had taken would prevent them from repeating their foul plot. “We’ll still have to be on our guard.”

“Can’t trust the slimy snakes,” Ron agreed.

Hermione would have told them that snakes weren’t slimy, Harry thought. He sighed. At least they could meet her on Hogsmeade Weekends. Probably in the local bookshop, he thought with a grin, then frowned - she might not have the money to buy the books she wanted. Harry did, though. He couldn’t pay her debts, but he could at least pay for her books.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door started to rattle - someone was trying to get in. He heard some incantations as he drew his wand, noting that Ron had done the same, and loudly asked: “Who’s there?”

“Open up, Potter! Or are you scared?”

Malfoy. Harry snarled. He wanted to hex the git.

“Do it yourself. Or are you too stupid to open a door, Malfoy? Need your father to do it?” Ron yelled back.

“You… just you wait! Granger’s gone, and you’re next!”

“He doesn’t even bother lying about it,” Harry muttered as Malfoy tried once more to open the door, before moving away.

“Everyone knows it was him anyway. Everyone who counts, at least.” Ron scoffed.

Harry nodded, but he knew that enough students believed that Hermione had really stolen from the Slytherins. Or wanted to believe that.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 2nd, 1993**

“Have you heard? Malfoy got detention! On the very first day of classes!” Ron yelled with a wide smile as Harry came down the stairs to the Gryffindor common room from their dorm .

“For the rest of the week!” Lavender cut in, nodding several times. “Parvati heard it from Padma, who heard it from Zabini.” The witch lowered her voice until half the room was crowding around her. “He threatened that second year muggleborn, Colin Creevey, who went and told McGonagall. And an hour later, Snape’s tearing strips off Malfoy’s hide.”

“Snape? Punishing Malfoy?” Harry shook his head. He couldn’t believe that.

“Zabini said that Snape told the Slytherins that if he had to punish them because they went against the Headmaster’s rules, then he’d make them suffer even more for the humiliation,” Lavender went on.

“Zabini is a snake. He probably wants us to think that,” Ron said, scowling.

“Even Snape fears Dumbledore.” Neville shook his head, then cringed when he realised he had the room’s attention. He continued, though: “And Dumbledore was very clear at the feast that anyone trying to get others in trouble would regret it.”

“Malfoy was rather quiet at dinner,” Harry pointed out. “And the Slytherins didn’t jeer at us either.”

“Well, good!” Ron huffed. “They should expel him. And the rest of his snakes.”

“Not Zabini, though. He’s dreamy!” Lavender said with a smile.

“He’s a snake!” Ron yelled.

Harry slipped away while Ron and Lavender started to argue about Zabini. Lupin had asked Harry to meet him after dinner, and Harry didn’t want to discuss how fanciable Zabini was, or how stupid it was to trust a Slytherin.

*****

“Ah, there you are, Harry. Come in.” Lupin sounded even more tired than he had an hour ago, in their first Defence lesson of the year.

Harry had barely taken a step inside when he found himself gathered in a tight hug. “Harry! How do you like being back at Hogwarts?” Sirius Black was apparently visiting his old friend and in a chipper mood.

“Hi, Sirius,” Harry said after he had been put back down on the ground. He glanced around. Lupin’s quarters were adjacent to the Defence classroom, and he was familiar with them, having helped Lockhart with his fan mail last year. Lupin didn’t seem to have made many changes - other than the massive cage in the corner. There would be a full moon tonight, he remembered. “It’s weird to be here without Hermione. And the rumours are running wild about the Slytherins.”

“Oh! Just like James, when Lily had been sick for a week!” Sirius said, nodding with a grin before blinking. “Or was that the Easter break?” His eyes lost their focus, and Harry didn’t catch what he was mumbling under his breath.

Lupin cleared his throat, drawing Harry’s attention. “The Headmaster has made clear that he will not tolerate another incident such as what happened to Miss Granger. Apart from having instructed the house-elves and rearranged the portraits to keep an eye on the dorms and the students between classes, he has also had a quiet word with each Head of House, or so I gather, to ensure they will keep their students under control.”

Sirius snorted, apparently no longer lost in his thoughts. “The only teacher with whom he needed to speak was Snape. Bloody... bastard,” he finished, and Harry caught Lupin glaring at his godfather.

“I heard Malfoy received detention.” Harry tried to look as if he wasn’t fishing for information.

“That is correct.” Lupin looked grim. “He threatened students with expulsion, hinting that they would be exposed as criminals. The Headmaster wasn’t amused.”

“Bloody git! As rotten as his father,” Sirius snarled. “Did I tell you that Lucius Malfoy is trying to prevent me from taking over my family’s affairs? He has ‘voiced concerns about my mental state’,” he added with a sneer. “Call me crazy, will he? I’ll show him crazy!”

“No, you won’t,” Lupin said firmly, despite his obvious physical discomfort. “That’s exactly what he wants you to do. Dumbledore has said that the most Malfoy can do is delay your taking control of the Black fortune - as long as you don’t play into his hands.”

Sirius looked mulish, but nodded. Harry couldn’t help feeling that Malfoy’s depiction of Sirius’s mental health wasn’t completely wrong. “How long will that take?”

“A few months at most,” Sirius said.

“Provided Sirius behaves,” Lupin added.

“I’ve just been talking to a few of my soon to be honoured colleagues.” Harry’s godfather grinned widely and shrugged. “Told them my tale of woe from Azkaban, a few tales from the war… they were very understanding.”

“Just be careful.” Lupin sighed, as if he didn’t think Sirius would manage.

“Anyway, I’ve not - just - visited dear Moony to see you and bore you with talk about politics,” Sirius said, sitting down on the couch. “There’s a more serious matter to discuss as well.”

More serious than his godfather’s gold and Malfoy’s plots? Harry looked at him.

“We need to train you, Harry.”

“Train me?”

“Yes. Dumbledore told us that Voldemort isn’t dead, as most people think.”

“I know. I met him last year.” Harry pressed his lips together.

He remembered that grotesque figure stumbling out of the dungeons when Harry, Ron and Hermione had been caught out after curfew by Quirrell. It had come straight at them. “Inferi!” Quirrell had yelled and stepped into the thing’s path, his wand flashing, but his curses had no effect on the attacker. Not before it had reached him and swatted him aside with inhuman force, smashing him against the stone wall. The sound of the teacher’s head cracking open, the sight of the blood and brains on the wall… Harry shuddered at the memory. And that paled in comparison to the sound of two voices screaming themselves raw and the horrid smell as the creature was burned alive by his own touch...

“Harry?”

“Harry!”

He shook his head. “I’m alright. Just remembering.”

The two wizards exchanged a glance. “Anyway,” Sirius said, “He is out there, a shade, a ghost, or something else, we don’t know. But we do know that he wants to kill you. Almost did, too. Of course, we’ll do our best to protect you, along with Dumbledore, but this is Voldemort we’re talking about - our best may not be enough. And you can’t depend on Lily’s protection either. So you need training in Defence.”

“You won’t be able to take on the Dark Lord in a duel, of course,” Lupin took over, “but it might be enough, combined with everything else, to escape him.”

Harry slowly nodded. He had mixed feelings about this. On one hand it was refreshing to see that they were open and honest with him about his chances. On the other hand, it was also rather depressing.

“Mad-Eye Moody wanted to train you, said you had talent, but you’re not yet ready for Moody’s insane idea of ‘training’, Sirius went on. “Might as well face the Dark Lord - that might be less dangerous. So Moony and I will train you, a few evenings a week. Shouldn’t cut into your Quidditch training sessions. Can’t let the snakes win the cup, now, can we?”

Harry’s godfather apparently didn’t know the current team captain, Harry thought - Wood was a maniac when it came to training. But this was more important. But… “Can Ron join us? He was there too, when Voldemort attacked me. And he’s my best friend.” Best mate, in any case.

“Of course!” Sirius said at once with a wide smile. “Just like James and me!”

Harry didn’t know if that was a good thing.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, September 4th, 1993**

“Mr Smith?” Hermione tilted her head to the side, as she had practised. “I think this ’at ’ere looks best.” She held her wand with two fingers as she pointed it at a wide-brimmed hat on the rack in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions - apparently, pointing with your bare hand was considered a gaffe, as was holding your wand as if you were ready to cast a spell. She brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and smiled brightly at her tutor.

“Ah.” Mr Fletcher looked at her, then turned back to the saleswitch with whom he had been chatting - flirting, Hermione thought, despite the age difference. “Pardon me a moment, dear. It looks like my charge has made her selection.”

He walked over to her and bent a bit down to peer at the hat. “A classic, Miss Abel.”

“Thank you, Mr Smith.” Hermione dipped her head, slightly tilted still, and kept smiling as if she had just been praised for an excellent essay by Professor McGonagall.

“But it might not go too well with your robes.” Mr Fletcher rubbed his chin. “Dear, do you have matching robes in stock? Elegant, but not too daring - nothing French, please.”

The shop did have such robes in stock, of course, and Hermione found herself being fitted with new robes quickly enough. And they weren’t at all daring, in her - admittedly uninformed - opinion.

“How did I do?” she asked half an hour later when they had left the shop and she noticed Mr Fletcher subtly casting a privacy spell.

“Passable. The accent was still a little overdone, but that can be explained by being a recent arrival. You need to add just a hint of French, nothing more,” Mr Fletcher said. “Remember: You’re a young witch born out of wedlock, and you’re trying your best to fit in in your father’s country.”

She snorted, but kept her vapid smile in place. At least the wig she was wearing didn’t itch and the fake glasses were charmed to be near weightless. “It seems as if I just have to act as if I don’t care about anything but appearances.”

“Appearances are crucial in our business,” her tutor chided her. “You need to fit in perfectly, so no one will ever suspect you of having even the slightest nefarious thought.”

She had known that, though acting like some of the girls in her dorm - her former dorm - grated. “And do I have to flirt with the saleswitches too?”

He laughed. “No. But you need to know how to treat the staff. Friendly enough so they don’t despise you, but also with the right amount of aloofness to fit your role as a pureblood.” He snorted. “You can’t afford to underestimate the staff. Even house-elves, whose limited magic barely makes them more competent than muggle servants, can spoil a heist. They are too weak to stop you, or even slow you down, but they are sneaky, generally know their master’s house better than the owners themselves, and all they need to do is to sound an alarm to ruin your day. They, like human servants, see much more than their masters suspect. And most of them gossip like schoolgirls.” He grinned. “You’ll find that out yourself, when you’re learning how to act as a maid.”

“I can’t wait.” She didn’t care to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

He chuckled, presumably at her expression - she had remembered to pout, to stay in her role, instead of scowling. “Oh, it’s not that bad. Only fools mistreat their servants, and such fools rarely have anything worth the effort - or if they do, posing as their servant isn’t necessary.”

She huffed. “Why do wizards even have servants? There’s a spell for everything.” She had seen Mrs Weasley do the work of half a dozen housewives in an afternoon using magic.

“Status, of course. Whether it’s a house-elf, who generally are limited to the oldest families, or human servants, having others serve you is a status symbol. Some purebloods claim it allows them to focus their magic on important things instead of wasting it on trivial chores, but that’s hogwash. It’s not as if you have a limited amount of magic at your disposal.”

“You get tired, though,” Hermione retorted. At least she felt winded after a long practice session.

“Yes. But that’s mental and physical exhaustion. And the harder you train, the less exhausted you’ll be when it counts.”

His grin widened a bit, and she knew there was a hard practice session in her near future.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 6th, 1993**

“Are you OK, mate?” Ron asked as he and Harry Potter made their way from the Gryffindor tower to Lupin’s quarters.

“Do I look like I’m OK?” Harry shot back, a little more heated than he’d wanted.

“You look like you’ve been used as a practice target for a swarm of Bludgers.” Ron was as blunt as ever.

“That’s exactly what happened,” Harry answered. “Wood wanted to ‘stress-test’ your brothers and released eight Bludgers.”

“What? That’s stupid! There’s never more than two of them in play!”

“That’s Wood.” Harry sneered as he imitated his team captain’s speech: “‘If you can defend our Seeker against eight Bludgers, you’ll have no problem at all when there are only two of them!’ the bloke said. And, as we found out, they can’t defend me against eight Bludgers. And I can’t dodge that many either.” He rubbed his shoulder, which, even after a visit to the infirmary, still hurt. At least the Bludgers had been training balls, not the real deal, or he’d be drinking Skele-Gro for days.

“Merlin’s beard!” Ron shook his head. “I’m almost sorry I missed practice. But I needed to finish my Transfiguration homework. Percy insisted.”

Harry groaned. He had yet to finish his.

*****

“Hello, Harry. Good evening, Mr Weasley.”

“Ah. Hi, Harry. Ron.”

Lupin’s greeting was as cordial as ever, but Sirius took a deep breath before addressing them, Harry noticed, and didn’t seem to be too happy to see him. His godfather hadn’t stood to greet him, and he had a glass filled with amber liquid in his hand - drinking before dinner usually meant bad news when Uncle Vernon did it.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked. He didn’t think refusing to to go along with Sirius’s plan to use detentions as a cover for his training was the reason for the other wizard’s mood; Harry couldn’t afford to get a reputation as a troublemaker with Malfoy around.

“Wrong?” Sirius scoffed. “Nothing’s wrong… but nothing’s right either!” He downed his glass and then coughed fire. “You haven’t heard then.”

“No. We were in the Infirmary,” Harry said. “Quidditch training accident!” he hastily added when Sirius’s head whipped around and the man drew his wand while rising from his seat.

“Ah.” Sirius sat down again. “Someone stole my revenge. Again!”

“I told you: Such talk will make you a suspect!” Lupin glared at Sirius, then sighed when the latter simply glared back. “Barty Crouch was found dead in his home.”

Harry had never heard of Barty Crouch, and his face must have shown that, since Lupin elaborated. “He was the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, but before that, he was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“He was the bastard who threw me into Azkaban without a trial!” Sirius hissed. “And now he’s dead, like Wormtail - and I didn’t get to kill either of them!”

Harry really hoped that his godfather had a good alibi, because it seemed as if Sirius would be the main suspect.

*****

 


	4. Adapting

**Hogwarts, September 16th, 1993**

Double Potions had been weird, Ron Weasley thought as he left the classroom. Snape hadn’t been acting like the slimy git he was. Not as usual, at least. He had still nearly cursed Neville when the Gryffindor had mixed up slicing and dicing, and his comment when Lavender had managed to dip her hair into her potion by accident had left the witch in tears, but that was normal. But he had shown the same vicious attitude towards the snakes as well. It seemed the first week hadn’t been a fluke, then. The Headmaster might really be keeping the snakes on a short leash, and had Snape do it too. And the git must hate it, Ron thought with a smirk.

He still wasn’t the only one among the Gryffindors to sigh with relief when they reached the school’s courtyard - no one smart trusted the snakes. They had demonstrated just how rotten they were last year. First the plot against Harry, and then Hermione.

“This Sunday is Hermione’s birthday,” Harry said as they walked towards the Gryffindor dorms. “Have you gotten her a gift yet?”

“Percy’s old Transfiguration notes,” Ron answered. “She’ll like them, I think.” His brother had made a copy of them, to be exact, but that shouldn’t matter.

“Oh.” Harry looked impressed. “That was a good idea. I bought her a copy of the new Defence book when I bought mine.”

Not second-hand, Ron would have bet. But his gift was probably more useful - Percy had noted down everything the teacher had said. He shrugged. “Is Hedwig back yet?”

Harry blinked. “She should be. I’ll go check the Owlery!” He looked at Ron. “Are you coming?”

Ron grimaced. “I can’t. I have to get a book from the library first.”

“What?” Harry stared at him.

“Percy wanted a few favours in exchange for his notes.” Ron felt a bit angry - both at the indirect admission that he hadn’t spent money on Hermione’s gift and at Harry’s obvious surprise at him heading to the library.

“Alright. See you later then.”

“Be careful.” You couldn’t trust the snakes. Sooner or later, Malfoy would try something again.

“Of course.” Harry grinned. “Moody gave me a few tips, remember?”

“Yeah.” Ron had heard the story a few times now, and still wasn’t certain if he should be jealous or glad that he hadn’t met the man. His friend nodded, and went off towards the Owlery.

Ron sighed and headed towards the library. Percy was riding him hard, and not just for the notes. His brother was also nagging him to study and do his homework. Like a male, older Hermione.

He crossed the courtyard, then took a left, into one of the less used hallways. If people were after you, you couldn’t be predictable. Growing up with his elder brothers had taught him that.

“Hello, Ron!”

The cheerful greeting from the side corridor he had been passing took him by surprise, and he jerked, almost fumbling his wand in the process. “What?”

“Not ‘what’, at least I don’t think so. ‘Who’, probably.” A young witch stepped up to him, seemingly uncaring of his aimed wand. He recognised her.

“Luna.” Luna Lovegood. Second-year Ravenclaw.

“Yes.” She nodded, beaming at him. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d recognise me - we haven’t seen each other for a while.”

Ron fought not to wince. The Lovegoods lived near the Weasleys - closer than the Diggorys, even - and Luna had often been over at The Burrow, playing with Ginny. And with him, more often than not. But since Luna’s mother had died, a few years ago, she hadn’t come over any more. Mum had said Mr Lovegood had become ‘weird’. He nodded. “Yes. Things have been busy, too.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Daddy told me all about your fight with the troll possessed by the Dark Lord. To turn him into stone with a mirror, how clever!”

“Err…” That wasn’t how it had happened. The troll hadn’t been possessed either. “Something like that.”

“And the revelation about your pet! To think it was responsible for the breaking up of The Hobgoblins!”

“The what?” Ron felt lost. What was she talking about?

“The Hobgoblins! The famous band. They broke up after their singer was imprisoned in Azkaban. Of course, they claimed he was dead, but that was just a cover up to hide the scandal that Stubby Boardman had been framed for murder - though they didn’t know that he had been framed, so they probably thought he was a murderer.” She blinked slowly. “Although, while heinous and evil, I can somewhat understand why your pet would do such a thing after Stubby Boardman used a dark ritual to turn it into a half-man. For a rat, that must have felt like being a werewolf, suddenly having a human body half of the time. And as a rat, it couldn’t have understood human laws either.”

“Ah.” Ron now remembered why his mum had broken off contact with the Lovegoods. Ginny had started to talk like Luna.

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s so sad that it was Kissed. Now we cannot ask its perspective - which would have been fascinating. Although I now wonder… if the Dementor’s Kiss worked, it must have had a soul. And rats don’t have souls.” She gasped. “Did Boardman use a dark ritual to graft a human soul on to the rat?”

“I don’t think so,” Ron said, forcing himself to keep smiling politely. “Dumbledore would have noticed.”

“But Dumbledore didn’t notice Malfoy’s plot either,” Luna retorted. “He might need to replace his glasses.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. Ron found himself leaning towards her almost against his will. “He is a Seer who can see alternate worlds. Worlds where the sky is pink, for example, and only fishes use wands. But he needs his special glasses to see our world.”

Ron tried to find a way to lose the girl without insulting her. “Well… I need to go to the library. Percy needs a book before dinner. You know how he is.”

“Oh? What a coincidence! I’m on my way to the library as well!” She held up her book bag, which seemed to rival Hermione’s in size. “Someone must have stolen all The Quibbler issues there, so I need to replace them. We can’t let the students grow up ignorant!”

“Of course.” If in doubt, smiling and nodding was a good answer, Ron knew. It worked on parents and hopefully on weird witches as well.

“Nargles might have taken the issues - they were not placed in boxes kept locked with butterbeer corks. They like to steal things and hide them around the school. They’ve done that to me very often.”

“Nargles?”

“Small invisible flying magical creatures. They like to hide in people’s hair and steal their common sense if they can’t steal other things. Daddy did a series on them in The Quibbler. Have you read the articles?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You should. I lost a lot of things to them in Hogwarts, and I would have lost even more if I hadn’t been able to use the right sort of protections.” Luna blinked. “Although they haven’t stolen anything from me since term started. Maybe the Headmaster managed to drive them off?”

“Probably.” Ron remembered that last year Ginny had said something about Luna missing clothes. He frowned. “Are you certain that the thieves were Nargles?”

Luna nodded rapidly. “Yes. Who else would steal my clothes and shoes? It’s not as if they are expensive, and any witch who wanted her own could duplicate them instead.”

Ron could think of a few people who would steal things just to hurt someone, but they were in Slytherin. He wouldn’t have expected their ilk to be in Ravenclaw as well.

They reached the library after Luna had told him all about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks as well. “Do you need help distributing the issues?” Ron asked, feeling a little guilty about ignoring the girl.

“Thank you, but no. I have everything here. Go and fetch Percy’s book!” Luna beamed at him. “It was nice talking to you again. Can you give Ginny my regards?”

“Sure.”

Seeing her smile at him made him feel even more guilty.  

*****

**London, Greenwich, September 17th, 1993**

Hermione Granger pointed her wand at the newspaper lying on the kitchen counter and concentrated.

“Accio Daily Prophet!”

The paper twitched and slid towards her - a few inches. She clenched her teeth and tried again.

“Accio Daily Prophet!”

This time the issue made it all the way off the counter, landing on the floor. She thought she heard an amused snort behind her. Snarling, she focused on that irritating excuse for a newspaper. She wanted to read it. She wanted it, period.

“Accio Daily Prophet!”

The newspaper flew towards her, landing on top of the dinner table, amidst her ‘homework’.

“Impressive.”

She turned her head and glared at Mr Fletcher with narrowed eyes. “It was supposed to land in my hand.”

“Then you need to practise more.” A flick of his wand and the newspaper shot off the table and slammed against the wall in the kitchen. A silent Banishing Charm, Hermione noted.

Huffing, she tried again.

“Accio Daily Prophet!”

It took her half an hour until the newspaper landed in her hand, but she did it. Smiling proudly, she held it up.

“Impressive - for a third year.” Her tutor nodded. “Although you’ll need to be able to summon things from farther away for that spell to be useful in the field.”

She frowned. “Aren’t most valuables protected against that charm?” He had mentioned that, a few weeks ago.

“Not all of them. Many wizards trust their wards to keep thieves out and their belongings in, so they do not use additional protections in their homes - they want to be able to summon their things, you see.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed. Theoretically, even the average wizard could protect his home quite effectively against thieves. But all the security measures would inconvenience them - they would have to get up and pick up everything by hand, and would have to use Unlocking Charms and recast their Locking Charms all the time for even the simplest things. So most don’t.” He grinned. “Most don’t have anything worth breaking into their homes for, of course, but even the rich purebloods are often lazy and leave holes in their protection.”

“Ah!” That made sense. “You don’t want to open a safe each time you want to use your silverware.”

“Exactly - unless you have servants to do it for you. Or you use conjured silverware anyway. Each mark is different - and has different protections.”

“But everyone has wards on their homes, right?” They needed to, to keep other wizards from apparating into their houses, or vanishing their doors or walls.

“Yes. Some wizards might try to hide as muggles, and forego wards so they don’t give them away, but that’s the same as dropping your gold in the forest and hoping that no one finds it.” He scoffed. “Some tried that - hiding as muggles - in the war. They were found, though.”

“How?” She would have thought that it would be hard to find anyone among sixty million muggles.

“Friends betrayed them - willingly or not.”

“Ah.” He had lectured her often that humans were the weak spot in many protection schemes. And, if she was understanding him correctly, he had lost friends during the war who had been trying to hide like that. Another puzzle piece fit into her mental picture of her tutor. “So… Once I’m through the wards, I could try a Summoning Charm and hope I get lucky?”

“You’ll have to know what you’re after - and that it’s not covered by an alarm charm.”

Which meant it was a bad idea. She frowned.

“Mind you, there are things you can sell - or use for your heist - that usually aren’t protected against Summoning Charms. Keys, for example.”

“What?” That made no sense at all!

He laughed. “I told you - wizards are lazy. They don’t want to search for their keys, and want to be able to summon them.”

“But those kind of wizards usually don’t have much worth stealing, right?”

“You’re learning!” He grinned and went back to his own reading.

Hermione opened the newspaper. The front page was full of speculation about Barty Crouch’s murder. Speculation she had read a few times already. “You’d think they would have found a more interesting topic by now,” she muttered.

“Not if they are getting paid to repeat themselves,” Mr Fletcher said without looking up from his book. “The more they hint that Black had a reason to murder Crouch, the better for Malfoy.”

She clenched her teeth. Malfoy again! “Mr Black was able to clear his name before, and quickly.”

“That was because the Ministry had Pettigrew, and Dumbledore threw his weight behind Black. And Malfoy probably decided that he could use the affair to hurt the Weasleys.” Her tutor shrugged. “But this? Black has an alibi, and a good one - Dumbledore himself testified that he was in Hogwarts at the time of the murder - so they can’t arrest him. But the Prophet can speculate about Black’s involvement as much as they want and get paid for it - the only way Black could shut them up would be to produce the actual murderer. Veritaserum won’t prove anything after his stint in Azkaban; the Dementors left his memory with more holes than a sieve.”

To lose her happiest memories, of her family and friends… Hermione shuddered. “But who could have done it? The wards were intact, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, they were.” Mr Fletcher nodded. “Not a trace of manipulation. Which means that this was either done by a good Curse-Breaker, or by someone who was keyed into the wards.”

“But Crouch was living alone, with just a house-elf, who was killed as well.” Hermione had followed the case.

“Yes. So that leaves either one of his friends or acquaintances who visited him - which is not a long list, but does include a few very influential people - or a Curse-Breaker. Or a good thief.” He chuckled at her expression. “Good thieves are among the best Curse-Breakers, since they have to know how to disable curses and traps, and slip or break through wards. And they live as dangerously as Curse-Breakers, too.”

She sniffed. It wasn’t the first time he had hinted at the dangers of thieving. If she were frightened off by danger, she would have left Hogwarts after the troll. “So, when do we start on Curse-Breaking?”

He laughed, but it sounded a bit forced to her. “Once you have finished your third year material.”

Hermione huffed and pushed the Daily Prophet away. Time to study some more.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 19th, 1993**

“Have I ever told you how grateful I am that you asked your godfather to include me in this training?”

Harry Potter was impressed by how much breath Ron had left - Harry had trouble just breathing, so he nodded. “Yes.” After another gulp of air, he added: “Often.”

“I’ll take it all back, mate.” Ron groaned as he slowly sat up.

“No returns!” Harry mumbled, getting up himself. He wasn’t about to do this alone.

“Get up, you two! Death Eaters won’t give you any time to rest and recover!” Sirius yelled at them. A flick of his wand, and a few Stinging Hexes followed.

Harry rolled to the side, but Ron was a little too slow, and yelped when he got hit. “I wasn’t even ready!” Ron complained.

“There are no rules in a fight!” Sirius shook his head. “We’re not duelling here. There’s no referee stepping in.”

“So far we haven’t done any fighting, just running,” Harry muttered.

“We haven’t even learned how to cast a Shield Charm,” Ron added.

“And you won’t until you can move without attracting curses.” Sirius scoffed. “We’re not teaching you how to hex Slytherins in the hallways, but how to survive when Death Eaters come after you. And that means running the hell away without being hit.”

Remus sighed. “What Sirius should be saying is that this is the first step. We’re deliberately not teaching you how to cast a shield, or any curses, until you have learned how to move in a fight. Many of your enemies will be using the Unforgivables, and no shield protects against them. The only defences are hard cover - or not being hit.”

“And you’re not good enough at Transfiguration or Conjuration to make your own cover,” Sirius added.

“Yet,” Harry muttered. He would be good enough as soon as possible - he was sick of getting hit without being able to hit back.

“So, we’re playing dodge the Bludger…” Ron sighed.

“You aren’t dodging the curses; you’re dodging the caster. Unless it’s long range, most spells will be too fast for you to spot them and get out of the way. But when you’re not at the spot at which the enemy is aiming, the effect is the same. It’s much harder to hit a moving target than a stationary one. Which means you need to keep moving, and in an unpredictable way, preferably at an angle too,” Remus explained.

“Which you haven’t managed yet,” Sirius cut in.

“You’ve been getting better at it, though,” Remus added with a smile.

“Just wait until we get to curse you back!” Ron said.

Sirius laughed. “You’ll have to master the Shield Charm first. And that’ll take a while. A long while if what we’ve seen so far is the best you have. So, I’m not really worried.”

Harry glanced at Ron, who nodded at him as they lined up again opposite the two older wizards in the Defence classroom.

 

Sirius and Remus might stick to their program of Moving, Shielding and then Cursing. But Harry and Ron were also learning spells in the normal Defence lessons. And they could ask Ron’s brothers for some help too.

They would get back at their ‘teachers’.

*****

**London, East End, September 19th, 1993**

“Alright, this looks like a good spot.” Mr Fletcher nodded to himself.

“I guess that means you’ve been here before,” Hermione said, looking around the abandoned plant.

He laughed. “Ah, yes. Good catch!”

Hermione sniffed - it was an easy deduction. Her tutor had stressed that a good thief had to prepare and case a joint in almost every lesson, and she doubted that he’d neglect his own rules. “And what are we doing here? Curse-Breaking?” she added, hoping she was correct - she wanted to finally learn how to break through wards.

“No.” He shook his head. “You’re not yet ready for that. No, you’ll be learning… let’s call it ‘Defence against the Aurors’.” He nodded at his own words.

“‘Defence against the Aurors’?” That sounded… well, not too bad, actually, she thought.

“Yeah. The best defence is not to be seen in the first place, but sometimes that doesn’t work. Plans can fail, people make mistakes, marks go home early, or it turns out the master of the house is having an affair with an servant in a supposedly unused guest room.” He chuckled briefly. Hermione wondered how many of his examples he had experienced himself. “In that case you have to react quickly or you’ll end up caught.”

Hermione nodded and moved to a rusty machine to use as a makeshift desk so she could write this down.

“Best case is that whoever saw you runs away and calls the Aurors. That means you have enough time to get away before they arrive. But you have to react quickly - they won’t take long.” He frowned. “Never think that you just need a minute, that you ’ave enough time to take what you came for! If someone discovers you, get the ’ell away!”

“Noted.”

 He snorted. “It’s worse if the mark attacks you and calls the Aurors at the same time - that makes getting away harder. And some naive thieves might think they just have to stun the mark, and then get on with the heist.” He shook his head. “Never do that. No matter who discovered you, or what they do, you need to get away. They don’t need to use the fireplace to call the Aurors; they can have alarm charms set up for that as well. Or someone else could be calling them.”

Her planned retort died on her tongue and she underlined that point.

“But the worst case is when they attack you, but aren’t calling the Aurors. That usually means that you are dealing with a criminal yourself - and they are generally willing to kill to protect their loot. Most Aurors are predictable - we know what they learn in training, and few ever develop their own spells or tactics. But dark wizards? The kind who would keep the Aurors from entering their homes even while it’s being robbed? They will do their best to kill you.”

Hermione underlined that note as well.

“So, let’s look at what you can do to get away when the curses are flying at you. As I told ya, the best defence is not to be seen - so anything that conceals you will help a lot. If you use smoke, use coloured smoke - green, if possible. People will think it’s poison, and will either flee or spend time countering it.”

“Wouldn’t walls be a better choice? They block spells,” Hermione said.

“Until they meet a Blasting Curse, and you get showered with stone or metal splinters,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “Don’t get me wrong - walls have their place. If Killing Curses are being thrown around, you want something solid to cover you while you get away. And not everyone is willing to blow up their own house to get a thief. Many are, however.”

“Thanks to Mending Charms,” Hermione muttered.

“Yes.” He grinned.

“And there are distractions. Conjured animals behind them, fake sounds, explosions - if you have the time, set up a distraction in advance that you can trigger when you need it.”

Hermione had a few ideas.

“But sooner or later, it all comes down to how quick you are on your feet. The best distractions, cover and concealment are useless if you’re not fast enough to get away, or don’t know the right spells to create an escape route when you need one.” He grinned. “And today, we’re going to train the former.”

His smile reminded her of the smiles of some of her muggle classmates when their teacher had them play prisonball in PE. She just knew that this would be a painful, exhausting lesson.

And, as usual, if she did say so herself, she was right.

*****

**Hogsmeade, October 30th, 1993**

“Our first Hogsmeade weekend!” Ron had been repeating the phrase a few times on their way to the village.

Harry Potter nodded in agreement as his friend stuck his head out of their carriage again, to check how much longer it would be until they arrived.

 

Ron slid back into his seat. “You know, we could have visited before.”

Harry frowned. “The tunnels Sirius showed us were meant to let us escape an attacker, not to visit Hogsmeade.”

“That’s why Sirius was grinning widely when he showed us how to enter, and told us three times that the tunnels lead to Hogsmeade?” Ron scoffed. “He might as well have told us to sneak out.”

His godfather had probably been lost in his memories - or the remains of them - Harry thought. “He also told us several times each training session that we have to be careful because Voldemort is out there, just waiting for a mistake.”

“If visiting Hogsmeade were a mistake we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Ron retorted.

“We’re not exactly alone,” Harry said.

“What?” Ron drew his wand and looked around. “Where? And how did you know?”

“One of them is up in the air on a broom, above us.” Harry was guessing, but it was a good guess. The carriage hadn’t seemed heavier than the other empty ones, and no one was inside. That left air cover as the best way to protect them.

Ron stuck his head out again and looked up. “Can’t see anything.”

“We would need the right spell for that,” Harry said. “I guess Remus is waiting for us in Hogsmeade, to keep an eye on us.” It wouldn’t be unusual for a teacher to play chaperone - especially on the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term.

Ron sighed, then perked up. “Well, it’s a good thing.”

Harry frowned. “Do you think we’ll get attacked?

“Not by Voldemort. But the snakes might give us trouble.”

Harry cursed - the Slytherins would indeed make trouble if they thought they could get away with it. Especially given Harry and Ron’s plans for the visit.

*****

“There she is! Hermione!” Ron was waving and yelling. If anyone in the school had not expected them to meet their friend, they would be proven wrong right now.

Harry smiled, though, instead of frowning - it wasn’t as if they could have avoided that. For all the hype and excitement among the students, Hogsmeade was actually a tiny village, and there were only so many places you could visit - Harry and Ron had had to learn the layout of the village by heart so they wouldn’t get lost in an emergency.

Their friend was waving at them too. Hermione was looking well, Harry thought - she was smiling and waving from her spot at the station. Her muggle clothes - jeans and sweater and a short jacket - looked nice, but they also made her stand out among the robes of the student and villagers.

“Harry! Ron!” She didn’t move from her spot until they had reached her, but then she stepped up and hugged them - Harry first. She felt different in his arms, harder. But that might have just been the clothes, he reasoned as he rubbed one of his lingering bruises.

“Oof!” Ron yelped. “Careful with the side; it’s still sore.”

And there was her familiar frown, Harry thought. “What have you been doing?”

“Training,” Ron said. “Defence.”

“Yes. And Quidditch too, in my case,” Harry added.

Their friend looked as if she was torn between telling them off for getting hurt - and playing a dangerous sport - and praising them for their studying. “Don’t overdo it, though. It you keep getting hurt, there’s something wrong.”

“We’re getting better, don’t worry,” Ron said, glancing at Harry.

Harry nodded - there was no need to tell her that their ‘teachers’ were stepping up their game accordingly. He cleared his throat. “So, where shall we go first?”

“Quidditch supplies!” Ron said quickly. “I’ve heard they have a Firebolt on display. The fastest broom on the market!”

“Oh? Sounds interesting,” Hermione said. “Let’s go take a look!”

Harry blinked, then exchanged a glance with Ron, who nodded at him as he was closing his own mouth. “Who’re you and what have you done with the real Hermione?” Harry asked, with a smile to show that he was joking - she had been playing Quidditch with them, but she had done so badly, he had expected her to condemn flying as a stupid pastime.

“Really?” Hermione pouted. “Just because I’m not a Quidditch maniac doesn’t mean that I loathe all brooms. I’ve been looking into brooms since I started learning how to fly. A Firebolt is, of course, far too expensive, but it is the best broom, and so a good yardstick.” She shook her head at them. “Now let’s go!”

 _That_ was the bossy girl they knew and liked. A few minutes later, they were standing in front of the shop.

“There it is!” Ron exclaimed, pressing both hands on the glass. “Look at it!”

It was impressive broom, Harry thought. Sleek, with an optimised shaft, a shiny footrest - it made his own Nimbus 2000 look like the Weasleys’ car, in his opinion.

“I wonder,” Hermione said, “if that’s a real broom, or just a copy for advertising.” She looked around. “Wouldn’t they secure the broom much better if it was a real Firebolt?”

Harry hadn’t thought of that. Ron shook his head. “What? They wouldn’t do that… would they?”

Harry was about to answer when he spotted Malfoy and his cronies coming down the street. For a moment, he wanted to move away. Then he clenched his teeth. He wouldn’t step out of _their_ way. And Malfoy had seen him anyway.

“Hey, look, there’s the thief, looking at a Firebolt. Planning to steal that one too? It’s not as if you could afford even a rickety old Cleansweep, could you?”

While Hermione went red in the face and glared at the git, and the other Slytherins laughed too loudly for it to be natural, Harry gripped his wand inside his robes. Malfoy was going down!

“Mr Malfoy? Do I have to inform Professor Snape that you are making a spectacle of yourself in Hogsmeade?” Remus’s cold voice - so unlike his usual tone - stopped the snakes in their tracks. Their teacher had appeared at the side alley next to the shop and was staring, no glaring, at the Slytherins.

“No, sir,” Malfoy spat, barely remaining polite, and turned away. Remus nodded at Harry and his friends, then walked past.

“The bloody git’s going to pay for this!” Ron hissed.

“You won’t do anything to him. He’s just waiting for that,” Hermione whispered back. “Do you want his father to make more trouble for your family?” Then she glared at Harry. “Or you?”

Sirius would heartily approve, Harry thought, but he shook his head anyway. They had promised, after all.

But it grated, he thought as they walked towards the local book shop. It grated so much!

*****

**London, Enfield, December 25th, 1993**

“Merry Christmas, Hermione!”

“Merry Christmas, Dad, Mum!”

Hermione Granger kept smiling and told herself that she wasn’t materialistic. That she didn’t care about money. There were more important things in life. Friendship, and justice, and… She sighed, then winced when she saw the glance her parents exchanged with each other.

And she winced even more when they caught her reaction. “Hermione… dear… it’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for…” Her dad trailed off.

“For ruining our family?” Hermione completed his sentence. She snorted.

“It wasn’t your fault,” her mum insisted.

“We’re not exactly ruined. We have a steady income, a home, each other…”

Hermione almost rolled her eyes at her father. He was trying, but this wasn’t a Disney movie. “We live in a small, cheap flat, we’re hounded by goblin and muggle debt collectors, everything we earn above subsistence level gets seized, and everyone thinks I’m a criminal.” She wasn’t - not yet, at least.

“It’s not that bad.” Her mum shook her head.

“They took our books!” Hermione snarled. Their collections! Her prized books! Her childhood - for Heaven’s sake, she sounded like an old woman!

“We can go to the library and borrow any book we want,” her father retorted.

“It’s not the same,” Hermione muttered. It wasn’t. The library was great, but some books you simply wanted to own, so you could read them whenever the mood struck you. She shook her head. “And books are just the tip of the iceberg. We had to move, you lost half your friends…”

“I prefer to say that they weren’t our friends in the first place,” her father said, with a toothy smile. “If losing our home was enough to make them cut us off.”

“Probably thought we’d beg them for help,” Mum whispered.

Hermione flinched at that. “I didn’t beg!” Harry had asked his godfather. She hadn’t asked him to do that.

“I know you didn’t, dear,” Her mum was just humouring her, though, or so Hermione thought.

“And it’s not as if anything came of it anyway,” Dad cut in.

“Mr Black’s still fighting in court, but he’ll win,” Hermione said.

“And who told you that?”

“Harry.” That didn’t impress her parents, she knew. But Harry wouldn’t lie to her - and even Mr Fletcher said that it would take far more than being slightly unhinged to lose control over the family fortune. Especially with Dumbledore backing Mr Black. Harry said that Malfoy simply wanted a bribe - a settlement to stop his obstruction. But apparently, Mr Black was determined not to give Malfoy a single Knut.

Hermione approved of that. Whole-heartedly.

“Now let’s open the presents!” Mum said, with - in Hermione’s opinion - forced cheer. There were very few presents, and all of them rather modest compared to their last Christmas.

Hermione played along, though - it was Christmas, after all. But she would remember this. And she would make it up to her parents. With dividends.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 25th, 1993**

“Open them, Harry! All of them!”

His godfather was bouncing on his seat, Harry Potter noticed. Literally, after a spell from Remus.

“What? Moony!” Sirius pouted at his friend.

“Just a reminder to calm down.” Remus smiled faintly. “It’s Harry’s first Christmas here.”

“Might as well be mine,” Sirius muttered. “My first Christmas at home without my evil family to ruin things. Figures that I didn’t lose those memories in Azkaban.”

Harry saw Remus wince at that, and, for a moment, silence filled the room. Some things they didn’t talk about. Azkaban was one of them. Then Harry stepped forward. “Alright!” He reached out for one of the bigger packages with his name floating above it, then hesitated.

“Go on - I’ve ensured that they are safe.” Remus smiled at him.

Sirius sniffed. “I wouldn’t hex my godson.”

But Sirius apparently had played ‘pranks’ on Harry’s father numerous times - even if he couldn’t remember most of them in detail. And Harry agreed with Remus - in private, of course - that it was better to be safe than sorry. Sirius was recovering from his ordeal, but it would take more time than a few months, and his memories might never return in full, so he was bound to be ‘eccentric’, as he called it.

Harry opened the package. Black and shiny cloth.

“New dress robes!” Sirius exclaimed. “Can’t have you walk around in school robes, or transfigured robes!” His smile suddenly vanished. “I wanted to buy you a new broom, but Dumbledore and Remus said that I would only play into Malfoy’s hands if I did that.”

“He wanted to buy you a Firebolt,” Remus explained.

Harry gasped. A Firebolt! But they were so expensive there wasn’t even a price listed in the shop.

“See? I knew he wanted one!” Sirius exclaimed.

“Of course he wants one. But he wouldn’t be happy if you had to beggar yourself for his gift.” Remus’s glance at Harry had him nodding in agreement.

“I thought most of your money was tied up in that court case,” Harry said while he unfolded the robes.

“I could have managed,” Sirius said.

“He was planning to sell the house.” Remus added.

“What?” Harry blinked. The house had been improved drastically since his first visit - only parts of the basement were still off-limits - but much of the furniture was still very… disturbing. At least in Harry’s opinion. “Who would want to buy it?” he said, then flinched - that had sounded bad.

“Malfoy, of course. Or rather, his wife, my dear cousin Narcissa.” Sirius sneered. “She wants the Blacks’ ancestral home. Malfoy offered to drop his case if I gave him the house. I wouldn’t do that, of course - but selling it is not the same.”

“Malfoy wouldn’t want it if he wasn’t planning something,” Remus said.

“We don’t know what.”

“And until we do you shouldn’t sell the house.”

Sirius scoffed. Then he perked up. “Enough talk about Death Eaters! Now, before you open your next present, try on your new robes!”

Harry did so, and turned around. They did look sleek and expensive. Elegant, but he was no expert on wizarding fashion.

“Perfect!” Sirius grinned. “Now touch the top button with your wand and say ‘change’!”

Harry did so - and found himself wearing a leather jacket. A stylish one - he knew that.

“See? You can use them to impress both witches and muggle girls! Or muggleborn witches!”

Sirius had said similar things before, so Harry didn’t bother glaring at his godfather. Besides, he didn’t think that he wanted to impress a girl who was impressed by gold.

“He’s thirteen, Sirius,” Remus pointed out. “At thirteen, you and James were banishing mudballs at girls. And that definitely didn’t impress them. At all.”

Sirius blinked and seemed to stare at nothing for a moment. Harry knew that meant that he was searching for another lost memory. Then his godfather grinned. “Well, that just means that I’m helping Harry to avoid making the same mistakes James and I did.”

Harry wasn’t certain that Sirius was actually helping in that area, but he laughed. It was Christmas, after all, a time to be happy with your family.

*****

**London, East End, January 3rd, 1994**

Hermione Granger gasped as her left hand slipped on the wet roof and she almost lost her balance. And she cursed when she overcompensated, sliding down a foot or two before she could stop herself. Panting, she remained still for a few breaths. It wasn’t the falling she feared - this abandoned office building of an equally abandoned plant was tall enough that Mr Fletcher would be able to catch her with a spell, and she had cast a Cushioning Charm on the ground as additional assurance. But she hated failing. Even a task as unfair as climbing without the help of magic.

She forced herself to move on. She was sweating, and if she stayed still any longer, she’d be cold and not just wet. There had to be spells to deal with that… but she had to focus on climbing right now. Free climbing, even. She reached out once again, and this time she kept her grip. Her left leg followed, finding purchase on a broken tile. Her right hand overtook her left, grabbing the edge of a hole in the roof. She had to pull up her right leg far more than was comfortable to find a foothold, but she managed it. Half a year ago, she wouldn’t, and would have sprained something trying this. She had made progress. But she still didn’t like it.

But she needed to be able to do this. Mr Fletcher said so, and her pride drove her on. Inch by inch, if needed. Until she finally reached the chimney and could relax. And start to breathe normally again.

“Well… you managed to reach the top. But you took your time doing it. And I don’t think you need to hug the chimney that tightly. Your boyfriend might get jealous.”

She turned her head to the side and glared at the spot where Mr Fletcher’s voice was coming from. “Big talk coming from someone who used magic to get up here.” A broom, if she wasn’t mistaken - he was talking too casually for the alternative since levitating a board you were standing or sitting on required a lot of focus, and Mr Fletcher was no Dumbledore.

“Oh, don’t worry, broom flying is next. But first, we, that is, you, will do this again, just a little faster.”

She groaned in response. She had heard those words before. It was always just a bit faster. A bit longer. A bit harder.

He chuckled. “You’ll be thanking me once you can easily outrun a mark - or an Auror - over the rooftops.”

“Wouldn’t they just apparate ahead? Or use a broom?” Hermione asked while she swung her leg over the ridge and drew her wand.

“Very few would risk apparating on a wet and slippery rooftop. And flying a broom is not that easy either, as you have demonstrated before.”

She clenched her teeth - she had gotten better at flying. Just not good enough. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off the ridge and slid down the roof, casting a Cushioning Charm at the ground when she slid over the eaves.

The second she spent in free fall was both terrifying and exciting, even after she had done it dozens of times. Then she hit the ground and performed a parachute landing fall, jumping to her feet before her tutor arrived at her side.

“Very good.”

She smiled at the praise. She was getting better.

“But remember: Don’t let anyone know you can do this. When the Aurors are hunting a roof-running thief you want to be known as a clumsy bookworm.” He tapped his forehead. “You have to outthink your opponents from the start. As long as you’re always at least one step ahead of them, they won’t catch you. And it starts with keeping your identities separate.”

“Yes,” she forced through her clenched teeth. It made sense. It was logical. Obvious, even. But she hated downplaying her hard-earned athletic ability. The only thing she hated more was keeping her growing - even if slowly - skill on a broom a secret.

He laughed - he knew exactly what she was thinking. She had complained about it often enough.

*****

**London, East End, January 6th, 1994**

“Alright. Begin.”

Hermione Granger took a deep breath and cast the detection spell. Her vision was briefly filled with flickering patches of colours, blinding her, before the effect faded. She looked around - everything looked normal. As it should - the spell that allowed her to see spells and curses had a very short range. Which explained why Curse-Breakers lived a dangerous and often short life - the best traps took that range into account.

She focused her attention on the purse on the table in front of her. She could see the Extension Charm, which made it bigger on the inside. And there was a charm that allowed the owner to pull out what they wanted, without having to grope around inside. A variant of the Summoning Charm. But where was the curse protecting it?

She pointed her wand at it. She could simply try to end all spells, but that would be tricky - she didn’t know how many spells were hidden under those two obvious ones. There had to be at least one. Well… there was one way to find out. She reached out with her hand... touching the purse, touching its strings… there! That was a spell reacting to her touch.

She grinned as she aimed her wand and ended it. Another touch showed no reaction. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the purse and pulled out a Knut. “Done!”

Mr Fletcher was frowning, though. “Yeah, you did it. But that was a risky method - triggering a response to spot the spell? That won’t work with wards. And some nasty buggers curse their purses.” He shook his head and pulled out another purse. “Do it again, but this time without triggering the protection spell on it. Triggering an Alarm Charm to find it defeats the purpose, you know.”

She huffed - of course she knew that. Just as she knew that most purses wouldn’t curse someone for touching them. But Mr Fletcher was correct. Sighing, she tried again.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 20th, 1994**

When he saw Sirius’s wand light up, Harry Potter threw himself forward and down, clenching his teeth when he rolled over his shoulder on the hard stone floor. He used his momentum to jump up, and dove for the floor again right away, changing his direction, then rolled along the floor a yard until he was behind a pillar. Panting, he grinned - that had been two, maybe three spells that had missed him. He glanced to his side. Ron was faring well against Remus too, though Harry’s friend slid into cover on his belly, which had to hurt - more than Harry’s shoulder, at least.

“Alright, that was a good showing,” Sirius declared. Harry didn’t move - his godfather hadn’t said that the exercise was over. Remus coughed. Harry heard Sirius sigh. “Alright - the test is over. You did well.”

Harry grinned at Ron as they slowly stood up and left their respective cover. “So, will you now teach us how to curse back? I mean, how to ‘slow pursuers down’ and ‘make them seek cover’?” Harry asked, grinning widely.

“No.” Sirius shook his head.

“You said that once we could dodge - make ourselves difficult targets -” Ron corrected himself before Remus could do it, “you’d teach us how to strike back too!”

“Yes, we did. And we will,” Harry’s godfather said. “But you’re not yet ready. You are hard to hit with spells like a Stunner, or similar curses, but…” His wand flicked, and Harry jumped to the side as before, but this time, liquid splashed over him before he finished his roll.

No, not liquid - paint, he realised a second later.

Sirius was grinning widely. “As you can see, there are spells that are a bit harder to avoid. Spells that cause explosions, spells that create clouds of poison - or waves. And we’ll train until you can move without thinking about it.”

Harry groaned, then cast a Cleaning Charm on himself. He had feeling he would be doing that very often in the future.

*****

“Merlin’s beard!” Ron complained when they were walking back to their dorm afterwards, “I was so happy that we’d finally learn something…else.”

Harry nodded. Playing target for his teachers wasn’t much fun. Even if it was effective. But it hurt, and the ointments could only do so much. “Well, we’ve been learning hexes and jinxes in Defence.” And on their own.

“Nothing really useful, though,” Ron said.

Harry knew what his friend really meant: Nothing really dangerous. He shrugged. “It’s a start.” And he knew Sirius and Remus were right: Trying to duel a Death Eater would be stupid. For now, at least. But it still galled not to be allowed to strike back. “Well, you know…” he trailed off when he spotted movement ahead of them. Was that? It was. “Snakes ahead,” he whispered.

“I’ve seen them,” Ron whispered back. “Four of them. Malfoy.”

Harry clenched his teeth. The smart thing would be to avoid them - he doubted that the Slytherins had seen them yet; they hadn’t been training to spot ambushes. He and Ron could just duck into a side corridor and take a little detour.

But he was sick of avoiding the Slytherins. And sick of avoiding Malfoy. He had avoided Dudley too often, back in Little Whinging. Before Hogwarts. “Let’s keep walking. We’ve done nothing wrong,” he said. “Besides, there’s a portrait watching the hallway.”

Ron drew a loud breath, then nodded. “Alright, mate.”

They walked forward, and Harry could see the exact moment Malfoy and the others - Crabbe, Goyle and Parkinson - noticed him. They jerked and stopped walking. Parkinson stuck her hand into her bag, probably going for her wand. Harry’s was already in hand, but pointed at the ground.

“Potter. Skulking around in the evening, like a thief?” Malfoy sneered at them.

Harry had wanted to ignore the snakes. Just walk past them, as if they didn’t matter - and they didn’t. But this… He scoffed. “Careful, Malfoy. Wouldn’t want to get detention for threatening students, and ruin Slytherin’s chances for the cup. Oh, wait - you already did that by yourself.”

Ron added: “Funny how that works when you can’t cheat and lie any more.”

“I’ve heard Snape was so sick of how far behind they are, he wanted to withdraw his house from the cup, but Dumbledore wouldn’t let him.” Harry hadn’t just learned self-defence from his godfather; Sirius was an incurable gossip as well - as long as the topic interested him. And the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherins definitely did. “Something about learning a lesson.”

Parkinson scoffed. “Like the lesson Granger, the cheat and thief, learned?”

Harry wanted to hex the stupid witch, but he controlled himself. The teachers had cracked down on ‘altercations’.

“Been visiting your crazy godfather? Holding his hand so he doesn’t break down crying when it’s dark outside?”

Harry clenched his teeth together. Then he felt Ron’s hand on his shoulder. “Mate, let’s go - it stinks like Thestral shit here,” his friend said, wrinkling his nose. “Or Slytherins.”

Harry laughed. Joking about Malfoy’s detentions with Hagrid never got old.

“You… you…”

“Yes, Malfoy?”

“What are you standing around for? Waiting so you can curse us in the back?” Malfoy said after a moment.

“No. That’s what you do. And when it doesn’t work, you go whining to your dad.” Harry scoffed.

They stared at each other. Everyone had their wands in hand.

“And you go running to the teachers as soon as someone doesn’t think you’re that great,” Malfoy retorted. “And you’re not great - you’re both poor excuses for wizards! Bloo… bloody poor excuses!”

“Oh yeah? Who challenged us to a duel and then didn’t show up? You’re a bloody coward, Malfoy! Even when you outnumber us, you don’t dare do anything until we turn our backs to you!” Ron yelled back.

“Don’t talk to Draco like that!” Parkinson huffed and glared at them.

“Oh… is she your new mum? Gonna hide behind her skirt too?” Ron laughed.

Harry was surprised when that was enough for Malfoy to attack them. But even surprised, he was already moving when he saw Malfoy’s wand starting to rise.

“Densaugeo!” The spell went wide - Malfoy was no Sirius or Remus.

“Furnunculus!” Parkinson was a bit slower, and casting at Ron, who was already in cover.

“Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus!”

“Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus!”

And then it was over. Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t even managed to draw their wands. “Wow… he fights like he smells,” Ron quoted his brothers. “Would be so easy to hex him now,” he added, crouching down next to Malfoy’s paralysed form.

“No,” Harry interjected. “Let’s just wait for the teachers to sort this out.” He wasn’t really worried - the portrait had seen everything, after all. And if he got detention for provoking the git, well - Sirius had already said he wanted a cover for their lessons.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, March 19th, 1994**

“Ah, Miss Granger! Welcome to my humble home!” Mr Black said, bowing with a flourish.

Harry’s godfather didn’t look like his mugshot, Hermione Granger thought. Instead, he looked older, and much more elegant. She returned his bow - and almost winced when she saw his eyebrows rise in surprise; she should have acted a little more muggleborn. To cover her lapse, she used her most posh accent. “I’m grateful for your invitation, Mr Black.”

“Anything for my godson’s best friend. Best female friend.”

She nodded. “Will Harry be joining us?”

His smile vanished, replaced by a fierce scowl. “No. Ever since Harry schooled his son, Malfoy’s been making a fuss about ‘special privileges’, and so we didn’t want to risk sneaking him out.”

She had heard about that. And berated the boys for provoking Malfoy.

Mr Black sighed, then beamed at her. “But enough of that! Please, let me show you the living room.” She hesitated just a moment, and he added with a grin she could only describe as ‘roguish’: “It’s perfectly safe - whatever Harry said.”

Hermione laughed despite herself, and his eyes seem to light up. “So... you’re not as serious as he said.”

“What?” She pursed her lips. “I presume that this was in response to me letting him know my opinion about his altercation with Mr Malfoy.”

“You are correct. Although one could say that he was defending your honour.”

She was perfectly capable of defending her own honour. Outside the judicial system of Wizarding Britain, at least. Or would be soon. She didn’t say that, though. They reached an elegant living room. Very ‘muggle’, in Hermione’s now - thanks to Mr Fletcher - rather well-informed opinion.

“So, I am certain Harry’s already told you - Malfoy lost in court. I’m now in full control of the considerable Black fortune.” Mr Black was smiling widely, if a bit toothily.

“He did inform me, yes.”

“Which means that I am now in a position to fulfil my promise to pay your debts.” His smile lost the teeth.

She didn’t ask if he knew how much he was offering to pay - Harry had said that his godfather knew the size of the debt. “That is very generous of you, sir.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “Bah. I can afford it. Just the sight of my bigoted family portraits getting spitting mad at the thought of all that ill-gotten gold being used to help a muggleborn witch is worth it.” The teeth were back.

She could understand the desire for revenge. Very well. And yet… “There are a few complications, you could say. Or things to consider.”

“Yes?” He was frowning again - he seemed to have a mercurial temper. Probably a result from his time in Azkaban. She didn’t think she wanted him angry with her.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “First, all the money would go straight to the despicable people who framed me.” And to see them actually profit like that… she grew angry just thinking about it.

He slowly nodded. “I can see that. And yet, isn’t letting your family live like they used to worth more than denying them some gold?”

‘Some gold’ - Hermione had to struggle not to react to that. “It would be - if we actually could return to our former life without having to explain to the government from whence all that money came.” If you were framed as a thief, the government tended to be suspicious of a sudden influx of cash - or, worse, actual gold.

He looked confused, and so she explained further: “The tax office would demand an accounting.”

Mr Black shrugged. “That can be worked around. My family has some experience in those sorts of things.”

“Money laundering?”

“Let’s just say that, in the past, my family wasn’t quite as compliant with Gringott’s monopoly on exchanging muggle money for gold, and vice versa.”

“Ah.” Circumventing the barriers put in place to control the wizard economy - as much as it could be called that - was indeed a tricky affair. The goblins were aware of the danger uncontrolled money transactions posed to their livelihood, even if most wizards never gave it a thought.

“I see you’re familiar with the matter,” Mr Black said after a moment.

“Yes.”

They exchanged grins, though Hermione wasn’t quite certain how much Mr Black knew of her current circumstances. Although if he was willing to spend a fortune on her, then he would have checked with Dumbledore to assure himself that she actually was innocent.

“And you’re remarkably well versed in pureblood manners.”

“At their core, they’re not so different from muggle manners.” Apart from all the customs involving magic and wands, of course.

“Dumbledore told me he arranged a tutor for you.”

“Mr Smith, recently arrived from the New World.” The lie came easily to her - she had told it a dozen times in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. “Second, there’s a danger that Malfoy might make another attempt to deprive you of your control over your family fortune, should you spend so much gold on me.”

He shook his head. “Not so soon after he lost. That’s not done.” He frowned. “But we might want to spread the payments out a little.”

“There’s also the matter of our reputations. If you spend so much gold on my debts, people will assume you have other motives than simply the desire to help a friend of your godson.”

“You mean they will wonder if you’re sleeping with Harry, myself, or both.” She didn’t expect him to state it that crudely, and it must have shown on her face since he laughed. “They said worse about me and James, when I ran away from home and went to the Potters.”

“Ah.”

“So I don’t really care. And, forgive my bluntness, but your reputation is already in tatters in certain circles.” Mr Black sounded as if that was not really important, though.

“I’m aware of that.”

“So, unless you value your pride more than your family’s good fortune, I do not think there is any reason to reject my offer.”

He had her there. Ultimately, she didn’t want to owe anyone. And for that kind of help, she would owe Mr Black. But he was right - she couldn’t let her parents suffer the consequences of her own actions. And mistakes. “You are correct. I therefore accept your generous offer.”

He raised his wand. “There’s one condition.”

Ah. She hadn’t expected this to come up that soon. “Yes?”

“I want to meet your tutor. I need to know if he can be trusted. There is a lot of gold at stake, after all.”

“Of course.” Hermione kept smiling, though she wasn’t really certain how that would play out.

*****

 


	5. Rumours and Revelations

**Near Tilbury, Essex, Britain, March 20th, 1994**

“Ah.” He sighed contentedly as he savoured the taste of a good port. He hadn’t had any in a long time - he hadn’t been able to indulge in any of his vices during his captivity. His jailers had seen to that. But they had paid for it. Paid for every miserable year he had spent imprisoned, isolated, suffering.

He raised his glass at the figure lying on the floor. “I commend you - you have good taste in wine.” He took another sip. “If only you had had an equally good taste in friends.” He shook his head with mock regret and sighed deeply. “I would still do what I have come here to do, but I would sincerely loathe your loss. There are too few wizards or witches who know their wines. Too many simply drink whatever is sold in their favourite tavern, never knowing the pleasures of which they deprive themselves.”

He checked his watch - one of the few things he had kept from his family home, before he had cleansed it, then looked at the witch on the floor again. Her eyes moved frantically. They had stopped glaring at him an hour or two ago. Soon they would be filled with despair and anguish. And pain.

“You know, in my youth, I had even entertained the thought of creating a wizarding variant of this wine. Seek out some Portuguese wizard - or a witch,” he added with a grin, “and improve upon it by adding magic. But that was before the war, of course. I was so naive, back then. Almost innocent.” He grinned at the witch, and she paled.

He pulled back. “Don’t worry about _that_. I’m not interested. Unlike others, I stayed faithful.” Not that he had had any opportunities to stray, of course. Only his thoughts had been free, and even they hadn’t remained so for long. “Not many did, you know. Too many repudiated him, when the situation looked bleak. Lost their faith. Lost their hope. Lost their pride. Lied and betrayed their way to freedom. Turned their back on their comrades and cause. Turned their back on _HIM_!” He yelled the last word, anger and rage filling him. They would pay. All of them would pay for their betrayal. Their desertions. They and their kin. Their blood would pay for their sins.

He took a few deep breaths to calm down. He couldn’t be angry. Not when he would be needed soon for the ritual.

“They were worse than our enemies, you know? They, at least, faced us openly. Showed some courage, even if they were misguided in their allegiance. But those who abandoned us, and him, when the tide turned against us… they are unworthy!” He emptied his glass and bent down again. “Like your nephew. Did you know that he supported my master?” Her eyes seemed to widen, he thought, but that might just be an illusion - the full Body-Bind Curse held her paralysed. “Not with his wand, not him, the coward! And seldom enough with gold. No, he simply paid lip service to our cause. Always talking, but never doing anything, never proving himself!” He chuckled. “Well, now he is serving our master, body and soul.”

Not forever, of course. Not even with the ritual that would soon take place, at the exact time of the equinox, when night and day were in perfect balance. Great things could be achieved on such a date, under the omen of spring’s renewal and rebirth.

He frowned. If they could do this at Samhain, when the barriers between the dead and the living loosened, they could achieve even greater deeds - but Samhain had been tainted! Cursed those many years ago, when his master had been defeated by a wicked trap.

No, it had to be spring, not autumn. A new beginning. A new life. Paid for and nurtured by the sacrifice of another life, of course, since everything had its price. It wouldn’t hold forever. Bagnold’s body would succumb to his master’s power, too weak to contain his spirit. But it would last long enough for his master to achieve his goals.

With his help, of course. He checked his watch again. Almost eight o’clock. Half an hour to the equinox. He stood up and flicked his wand, and Millicent Bagnold rose in the air, following him to her study, where they had prepared the circle for the ritual. Where his master was waiting in a rotting, misshapen body.

He knocked before entering, of course - to barge in on the Dark Lord was unthinkable. “My Lord?”

“Enter, Barty.”

He obeyed.

Inside, Alphons Bagnold, the former Minister’s nephew, was stuck to the floor, surrounded by runes and candles, in the middle of a web of finely etched grooves. His eyes were dim - he was unconscious. A mercy he deserved as little as he deserved the honour of surrendering his body to the Dark Lord, but needs must - if he struggled too much, he might manage to disturb the ritual.

Barty ignored the stench from the Dark Lord’s current shell as he bowed to him. He had smelled worse in Azkaban, and the rotting husk would last long enough for his master to possess Bagnold. And that body wouldn’t degrade so quickly.

His master nodded at him, the bloated head with two overlapping faces moving slowly, and then pointed at the circle. It was time.

Barty levitated Bagnold to the sacrifice’s spot, a space surrounded by seven bowls filled with dried crocus petals. He dropped her there, and stuck her to the stone, then turned to face his master, who took his place in the centre of the circle, next to Bagnold’s nephew.

“Begin!”

He obeyed. His wand rose, and he started chanting the spell. One by one, the candles lit up, followed by the bowls’ contents. Soon smoke dimmed the lights, and he turned around, raising his wand as his chanting grew louder. A slashing motion, and Bagnold’s throat was cut, her blood flowing, gushing into the deep groove beneath her head.

Soon, the blood was spreading, filling every groove, every rune, empowering the circle with life and death. Focusing the magic on his master.

He was shouting the words now, his wand moving frantically, cutting the very air surrounding him. In front of him, the husk holding his master’s spirit was collapsing, fading, as the magic of the ritual took effect.

And then, finally, a green shade rose, floated above the circle in a moment of splendour, shining with power, before descending on Alphons Bagnold, sinking into the body.

And when the body started to move - unmarred by any outward sign of the possession - and shining eyes gazed upon him with pride, Barty Crouch Jr fell to his knees, feeling happier than ever in his life.

“My Lord!”

*****

**Hogwarts, March 21st, 1994**

_Millicent Bagnold Murdered! Nephew Shocked! Black’s Revenge?_

Harry Potter stared at the headline of the Daily Prophet, then at Remus, sitting at the staff table. The teacher’s face seemed set in stone.

“Blimey! Wasn’t Sirius joking about killing Bagnold?” Ron muttered at his side.

“Yes,” Harry pressed out through clenched teeth. “He was _joking_.”

“Doesn’t look like many believe that,” Ron whispered.

His friend was right, Harry realised - all around them, students were whispering, and sneaking glances at him. And at Remus. The Gryffindors were trying to be discreet, at least, but the other tables… He could imagine what Malfoy was whispering to the other Slytherins.

“Do you think they’ll arrest him?”

“They can’t! They have no proof,” Harry blurted out. Then, realising how that could be taken, he quickly added: “He’s innocent. He didn’t do it.”

“I believe you, mate.” Ron put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “But the others…”

“Sod the lot of them!” Harry muttered. “And sod Snape!” The Potions Master was reading the Daily Prophet in a rather obvious way, and his shocked expression was so at odds with his usual controlled manner, Harry just knew it was fake. Maybe Snape had killed the former Minister, to frame Sirius?

“Wow… two Hit-Wizards on protection detail slain. Her house burned down. And on the Spring Equinox. They speculate about dark rituals,” Ron commented.

Harry scoffed. “They speculate about my godfather!”

“But that had to be a seriously powerful wizard.” Ron winced when Harry glared at him for his choice of words. “Not many of them around.”

“It wasn’t Sirius. It was probably Malfoy’s father.” Harry stared at the Slytherin, and noted with some satisfaction that the git wasn’t able to meet his eyes. “He has the most to gain if Sirius gets thrown into prison again.”

“Or Kissed,” Ron said.

Harry really hoped that the Headmaster would be able to handle this new problem. He couldn’t lose his godfather. He wouldn’t.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, March 21st, 1994**

“Welcome to my humble home, Miss Granger, Mr Smith.”

Mr Black wasn’t quite at ease this time, Hermione Granger noticed. His manners were still impeccable, but he was far tenser than during her first visit to his home. And his smile seemed forced. She had expected that, though, after those articles in the Prophet which all but accused him of murdering Millicent Bagnold.

“Mr Black.” Mr Fletcher used his faint American accent again and bowed a little stiffly.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Hermione said when she bowed herself.

Mr Black led them straight to his living room and filled a glass with Firewhisky before asking if his guests wanted a drink as well.

“Water, please,” Mr Fletcher said, after a moment. He eyed the bottle, though, Hermione noticed. She would have to ask if it was a particularly expensive brand.

“For me as well, thank you,” she said herself.

Mr Black drank half his glass in one go, flames shooting out of his mouth in response, then nodded at Mr Fletcher. “So, you’re Miss Granger’s tutor. You look familiar.”

“I hear that from time to time. My family was originally from England, so I might have distant relatives here.”

“The Smith family?” Mr Black tilted his head while swishing the whisky in his glass. “They’re an old pureblood family.”

Her tutor smiled and spread his hands. “In the New World we didn’t care much about old blood.”

“Ah. You’re from one of the muggleborn enclaves then?” Mr Black took another sip from his glass. He seemed more relaxed now. Or he simply controlled himself better, Hermione couldn’t tell.

“I travelled.”

“I assumed as much - muggleborns don’t generally care much about pureblood manners.”

“Their loss. Without an open mind, one misses many opportunities. Such as travelling to the Old World, and working as a tutor.” Mr Fletcher seemed tenser now, though.

“And you picked Miss Granger as your first student. Pro bono, I assume.” Mr Black hadn’t missed that particular hole in her tutor’s cover story.

“An old acquaintance referred her to me.”

“An acquaintance we share.” Harry’s godfather nodded. “He assured me that you could be trusted, and yet he was not very informative.”

“He values discretion. As do I.” Mr Fletcher was now showing his teeth when he smiled.

“You look really familiar. I’m certain that I would recognise you if I had all my memories.” Mr Black lost his smile. “Who are you?” Mr Fletcher hesitated, and Mr Black scoffed. “Come, now! We know each other. Dumbledore even said he trusted you - which means you’re either a friend of his, or an Order member. Do you expect me to pay a fortune in gold without verifying who is involved?”

Hermione’s eyes widened for a moment. Order? She glanced at her tutor, who seemed to know what Mr Black was talking about.

“If my association with my pupil becomes known it could have quite the negative effect on her reputation and life. You should be aware of how appearances matter.”

Harry’s godfather scoffed. “Malfoy’s trying to pin Bagnold’s death on me, but all the gold in England won’t help him there. Dumbledore has the situation under control.”

“But it doesn’t make rebuilding your life any easier, does it?” Mr Fletcher retorted.

“No. But I have to point out that not getting my gold will not make rebuilding any easier either.” Mr Black leaned forward. “Her reputation is already in tatters, and can’t really get any worse in good society. Is your secrecy worth keeping her in debt?”

“She’d owe you.”

“Better me than Malfoy’s friends.” Mr Black smiled.

That was true, Hermione thought. She knew that Harry had a lot of influence on his godfather, and apparently, so did Dumbledore. But she wouldn’t press her tutor. As Mr Black had pointed out - she would owe the gold to someone anyway, and her tutor was her best chance at getting revenge.

Mr Fletcher sighed. “Yes. I’m Fletcher. I worked for Dumbledore in the war.”

Mr Black blinked, then seemed to freeze for a few moments before smiling. “Ah, the thief!” Almost happily, he added: “I haven’t forgotten you!”

“You almost did,” her tutor shot back.

“The Dementors took the happy memories.”

The two men nodded at each other. Once more, Hermione felt left out.

“With your curiosity satisfied, how will you be running this?” Mr Fletcher asked.

“Ah, I’ll pay her creditors. I’ll claim I’m doing this to protect my godson. They’ll understand - or will think they do.” Mr Black grinned and emptied his glass. “That takes care of the wizarding side of the problem. I’ll funnel some gold to her under the guise of hiring her parents as my personal dentists.” He shivered as he said that.

Hermione almost frowned - even in Wizarding Britain, muggle dentists had a reputation. Wholly undeserved, as she had tried to tell her muggle friends so many times in the past! She smiled instead, though. “Thank you, Mr Black.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I can afford it.” He lifted his glass to his lips, then seemed to realise that it was empty. He summoned the bottle and refilled his glass. “To this motley collection of crooks!” he said, raising it in a toast he seemed to find very funny.

Hermione politely raised her glass.

He took a large sip, then looked at her. “So, does Harry know what you’re learning?”

Hermione froze for a moment. Of course he’d realise, knowing her tutor! She shook her head. “No, he does not.”

“And you don’t want him to know.” That wasn’t a question.

“No. If something happens…”

Mr Black nodded. He would understand that, Hermione thought.

She realised that he hadn’t asked if she would change her plans and stop being Mr Fletcher’s pupil - or was that apprentice now? - either. Of course, he would understand her desire for revenge better than anyone else, she thought.

*****

**London, Merton, April 25th, 1994**

“Well, I like it!” Hermione Granger declared, standing in the middle of the living room of the house she and her parents were viewing.

The estate agent was smiling at her in in a rather patronising way. “It is a nice house, isn’t it?”

Hermione put on her best imitation of Mr Fletcher acting all professional. “Indeed. It’s close to both a bus stop and the tube while the neighborhood offers good shopping opportunities for the basic necessities without having to use transportation. It’s true that the pipes and electrics, as well as the central heating, could have used a little more maintenance over the last few years. But the layout is practical for a family of three, and offers us a good amount of flexibility.” Such as space for rebuilding their libraries, and a discreet room to practise her magic. And she could use Mending Charms on the house anyway.

The woman looked to be taken aback by her appraisal, but quickly recovered. “Indeed - you have a good eye for houses, Miss Granger. Have you considered becoming an estate agent?”

Her parents smiled, although rather weakly, at that. “The house does look nice,” her father said. “Better than the last one you showed us. But I think we should discuss the price.”

As the adults started to haggle, Hermione wandered into the back yard. The lawn had been mowed, but the flowerbeds had been neglected, in her opinion. But the fence was high enough to frustrate curious neighbours, and there was enough space for more than a few chairs and a table.

And the house was close enough to their former home in Kingston upon Thames that she and her parents could easily visit the few friends who hadn’t abandoned them. Maybe use a little of the money her dad was currently saving by haggling over the price of the house for a nice car. Show their old acquaintances that their financial difficulties had been overcome. It wouldn’t help her own reputation, but at least her parents would be seen as hard-working, successful professionals who had handled the troubles their criminal daughter had caused for the family and not as fools, or even accomplices, who had been ruined by their adolescent daughter’s crimes.

It wasn’t as if she would be be making many new friends here anyway - between studying and training, she hadn’t much time for such things. Her revenge on all those who had wronged her came first.

*****

**London, Enfield, April 25th, 1994**

“You don’t look as happy as I would have expected,” Hermione Granger said as soon as she  and her parents had returned to their rented flat. She narrowed her eyes when they glanced at each other before looking at her. “What’s wrong? The house _is_ nice. Bigger than our old one, even! And the neighborhood is nice too!”

“It’s not the house, dear,” her mum said.

“Is it the new practice? Mr Black said he’ll cover the difference, until you’ve rebuilt your client base.”

Her dad coughed. “It’s Mr Black, actually.”

“I told you that he was framed! He’s no criminal!” Even though the Black family had a very nasty - and, according to Mr Fletcher, well-deserved - reputation. But both the Headmaster and Mr Fletcher trusted Mr Black - although in her tutor’s case with some reservations. As Mr Fletcher told her, Azkaban changed a wizard. “You didn’t say anything when he paid my debts!”

“Would it have mattered? The transaction was done entirely in Wizarding Britain. With wizarding money,” her dad pointed out.

“And we agreed that it was better to owe a friend of Mr Dumbledore instead of those nasty purebloods,” her mum added.

“So what’s the problem?” Hermione couldn’t see it.

“People don’t spend that much money out of the goodness of their hearts.” Her dad shook his head. “They expect something in return.”

“I know that.” She wasn’t naive, after all. Not any more. And Mr Fletcher had told her the same.

“But you said that he had spent twelve years in Azkaban,” her mum went on. “And you were quite clear how horrible the conditions for the prisoners were there, when you told us how you barely escaped imprisonment there.”

“Yes.” Maybe she shouldn’t have been that frank about Azkaban.

“So, do you see why we are somewhat concerned about owing a man who spent so much time there a debt?” her dad cut in.

“You think he’s crazy,” Hermione said, pursing her lips.

“You were the one who told us that most prisoners lost their minds within a year.” He looked at her.

“He didn’t. He’s an exception.” She had spoken to the man, and while he certainly did show signs of the effects of his ordeal, he wasn’t crazy. “And he’s getting treatment too - he’s been seeing a Healer for almost a year.” She was being generous there, but Harry had told her Sirius was getting help and was steadily getting better.

“We’re just concerned that he might change his views.” Her mum smiled. “He might regret his generous actions once he’s thinking more clearly.”

“He won’t. He did it for Harry, because I’m his friend and saved him from a plot, and he loves his godson very much.” Hermione smiled, but she could see that this argument hadn’t convinced her parents.

“There’s another thing, too,” her mum said after a moment.

“What?” What else had Hermione missed.

“Your education.”

“Is this about going to a muggle school? I told you, I’m not giving up magic!” She had thought her parents understood that.

“We know. But there are other schools than Hogwarts. You told us about the French one, Beauxbatons,” her mum said. She didn’t mention the one in the New World, of course - Hermione had told them about the state of Magical North America, and how dangerous their constant wars were.

She had - on their last vacation in France. “Yes.”

“So, you could go to that school, instead of learning with a tutor here, and getting frustrated at your lack of progress.” Mum nodded when Hermione flinched. “We do overhear you often enough, dear.”

“I see.” She took a deep breath. “Theoretically, I could go to Beauxbatons. Mr Dumbledore would certainly vouch for me. But,” she continued when her parents kept looking at her, “I would have to study in French. That would hinder my education as well.” And she would have to fit into a new school as a muggleborn, with a reputation as a thief. She doubted that many of the students would trust her, no matter what Dumbledore said - and muggleborns in Magical France had it worse than in Wizarding Britain. “And here I have the support of my old teachers at Hogwarts. I think overall, I’ll do better here than abroad, even if it is not entirely optimal.”

“Are you certain?” her mum asked. “You could learn French easily, I know. And it would be a new start as well.”

Hermione shook her head. “It wouldn’t be a new start. The Magical World is small and transfers are very rare - we haven’t had any at Hogwarts for ages. People would quickly find out why I left Hogwarts.” She sighed and smiled weakly at her parents. “I can’t run away from this.”

And she wouldn’t, even if she could. Mr Fletcher might not be the best Transfiguration or Charms teacher, but he was an expert thief. And for her revenge, Hermione needed what he could teach her. Going to Beauxbatons wouldn’t help her goals.

*****

**Hogsmeade, April 30th, 1994**

As the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter had been getting used to being stared at by random wizards and witches. Or being thanked for something he didn’t remember doing, and strongly suspected had actually been done by his parents. He didn’t like his fame, but he could handle it.

These days, though, things were different. As he was walking through Hogsmeade with Ron, towards the Hog’s Head Inn, people didn’t just stare, but whispered, and judging by the way they were avoiding his eyes when he looked at them, they weren’t being complimentary.

“I wish I had learned the Supersensory Charm,” he muttered.

Ron scoffed. “We already know what they’re saying - the same things as the idiots at Hogwarts.”

Harry sighed and nodded. Ron was right. Remus and Dumbledore had told him that he should ignore the rumours. But when he heard ‘Black’, he still stopped and turned towards the witch who had said the name loud enough to be overheard. “Yes? What did you say?”

She looked embarrassed, wringing her hands. “Nothing.”

He was so fed up with the rumours. Malfoy was a git, but he at least told Harry to his face what he thought of Harry’s friends and family. Harry took a step towards the witch. “Really? I thought I heard you talking about my godfather. You know, Sirius Black.”

“The murderer!” one of the other witches, an older one, nearby hissed.

Harry raised his voice. “He is no murderer! He was framed by Pettigrew!”

While the witch he had addressed first took a few steps back, all but fleeing, the other witch stood her ground. “And then he broke out of Azkaban and murdered Crouch and Bagnold!”

“That’s not true! Dumbledore vouched for him!” Harry yelled.

“Yeah!” Ron chimed in. “Are you doubting Dumbledore?”

A wizard scoffed at that. “He vouched for Snape as well!” Harry was too angry at the rumours about his godfather to flinch at that.

The older witch added: “And Bagnold’s nephew said that she was afraid of Black!”

“He also said that he doesn’t want to accuse Sirius!” Harry clenched his teeth. He wanted to hex the stupid witch.

“Of course he’d say that! He’s afraid of Black as well!” The wizard shook his head. “And you should be afraid of him too!”

“I’m not afraid of him!” Harry retorted. “Someone’s framing him again. And you’re all helping!”

“Of course you’d defend him! You defended your thieving friend as well!”

Harry whirled around. Malfoy was there, with Parkinson and flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The git sneered at him and Ron. Harry almost hexed him, but managed to control himself.

“You know that Hermione is innocent! You framed her!” Ron yelled. His friend had his hand in his pocket, on his wand, Harry realised - like himself.

“Innocent? Granger? Hah! Why do you think Black would pay so much gold for her, huh?” Draco scoffed. “Is she already paying him back, or does she wait for you?”

That… that… Harry snapped his wrist and his wand shot out of its holster. Malfoy would pay! But before he or Ron could curse the bugger, a loud voice cut through the whispers and murmurs: “Stop it!”

Harry froze - that was Remus. And he was angry.

“Mr Malfoy! Spreading filthy rumours about others?” The professor glared at the Slytherin. “About your mother’s cousin?”

“I didn’t!” the blond git protested.

“I heard you, and I know what you said - and what you meant.” Remus scoffed. “Your Hogsmeade privileges are revoked until further notice, and you have detention today and tomorrow. Return to the castle at once!”

“But… you can’t do that. My father…”

“Your father will do what?” Remus bared his teeth, and the Slytherin fell silent. “Go!”

Malfoy slunk away. Crabbe and Goyle followed, and, after a moment, Parkinson did as well.

“And you two! Stow your wands!” Remus snapped at Harry and Ron.

Harry slowly did so - he was still trembling with anger at Malfoy’s words. Ron muttered a curse under his breath.

“Now get going, everyone!” Remus said.

Harry clenched his teeth, but obeyed. Hermione was waiting for them at the Hog’s Head Inn, after all.

And now he knew why she hadn’t wanted to wait at the train station.

*****

“Hermione!” Harry barely noticed the rest of the dingy and probably dirty room as he made a beeline towards his best female friend.

“Hi, Harry! Hi, Ron!” She smiled at them as she stood up, then hugged them. “Thank you!” Harry knew she wasn’t just talking about meeting her.

“Are those new robes?” Ron asked once they were sitting down. Harry stopped glaring at the whispering witches at the next table and looked himself. They did indeed seem to be new.

“Used ones I repaired,” Hermione explained.

“Ah.” Ron nodded in apparent sympathy. “They look fine, though.”

“So, how are you doing?” Hermione asked after they had ordered three Butterbeers from the old bartender.

Harry glanced at Ron, then shrugged. “Same old.” He didn’t want to mention the rumours. She probably knew about them already.

“We’re studying for the exams. Percy is pushing us hard,” Ron added.

“Good!” Hermione said, beaming at them. “Exams are important.”

Harry didn’t think he should mention that Sirius had told him that all he had to worry about were the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. “I’m looking forward to moving in with Sirius.” Though Dumbledore had mentioned some unspecified complications, the Headmaster had also said he would be handling them.

“I’m studying as well, of course. And we’ve started to move into our new house,” Hermione said, smiling widely. “It’ll take some time until we’ve furnished it, but we have the basics. I just wish I could conjure furniture.”

“Lots of bookshelves?” Harry grinned while Ron chuckled.

Hermione didn’t laugh, though. “I don’t need that many bookshelves - I haven’t replaced my collection, yet.”

Harry winced. He had forgotten about that. “Well, you’ll get them in time, right?”

“I guess so…” Hermione sighed. “It’s just… replacing books I liked but won’t read again feels wasteful. But I still miss them, even though it’s not as if I have much time to read anyway, not with all the studying. But, speaking of studying,” she added as she pulled out some parchment from her robes, “I wanted to compare some notes.”

She was smiling at them so earnestly, Harry couldn’t help smiling back, even if he wanted wince at the thought of their Hogsmeade meeting turning into a study session.

“Blimey! I mean… sure.” Ron’s smile seemed rather more forced to Harry.

But, he reminded himself, this was their best friend. And it was good to see her act so normal again. Well worth a little sacrifice.

Especially with all those rumours going around.

*****

**Hogwarts, June 16th, 1994**

“Good evening, Harry. Please have a seat.” The Headmaster gestured at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Harry Potter asked as soon as his backside touched the chair. Gryffindor was holding their own leaving party this evening, and he would rather not miss the start - most of the good food, the stuff brought in by the twins from Hogsmeade, would vanish quickly.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “I will try not to take too long, so you will be able to partake in the little feast your house is preparing.” He was smiling as he said it, so Harry didn’t flinch that much. “I was a Gryffindor too,” the Headmaster went on, “I am quite familiar with the unofficial traditions. As is Minerva.”

“Ah.” Harry had trouble imagining the stern Head of Gryffindor House tolerating the kind of party that would soon start, but he nodded anyway.

Dumbledore grew serious, though. “I have called you to my office because I have an important favour to ask of you. You are aware that Voldemort is not quite as dead as many believe.”

“Yes.” Of course he was - the Dark Lord had tried to kill him, after all. “And you said that the Ministry wouldn’t believe me if we told them.”

“Some would, some would not. The Minister is among the latter - I have sounded him out, and he was not receptive to the possibility of danger. Fortunately, others in positions of authority are not as willfully blind, albeit for their own reasons. There is also the danger that such news would alert the Dark Lord’s followers - those not already aware of his presence.”

“Yes.” Harry didn’t know much about politics, so he had to trust Dumbledore there.

“Rest assured, as soon as I have proof of Voldemort’s return that I can present to the Ministry, I will do so, It is, partially, for this I have called you to my office.”

Harry blinked.

“There are ways to view and even copy memories with magic. I think your memories of your encounters with Voldemort would be useful to prepare for his next move. Although I would understand if you would prefer to keep your memories private - especially of such traumatising events.”

“I only remember the attack in my first year,” Harry said. He didn’t remember the night his parents were murdered. Just… bad dreams.

“I see. I will show you how to copy that memory.” The Headmaster cleared his throat. “There is another matter related to this. The protection your mother’s sacrifice granted you against Voldemort.”

“Yes?” Harry resisted the urge to rub his scar - the visible reminder of him surviving the Killing Curse.

“When I brought you to your relatives’ house, I tied the protection to the home. I thought it best to ensure that your relatives would be protected as well, as long as they lived there.”

His mother’s protection was tied to his aunt’s home? Harry stared at the old wizard.

Dumbledore sighed. “I didn’t know better at the time, and I tried to rectify my mistake during the last few months so you could live with your godfather, but as it turned out, after so many years, moving the protection again proved beyond my power. I apologise for that.”

“What does that mean?” Harry had a sinking feeling in his gut. The Headmaster couldn’t mean that...

Dumbledore smiled. “It means we have to be clever.”

*****

**London, Merton, June 27th, 1994**

Hermione Granger almost crumpled up the sheet with the results from her ‘exams’. She had failed. Well, she would have passed the exams, of course, but her grades… She clenched her teeth. She hadn’t expected all Outstandings - that hadn’t been realistic - and she had focused on Charms and Transfiguration, where she had achieved Outstandings according to the Hogwarts teachers, and she had been told to hold back in Defence. She hadn’t really expected an Outstanding in Care of Magical Creatures, not with just books to study and no actual creatures, and the same was true for Herbology, but… she had had an Outstanding in Astronomy in her first year, and had managed to keep that in her last ‘exam’. Now it was down to Exceeds Expectations, and closer to Acceptable than Outstanding. And her grade in ‘Muggle Studies’ was an insult! She was a muggleborn! And it seemed that the Divination teacher was a friend of Snape’s - both had left rather scathing grades and comments.

At least she had History of Magic with a solid Exceeds Expectations, and the same grade, if less solid, in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.

But she had studied so hard… She managed not to cry, despite wanting to. She would not let Malfoy’s plot ruin her life, and her grades! This was just a setback! She would do better!

And she’d start right now!

She quickly wrote a note for her parents - ‘gone to see my tutor’ - and left the house.

*****

**London, Greenwich, June 27th, 1994**

“Those are very respectable results,” Mr Fletcher said. “I should be flattered as your tutor, although most of that was your own effort.”

“I had better grades in my first year, and last year. There’s a downward trend.” A clear one - next year, she would have mostly Acceptables and Exceeds Expectations, if she couldn’t change this!

“You didn’t have as many subjects last year. And you spent more time at Hogwarts.” Mr Fletcher leaned back in his favourite seat as she paced in front of him.

“That’s no excuse!” she spat. “They’ll think I cheated!” Snape would spread the word about her grades, she just knew it!

“Those are reasons, not excuses,” he chided her, and his slightly sharper tone made her swallow her reply. “There’s only so much time to study and practice, and both of us do not spend all of it preparing for your exams.”

She sighed. She was learning a lot from her tutor that she couldn’t show at an exam. “I know, but…”

“No but. You need to set priorities. Drop useless subjects like Muggle Studies and Divination. Astronomy as well.”

She gasped. “Astronomy is a core subject!”

He sneered. “Astronomy is a waste of time. It’s like Latin for muggles - its use is severely limited outside a few specialised fields. Thievery is not such a field.”

“But the constellations affect our magic!” She had learned that in her first year.

“Yes. But in a negligible way. Did McGonagall or Flitwick ever tell you to watch the constellations before casting a spell? Or even mention such effects?”

She blinked. “No.”

“Don’t you think they would do that if it was important?”

“I thought that would come in later years.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t. Astronomy is a core subject at Hogwarts because some important wizard or witch in the past decreed it so, and it became a tradition. Drop it. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes are much more important.”

She frowned. Dropping a subject - worse, dropping three subjects! - felt wrong. As if she was giving up. Admitting that she couldn’t do what others did.

“Besides, you’ll need to focus on your upcoming special exam.”

“What?” She stared at her grinning tutor. “Another exam? When?”

“Right now,” he said, standing up.

She squeaked with surprise. “But… I’m not prepared!” She hadn’t studied!

“You should be - if you listened to me, and learned my lessons.” His grin widened. “Now come - it’s a practical exam!”

“But…”

She was still mumbling protests as she followed him outside the flat.

*****

**London, East End, June 27th, 1994**

She was familiar with abandoned office building Mr Fletcher had prepared for her test - she had climbed it often in the past and had entered through all its doors and windows at least once.

“I’ve prepared the building as if it were an average wizard building,” her tutor said, leaning against the wall of the plant behind them. Which meant there would be wards, and probably Locking Charms. And maybe a basic alarm charm. “Treat this as a real heist. But skip the subtle casing - no one’s watching. The target’s a chest.”

Hermione bit her lower lip as she studied the building. She could go through the door, of course - but that would be too obvious. So, the windows then. Upper floor - near the downspout. But she had to get through the wards first.

A detection spell later, she was slowly approaching the building until she could spot the wards - they were covering the walls, the most simple and common anchoring. It didn’t take her long to spot the weak points, and even less time to weaken the wards to the point that she could slip through them, and touch the wall without getting hurt. Which meant she could climb it.

She jumped up and stretched her arms, her hands gripping the upper ledge of the window. She pulled herself up, putting her feet on the windowsill, then reached for the downspout. A few seconds later, she was shimmying up the wall to the first floor.

Now came the tricky part. She could use a Sticking Charm, but that would mean she wouldn’t be able to instantly drop to the ground if there was trouble. So she held on to the spout with her left hand, one foot planted on the upper ledge of the window beneath her, the other jammed in the corner formed by the spout and the wall, and studied the window. A Locking Charm and a basic alarm charm. Uncommon for an average house. Unless… it could be the room of a small child, where the parents were afraid of the window being opened by accidental magic. Which meant it was better to avoid the risk of running into more monitoring spells inside.

She flipped her wand back into its holster with a flick of her wrist, then climbed up to the roof, and down the other side. A few spells later, she was inside the building. Now she just had to find the chest. And avoid all the traps her tutor had set. Which would be easy, as long as she was patient and didn’t rush.

Fifteen minutes later, she had found the chest - in the basement, of course - and disarmed the alarm charms on it. A minute later, she was out of the house, the chest floating behind her.

And she was smiling widely - that had been fun.

*****

**London, Merton, July 2nd, 1994**

Hermione’s new home looked nice, Harry Potter thought when he approached the gate. He hadn’t entirely trusted Sirius’s description - his godfather was no expert on muggles houses. Or muggles in general. It didn’t make up for all she had lost, of course.

But it was a start. Or so he hoped, as he rang the doorbell.

Ten seconds later the door opened.

“Harry!” Hermione stood there, beaming at him. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, he noticed, despite the warm weather. She probably wasn’t getting out much, Harry thought.

“Hi, Hermione.”

“Come in!” She grabbed his hand and almost dragged him inside - she had grown stronger, he realised. “Dad’s in the office, working.” She frowned. “But Mum’s here. Mum! It’s Harry!”

Mrs Granger arrived in the doorway to the living room. “Hello, Harry.”

“I’m giving him the tour,” Hermione declared in that familiar tone that wouldn’t allow any objections. “That’s the living room. We’re still replacing our library, of course, so the selection is rather scarce.”

There were more books than Harry had ever seen at the Dursleys, including Dudley’s comic books, so he nodded and smiled as she led him through the house, pointing out everything, from appliances to furniture.

Her own room, which they visited last, after a stop in the kitchen, where Hermione grabbed sandwiches and colas, did look a bit bare - Harry would have expected there to be many more books.

She must have noticed his surprise because she bit her lip before saying: “I didn’t want to get my books back before my parents replaced their collections.”

Which of course meant that she would have loved to replace her lost books, but still blamed herself for Malfoy’s plot, Harry thought. Once again, though, he didn’t say anything, and simply nodded.

“So, how are you doing, living with your godfather?”

Harry sighed. “I’m just half-living with him for the next few weeks.”

“What?” She was staring at him, her glass in hand.

“I’m sleeping in my room at the Dursleys,” he explained. “My mother’s protection, which saved me from Voldemort twice so far, is tied to the house there, and in order to keep it, I have to spend a certain number of nights under their roof.” He grimaced. “Dumbledore tried to move it, but it’s stuck.”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s awful!”

“It’s not bad, actually. Sirius side-along-apparates me straight to my room each evening, and I really just sleep there.” He pulled out the mirror his godfather had given him. “I can call him on the mirror in the morning, and I’m back home a moment later. I haven’t even seen my relatives since we set that up.”

“You can communicate through that mirror?” Hermione stared at it, then at him.

“Oh, yes.” Harry smiled - of course she’d be interested in that. “Let me show you.”

He activated the mirror. A moment later, Sirius’s face appeared. “That was a quick visit. Did their parents catch you in bed?”

“Sirius!” Harry gasped at his godfather. “That’s a tasteless joke!” He glanced at Hermione. As he had expected, she looked angry. “I just wanted to show her the mirror.”

“Ah! Hello, Miss Granger!” His godfather waved at Hermione, apparently unconcerned about the insinuations he had just made.

“Hello, Mr Black.” Hermione was smiling politely.

Of course, Harry thought, she wouldn’t dare to tell off Sirius after he had paid her family’s debts. But there were other ways to get back at his godfather. He grinned. “Sirius created the mirror, Hermione. Impressive, isn’t it?”

“Oh? Really? How did you do it? Did you use a Protean Charm?” As expected, Hermione’s curiosity was much stronger than her obligation towards Harry’s godfather, and she was soon pestering Sirius with detailed questions.

And Harry’s expression as he looked over his friend’s shoulder at his godfather left no question that Sirius better answer each and every one of them, if he knew what was good for him.

*****

**Dartmoor, Devon, Britain, August 25th, 1994**

Hermione Granger had never seen so many wizards and witches in one place - not even in Diagon Alley. The sheer number of Quidditch fans who had gathered to watch the World Cup finals boggled the mind.

She wasn’t openly gaping, of course - Mr Fletcher had seen to that. A witch of good breeding always kept her composure. And a good thief never gave herself away by acting out of character.

“Wow!”

Harry, of course, was neither a witch of good breeding, nor a thief, and was openly staring. Well, even Ron looked like he was impressed, if not as overwhelmed as Harry.

“Looks like a decent turnout,” Mr Black commented, as if this was just any other event.

She caught Harry frown at his godfather. “Compared to which other World Cup you’ve attended? You were bouncing off the walls when you had secured tickets for us!”

“That was in private,” Mr Black stated. “I would never act like that in public.”

Harry looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. Hermione knew that Mr Black couldn’t afford to look anything but his best, not when so many in Britain suspected him to be a deranged murderer. It was a sobering thought, but a few minutes later, when they were walking through the area where the food and souvenir vendors had set up their shops, Hermione was again feeling as happy as she was acting. There was just so much to see and browse.

Though when she saw the looks their small group was attracting from some people, she wished Mr Fletcher had already taught her how to pickpocket - they deserved to lose some of their valuables as punishment for their stupidity and bigotry!

Fortunately, the native idiots were a minority at the World Cup - wizards from all over the world had travelled to Britain to attend! She saw so many different robes and other clothes… or, in one case, what looked like body paint and some scraps of leather. That wizard attracted a lot of attention, she noticed. Mainly from witches.

But the main attraction was, of course, Quidditch! Most of the spectators were wearing at least one piece of Quidditch merchandise - many wore more. She saw a number who were decked out in full Quidditch gear, and might have been mistaken for players - but everyone knew the players’ faces, of course: They were displayed on floating posters at many stands, their pictures winking and waving.

“Oh, Viktor Krum!” Ron exclaimed, pointing at one of those. Indeed, there was the Bulgarian Seeker, although he seemed to be scowling more than smiling.

“Best Seeker of the Cup,” Ron said. Harry nodded, as did Mr Black.

“But the rest of his team is not as good,” Hermione commented. “They’ll need luck to win if they meet a good Chaser line up.” She noticed the boys were staring at her. “What?”

Ron grinned suddenly. “We turned Hermione in a Quidditch fan!”

Harry laughed. “What was it you called it in our first year? ‘The most nonsensical game one could think of’?”

“Miss Granger!” Now Mr Black was gasping at her, and the two boys were laughing. Hermione pouted - but she was happy. She had missed her friends, and the light banter. And she would miss them again, in a few days, when their fourth year at Hogwarts would start.

But for now she was having fun with her friends!

*****

“No!” Harry Potter yelled with half the stadium as Krum dove towards the ground. He couldn’t catch the Snitch, not when his team was behind by more than a hundred and fifty points! He couldn’t end the match like that!

But Krum did. Ireland won the Quidditch World Cup, even though Krum had caught the Snitch. The green-clad Irish fans erupted in loud cheers, and once again, leprechauns bounced through the stadium, dropping fake gold coins all over the audience as the Irish team flew a victory lap.

And Ron’s brothers, a few rows down, hugged and slapped each other on the back. Harry hadn’t known that they were fans of the Irish team.

“Why did he do that?” Ron asked. “His team could have come back!”

Harry had to chuckle - that was something only a die-hard Cannons fan would think. “No, they wouldn’t. The Irish Seeker is not as good as Krum, but he’s no slouch - sooner or later, he’d have caught the Snitch.”

Sirius agreed. “Yes. Better to end it on his own terms, I say.”

“That will make a number of people who bet on the outcome rather unhappy,” Hermione added. “The odds for such an outcome were rather bad.”

“Miss Granger! First you condemn the greatest game ever invented, and now you turn out to have a gambling problem?” Sirius sighed theatrically, then started chuckling.

Harry saw Hermione stare at his godfather, then set her jaw. In a prim and proper voice, she countered: “I think, Mr Black, you are projecting your own issues here.”

“Maybe…” Sirius drawled, shaking his head. “But let’s go down to our tent. The after-match party won’t start until later, and we can use a bit of rest. And we might check up on the Weasleys, to assure them that we didn’t lose Ron in the crowd.”

Ron scoffed at that. “Mum thinks I’m as bad as the twins.”

They stepped over the gold, and around a few people who were collecting the gold. “Don’t they know that it’ll vanish in a few hours?” Harry wondered aloud.

“I think they do - but they might hope that not everyone can spot leprechaun gold,” Sirius said. “They can spend a lot of gold in an hour if they’re smart.”

“And if they find a merchant too stupid or inexperienced to check for that,” Hermione added. “A simple Dispelling Charm would make it vanish.”

“A few will be too greedy to check. And too excited about the Cup,” Sirius said, shrugging.

“Not everyone is used to having much gold,” Ron remarked. He sounded more than a bit defensive - probably remembering how he had gathered the leprechaun gold dropped before the match had started, Harry thought, until Hermione had told him that it was fake.

They reached the exit of the VIP stands from which they had been watching the match. Unfortunately, the Malfoys reached the exit at the same time.

“Narcissa. Lucius. And little Draco. Good afternoon.” Sirius’s smile was polite, but his tone could have frozen water, Harry thought.

“Sirius.” Mr and Mrs Malfoy nodded in greeting, smiling politely, but Draco scowled. Only after a glare from his mother did he return the greeting.

Which prompted a wave of polite greetings as honest as the leprechaun’s gold from everyone else present - with the exception of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards on guard, of course. And Remus, who was using Harry’s cloak to hide himself as he acted as their bodyguard.

“Bloody gits!” Ron muttered as soon as they were out of earshot, and on their way to their tent. “Think they’re better just ’cause they’re rich!”

Harry nodded, then caught his godfather casting a privacy spell.

“Gold does buy power and influence,” Hermione pointed out. “And as they have demonstrated in the past, it also buys you judges,” she added in a bitter tone.

“That’s true, but gold has drawbacks as well. If you buy yourself out of trouble all the time, you’re bound to become lazy. Just look at Draco - he’s a pale shadow of his father. Or rather, an even paler shadow. Probably Narcissa’s influence - she was always the one to rely on our family name and gold, too.” He shook his head. “Say what you want about Bellatrix, but she made a name for herself with her wand. And Andromeda defied my whole family when she married Ted. Narcissa?” He sneered. “She simply did as she was told, and let my father and uncle sort out any problems. That’s not how you become a dangerous witch.”

“Influence is dangerous enough, though,” Hermione retorted.

“And gold does come in very handy,” Harry added. “My relatives were far more willing to ‘shelter me’, as my aunt put it, once they were promised gold in return.” If only they could use leprechaun gold for that!

Sirius shrugged. “All the gold in Britain won’t save you from Voldemort. It just makes you a bigger target.” He grinned. “Now let’s see if someone tampered with our decoy tent!”

*****

No one had tampered with the tent they had publicly set up. Or rather, no one had tampered with the wards protecting it, or so Sirius told them a bit later. “Too bad - I hoped we’d find Skeeter twitching on the ground.”

Hermione nodded her firm agreement to that. “I wish!”

Harry Potter was struck by how similar their expressions were. If they ever caught Skeeter with an excuse to curse the witch… He shuddered, then cleared his throat. “So, can we go meet the Weasleys now?”

“Of course. Let’s be off.”

They wouldn’t be meeting the Weasleys at their tent, but inside the - well-guarded, Sirius had said - private tent the Ministry had set up for the Minister and his guests.

“We’re attracting a lot of attention,” Harry remarked on the way there. They were turning heads in the crowd, and whispers followed them.

“Well… you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. News has spread about your presence. And you’re in the company of the two most infamous framed innocents in Britain.” Sirius chuckled, but it felt forced. “So, of course we’ll cause tongues to wag.”

“Yeah, but still…”

“And witches to stare,” Sirius interrupted him with a grin. Harry grumbled. “Well, mostly at your handsome godfather. But you’ll be soon having to drive them off with your wand, trust me. James was the same, and you...”

“...look just like him,” Harry finished for Sirius.

Hermione snorted, but Ron looked jealous. Harry sighed - it wasn’t his fault. And it was kind of creepy how even older witches stared at him. Like that one there. She looked pretty out of it. Maybe drunk… but she had a wand out. And she was raising it...

He was moving before the wand was pointed at him, dropping to the ground. A curse flew over his head, and he heard a cry behind him while he flicked his own wand. Sirius’s curse hit the witch before his own spell, or Ron’s - and the witch was thrown back by what Harry knew wasn’t a Disarming Charm, or a Stunner.

People were screaming now. Aurors were arriving. But Harry simply stared at the witch on the ground. Unmoving. Bleeding.

Had Sirius killed her?

“Harry, are you alright? We need to leave now!” Sirius was grabbing him, holding a Portkey.

But if they left… it would look bad. For Sirius. “We need to tell them what happened!” Harry blurted out. Sirius hesitated. Aurors were moving towards them. With drawn wands, of course.

And then Madam Bones arrived, with even more Aurors. And Hit-Wizards. “What’s going on here? Dawlish!” she snapped.

An Auror jerked. “Someone - possibly Black - cursed Bertha Jorkins. She’s dead, ma’am. There’s another cursed victim, but he’s alive.”

“She tried to kill me! Jorkins, that is!” Harry yelled. “But she missed and hit the wizard behind me! Then we cursed her!”

When everyone turned to look at him, Harry wished Dumbledore were here. He would sort this out. But he wasn’t. And so Harry raised his chin and looked straight at Bones. “I can give you my memory of the event. She attacked us.”

When she nodded at him, he slowly raised his wand to his temple. And he hoped this would be enough to counter the lies others would try to spread about this.

*****

 


	6. Dances and Deceptions

**London, Ministry of Magic, August 27th, 1994**

“Yes, I’ve heard about the attack on the Boy-Who-Lived! A terrible tragedy!”

He smiled politely at the witch, even though the question was asinine - an attack on the Boy-Who-Lived, at the Quidditch World Cup? Every wizarding newspaper in the world had covered it. In detail. Even The Quibbler, though that magazine claimed the whole incident was a botched assassination attempt by the goblins on Minister Fudge - according to the article, the goblins had ordered Jorkins to attack the most important wizard in Britain, and she had misunderstood their intent.

“Indeed, a terrible tragedy! To think that the poor, imperiused witch was killed in cold blood…” Madam Umbridge sighed theatrically, and for a moment, he was reminded of a toad preparing to croak. Although the witch’s squat appearance was not as loathsome as her character, in his opinion - she was a toady with a penchant for backstabbing her betters.

Nevertheless, she was a useful creature. As the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, she would allow him to influence Fudge without being connected to him. “To be fair, Black couldn’t have known that,” he pointed out. “And seeing what her curse did to that unfortunate fellow from Ireland, I cannot fault him for overreacting.” He shook his head in apparent compassion and understanding.

Umbridge’s fake smile slipped a bit. “But did he know that, or did he simply curse her, without even noticing what curse she had cast? By all accounts, he struck with a lethal curse, without taking into account that this could have just been a misunderstanding, or a miscast by a drunk.” She clicked her tongue as she shook her head. “What if it had been an innocent child, playing with their first wand?”

“I do not think Black would kill a child,” he stated, sincerely even - Black was too weak to do such a thing, no matter the situation. “He did this to protect his godson, after all - the boy to whom we all owe so much.”

That didn’t please the witch, he could tell. Her eyes almost disappeared when she frowned. “But aren’t you worried? Bertha was Mr Crouch’s secretary. She’s been handling his estate, just as you’ve been handling your aunt’s.”

She wasn’t as subtle as she thought. He gasped. “Do you mean those crimes might be linked?”

“Do you think they could be? You would know best, wouldn’t you?”

He pretended to consider this. “I still haven’t dealt with all of my aunt’s affairs - it’s hard, with the fire having destroyed so much - but I haven’t found anything linking her with Mr Crouch. I do not think there is any financial motive there. For all her political achievements, my aunt lived a frugal life. No, if there is a connection, then it has to be something else, something personal, perhaps.”

Her smile grew wider. “Ah… maybe revenge?”

“The only one with a - far-fetched, I have to say - motive would be Black. But why would he force the poor witch to attack him, in public, so he could kill her? Wouldn’t it have been much easier to simply have her disappear? A magical accident, easily accepted by the Ministry? You would have to have a very deranged mind to arrange such a public murder, with all the risks that entails. And Black was said to have recovered remarkably well from his ordeal in Azkaban.” He emphasised ‘said’ just a little, as if he had simply sought a more precise word. But the witch had understood his apparently accidental meaning.

“Maybe we need to have him examined again. Black is not just the Head of his family, but also the guardian of the Boy-Who-Lived. That much responsibility might be too much for him. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone couldn’t handle such stress.” Umbridge’s attempt to sound sympathetic wasn’t very convincing, in his opinion.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I only knew him, briefly, at Hogwarts, and there he had no responsibilities at all.”

“Oh, I’ve heard the stories. He was the last student anyone would have made a prefect, or given any form of authority.” She smiled.

“But that was when he was young. He has certainly changed since then. I mean, he was in Azkaban.” He didn’t have to force himself to wince when he mentioned the prison - his most loyal followers were still suffering there, hanging onto the shreds of their sanity through the merest hint of his presence in their marks. He would save them as soon as he could do so without endangering his plans.

And there would be a reckoning with those who had repudiated him to save themselves, those who had abandoned him. They would answer to him, and they would have to struggle to gain his forgiveness, and even more to regain his favour. Lucius had a lot of explaining to do for his behaviour at Pettigrew’s trial.

“Oh, indeed. He has changed - but maybe not for the better.” Umbridge’s smile was sickly sweet. “But I think that’s a matter of concern for the DMLE, not for either of us.”

He nodded in agreement. “Certainly. Which brings me to a matter that concerns us, or rather, the Minister.”

“Oh?” She tensed and eyed him.

“Yes!” He nodded eagerly. “I’ve mentioned that I’ve been going through my aunt’s documents, to settle her estate, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you did. But you said most of it was lost with your aunt’s house.”

“Oh, yes. But she had a chest full of correspondence in her basement, protected from fire.” He sighed. “I hoped that it would concern her finances, but it’s all about politics, as far as I can tell - I have only skimmed the letters, you know.”

He now had her full attention. “Political correspondence?”

“Yes. Letters, to and from Dumbledore, and others. I thought the Minister would know best if those should be handed to the Ministry’s archives, since he is her successor.”

“Definitely!” She was beaming now, probably drooling at the thought of getting her hands on material that could be used to blackmail her rivals.

He pulled out a shrunken chest. “It’s all there - all the letters I found.”

And some that his aunt had never willingly written. But which appeared as authentic as the others.

He watched the witch leave for a moment, before turning around and making his way to the Atrium of the Ministry.  Dumbledore and a few of his other enemies would have a devil of a time trying to explain the contents of those letters. But even if they could prove that the letters were fabrications, no one would suspect earnest young Alphons Bagnold, who was defending Black and Dumbledore at every opportunity, even if his efforts sometimes seemed to unintentionally backfire.

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled widely. Things were progressing as planned.

*****

**London, Merton, September 1st, 1994**

Hermione Granger checked the clock on her desk. The desk was new, but the clock was a used one she had found in a flea market. Completely mechanical, it would work inside wards as well, so she wouldn’t have to abandon it when the day came that she had her own flat.  Eleven o’clock. The Hogwarts Express would be pulling out of the station now. With Harry, Ron and the other students. Without her.

She sighed. Last year, she had thought it would get easier with time, but it hadn’t. It still hurt to think that her friends would be at Hogwarts, without her. Learning magic with hundreds of other students. Having access to that amazing library. Having fun without being thought a delinquent who almost ruined her family.

Of course, she and her parents had told their friends and acquaintances that the matter had been settled, that the mistake had been rectified, but… ‘audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret’, as her father had put it. _Slander boldly, something always sticks._

And something had stuck. Not as bad as it had stuck in Wizarding Britain, of course. There she was not just a thief, but a gold-digging mudblood as well. At least among those who believed the Prophet and that muckraker Skeeter. That, unfortunately, included a lot of the British wizards and witches. Mr Black - he had told her to call him ‘Sirius’, but that felt uncomfortable - had mentioned he’d be able to do something about that, but that it would have to wait until he had dealt with his own troubles with the press. She’d wish Skeeter would fall over dead except that would cause even more trouble for Harry’s godfather.

Sighing again, she tried to focus on her studies once more. Her last exams had proven that she needed to work harder if she wanted to keep up with the others at Hogwarts.

And she would keep up. At least in the important and useful subjects. She’d not let the other witches, especially the Ravenclaws, look down on her and call her a cheater or a failure! The thought of them being all smug at Hogwarts, while she was stuck here… some of them would probably even try to replace her, ‘help’ Harry, and Ron, with their homework, hang out with them…

She realised she was clenching her teeth and forced herself to relax. It wouldn’t be like that. Harry and Ron were her best friends. They would not replace her.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 2nd, 1994**

“Krum’s coming to Hogwarts! For the entire year!”

Even a day after it had been announced at the start-of-term feast, Ron was still excited about his idol spending a year at Hogwarts. The better part of a year, Hermione would have corrected them, if she were present, Harry Potter added in his thoughts. The delegations from the other schools wouldn’t actually arrive until a month into term, due to scheduling conflicts and other such things.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, “If Oliver was still here we’d be training every evening ‘so we won’t look bad in front of Krum’.” He snorted. “Even so, Angelina has already said we’ll train more often than she had originally planned - with Krum here, she expects scouts to attend the matches. Don’t ask me why."

“Why wouldn’t they? Scouting Hogwarts gives them an excuse to meet Krum,” Ron said. “It’s what I’d do.”

His friend was right, Harry had to admit. “And there’s also the fact that we’ll play Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as well.”

“Yes! Almost double the Quidditch matches this year!”

Ron was still smiling widely when they knocked at the door to the Defence classroom. Sirius opened the door, a wild grin on his face. “Ah! Here to see our newest celebrity? Come in!” He turned around as soon as the door closed. “Remus! Two more fans!”

Harry heard a groan from behind the door to Remus’s quarters, followed by “Ignore him, please. He’s been insufferable all day” as the other wizard stepped into the room.

“What? Why wouldn’t I be excited over the fact that, for the first time in a year, a member of my family has received good press?” Sirius scoffed, but he was still smiling.

“All I did was start my second year of teaching,” Remus said.

“You beat the Dark Lord’s curse! The first Defence teacher to last more than a year in decades!” Sirius laughed. “They’ll call you the ‘Professor-Who-Taught’ soon!”

Remus rolled his eyes at his friend, but Harry had the impression that he wasn’t quite as annoyed as he acted. “Enough of that. We’ve more important matters to discuss.” Remus turned to Harry and Ron. “You’ve heard about the Tournament.”

Harry nodded.

“Dumbledore’s discovered a curse on the Goblet of Fire, the artefact that will choose the champions. He took a few days to remove it,” Remus said. “If the curse had been triggered…” He shook his head, his expression tense. “It would have been very bad. The Headmaster’s certain that it was the work of the Dark Lord.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “So he’s attacking Hogwarts, then?” Which meant Voldemort would be gunning for him.

“Anything that goes wrong at Hogwarts while the eyes of Europe are on us will lessen Dumbledore’s influence on the Ministry,” Sirius added. “Especially if some of our guests get hurt. So keep your eyes open. It won’t be just Malfoy trying to attack you this year.”

“We can easily handle him,” Ron said, scoffing. Harry nodded - the git was no match for them.

“I meant either Malfoy,” Sirius corrected them. “And the Dark Lord’s worse. He managed to curse an artefact stored in a Ministry vault without anyone noticing. He might even be able to sneak into Hogwarts.”

Ron muttered a curse under his breath. His good mood was entirely gone now.

And so was Harry’s.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 1st, 1994**

“There’s two more great things we can enjoy this year,” Ron said between two mouthfuls of roast beef at the ‘Welcoming Feast’ for the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students.

“Which are?” Harry Potter asked, refilling his own plate. There hadn’t been many good things so far this term, in his opinion. Voldemort hadn’t done anything yet, but the constant threat, the constant nagging fear of an attack… he shook his head. Tonight, at least, he wanted to focus on having fun.

“We have more feasts than normal - and we have stunning visitors!” Ron nodded towards the Ravenclaw table, where the students from Beauxbatons were seated.

Harry made a noncommittal sound, glancing at Durmstrang’s Headmaster, who was seated next to Dumbledore at the staff table. To have another supposedly reformed Death Eater at the school had also put a damper on his mood.

“I thought Krum staying at Hogwarts was the best thing this year, but those witches…” Ron sighed with a - in Harry’s opinion - silly grin on his face.

“Ron’s gone gaga, like everyone else, over the _Veela_ ,” Ginny cut in. Harry looked at the redheaded witch and saw that she was sneering and glaring at the witch in question. A quick glance told him that she wasn’t the only witch at their table glaring at the Ravenclaw table.

“Fleur Delacour…” Ron sighed again.

“As if a Veela would bother with you!” Ginny huffed. “She’s three years older than you, too!” With a deep scowl, she added: “But everyone’s panting after her!”

“I’m not,” Harry defended himself.

“Well, you’re the exception.” Ginny beamed at him. “Her Veela allure must not work on you.”

“Sirius said there is no such thing as Veela allure,” Harry said. “They’re just very beautiful.” And his godfather claimed that he had extensively researched and examined the matter.

Now Ginny was scowling at him as well. Sirius had been right, Harry thought - witches were very temperamental.

*****

**London, Greenwich, October 10th, 1994**

_Bagnold Feared that Dumbledore Sacrificed Political Rivals during War!_

Hermione Granger wished that she also had a subscription to the Daily Prophet as she craned her neck in an attempt to read the front page of the newspaper her tutor was holding. She could make out an old picture of the late Millicent Bagnold, and another one, more recent, of Dumbledore, but not the article itself.

But to let anyone at the Prophet have her address would be a very bad idea. She didn’t want to see pictures of her family or their new home in the newspaper, nor Skeeter following her parents around and making up lies about their lives. Well, she could buy her own newspaper in Diagon Alley, if she really needed to.

And judging by the way Mr Fletcher’s fingers were almost tearing this issue of the Prophet apart, she might have to do that today, if she ever wanted to actually read the article. She was about to point this out when she caught a glimpse of Mr Fletcher’s expression, and closed her mouth. He looked absolutely furious. It would be better, she decided on the spot, not to bother him and to focus on her studies instead.

“Yes?” But, of course, her tutor was practicing what he preached, and had noticed her abandoned attempt to talk to him. She really needed to learn how to be more inconspicuous.

She considered practicing her lying, but decided against it. She was, had been, a Gryffindor, after all. “I was wondering about that article.”

Her tutor stared at her for a moment. She realised that she was biting her lower lip and forced herself to stop. He had mentioned this habit of hers before, as a ‘tell’.

When she was about to bite her lip again, tells be damned, he sighed. “Someone dug up Bagnold’s old letters, and the Prophet caught wind of it.” He threw the newspaper on the table. “Read for yourself.”

She eagerly grabbed the issue and refrained from smoothing out the wrinkled edges where Mr Fletcher had held it.

“Letters recently discovered... survived the fire in her house… correspondence with Dumbledore during the Blood War… concerns about Dumbledore’s reaction to the civilian casualties… mentioned a disturbing letter from Dumbledore…”

“A letter conveniently missing from the stack,” Mr Fletcher cut in. He still looked furious.

She cleared her throat. “What do you make of this?” A nice, neutral question.

He scoffed. “The Prophet’s reading a lot into Bagnold’s letter, and speculates even more about the missing letter from Dumbledore.”

“They all but accuse the Headmaster of sacrificing his political rivals to the Death Eaters,” Hermione pointed out.

He scoffed and stared at the wall behind her. “A lot of people were murdered in the war. The Death Eaters struck at anyone opposing them - or those refusing to support them. And they had their choice of targets.” Hermione saw that he was slowly shaking his head. He still wasn’t looking at her. “Dumbledore couldn’t be everywhere, of course, and the Death Eaters counted on that. He had to ‘make hard choices’.” Mr Fletcher practically spat the last part out.

She bit her lower lip, not caring that it was a tell. She wanted to know what had happened to Mr Fletcher in the war. And yet, she dreaded knowing it as well.

“Yeah,” he continued, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, “Dumbledore made hard choices, he effin’ did. And an effin’ whole lot of innocents died because of it.” He shook his head again. “Only natural that he’d pick his friends over his enemies, course. But he couldn’t even protect all of his friends. Or their families.” Hermione almost missed his last words - they were spoken in a much softer tone.

He suddenly stood up. “I gotta … check up on somethin’. Study Transfiguration until tomorrow.” Hermione drew breath to ask him to stay, but he apparated out of his flat before she could say anything.

Sighing, and wondering what exactly he was doing - and hoping he wasn’t about to go drinking, though it would be understandable, if he had lost his family in the war - she returned to the article. Bagnold’s nephew was quoted as saying that he was shocked at the allegations, and said that his aunt must have been imperiused to forge the letters by her murderer, ‘because Dumbledore would never do such a thing’.

Hermione winced - Mr Bagnold meant well, but he wasn’t helping. That wasn’t an argument that would convince anyone. Quite the contrary, actually. Though the speculation that Dumbledore murdered his rivals and framed the Death Eaters, attributed to ‘anonymous sources’, sounded far too far-fetched too.

Some of the public would still believe it, of course. British wizards and witches seemed eager to assume the worst, she thought.

*****

**Hogsmeade, October 25th, 1994**

“Harry! Ron!” Hermione Granger hugged first Harry, then Ron as soon as they entered the Hog’s Head Inn. They were filling out, she noticed with surprise. “You’ve been training hard,” she remarked, reaching out to squeeze Harry’s biceps. She quickly released him when she realised what she was doing and mumbled an apology.

“Oh, Sirius and Remus are pushing us hard,” Ron said. “Of course, Harry’s also doing Quidditch, and Angelina seems like a worthy successor to Oliver.”

“She’s not as bad,” Harry corrected his friend as they took their seats.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ron retorted. “You certainly look as exhausted after training as you did last year.”

Hermione laughed, even though she once more felt jealous and sad about not being at Hogwarts with them. “So, what else is new? You didn’t have trouble with Malfoy again, did you?”

Harry shook his head. “No, he’s been behaving since the last time. Maybe Remus’s detention convinced him to stop being an arse.”

“No.” Ron shook his head. “He’s too busy cozying up to Durmstrang’s students to bother with us.”

“To Krum, you mean.” Harry grinned.

Ron scowled. “For such a great Seeker, Krum has really bad taste in friends.”

“Well, Durmstrang doesn’t even allow muggleborns to attend,” Hermione pointed out. “He might feel Slytherins are kindred spirits.”

“I hope Harry beats him at the match,” Ron muttered.

Harry didn’t look like he expected to beat the world-class Seeker, in Hermione’s opinion. His next comment proved her right. “Yeah, I’ll beat him, right after you convince Delacour to go out with you.”

“At least I’m not moping because the witch I like already has a boyfriend!” Ron shot back.

Hermione blinked. Harry was interested in a witch? Who was that witch?

Before she could ask, Harry snorted. “I didn’t know that Cho was with Cedric, and I’m over her anyway.”

Hermione smiled. That was good - she didn’t want her friends to mope over witches. It was petty, but she knew that if Harry and Ron had girlfriends, they would want to go with them to Hogsmeade, and not with her. And she didn’t want them to meet her out of pity.

“You’re over her?” Ron’s tone was rather doubtful.

“Yes.” Harry shrugged. “Sirius said that you should never go after a witch who’s taken, not unless you are really in love. And if you’re asking yourself whether you are in love, then you aren’t. Or something like that.” He perked up. “He said I should go after the Patil twins, anyway.”

Hermione felt her smile slip. For all that she and her family owed Mr Black, she felt that Harry’s godfather was not an entirely good influence on her best friend. A change of topic was in order, she decided.

“So… do you know how the visiting students compare with Hogwarts’ own?”

*****

**Hogwarts, October 31st, 1994**

The Goblet stood on its pedestal, the flames within throwing a flickering light on the ceiling above. It looked remarkably harmless for all its rumoured powers, Harry Potter thought when he glanced at it. And it looked remarkably harmless for a potentially cursed object, too.

“Mate, stop staring at the Goblet!” Ron whispered. “Dumbledore said it was safe.”

Apparently, Harry hadn’t been as subtle as he had thought. He looked at his friend and sighed. “I can’t help it.” It was Halloween, too. The anniversary of his parents’ murder at the hand of the dark wizard who had cursed the Goblet. “Dumbledore might have overlooked something.” He might have been distracted by the allegations in the Prophet. The newspaper had stopped their thinly-veiled attacks, but according to Sirius, it had required Dumbledore to have a personal talk with the Prophet’s owner.

“It wasn’t just him, you know,” Ron said while finishing his second serving of the filet mignon the elves had prepared for today’s feast. “They brought in Curse-Breakers, too, Bill told me. No one found anything. And they even tested it.” He grinned. “Apparently, Dumbledore would be Hogwarts’ champion if he was a student - who’d have thought!”

Harry forced himself to chuckle. He had known that already, too. But this was Voldemort - Dumbledore’s equal. He had already managed to sneak into Hogwarts and attack Harry once, under Dumbledore’s nose. If not for his mother’s protection, Harry would have died. And probably Ron and Hermione, too.

But so far nothing had happened. Not when the Goblet had been lit, and not when the various older students had dropped their names into it. Or when those who were too young to take part but had tried anyway had been repelled. Like Ron’s brothers. He took a deep breath, then grinned. “Well, stop glancing at Delacour. She might take offense, and from what Sirius told us, angry Veela are definitely not safe.”

Ron snorted. “I’m not glancing at her. I’m over her.”

“You mean your desire not to be left drooling and stammering has finally grown stronger than your desire to ogle her?” Harry said, a bit more sharply than he had intended. It was Halloween, after all. Not his most favourite day in the year. At all.

“At least I tried to talk to her. You slunk away unseen when you saw Chang with Diggory,” Ron shot back.

“I was being discreet,” Harry defended himself. It hadn’t been his finest hour. But it beat being embarrassed in public.

“Some Gryffindor you are!” Ron scoffed.

His friend was grinning, though it was a sore spot for him, Harry knew. “Speaking of… what are you going to do about the Yule Ball?”

“What do you mean? Do you wonder who I will ask to be my date? Or whether I managed to transfigure my robes into something more fashionable?”

“The first,” Harry said. “The latter is hopeless. Not even Dumbledore could manage that.”

“He wouldn’t even try - he’d like the robes.” Ron snorted. “I thought Fred and George had pranked me, you know, when I saw the robes.”

“So did I,” Harry said.

“But I’ll manage,” Ron went on. Which meant he didn’t want Harry’s help. Or Sirius’s. “Maybe I’ll ask Hermione on our next Hogsmeade weekend for a few tips. She has done her own robes, hasn’t she?”

“I think she only mended them.” Hermione wasn’t exactly a witch obsessed with fashion, Harry knew. “You might be better off asking Lavender, or Parvati.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Ron said, wincing. “That would make asking either to be my date a little embarrassing.”

Harry nodded - that was true. Not that asking a witch out wasn’t already embarrassing anyway. He snuck a glance at Parvati, who was talking - and giggling - with Lavender. What if she laughed at him? He wanted to ask her or her sister in private, but… asking them to step out for a minute would be the same as asking her straight out; everyone knew what that meant these days.

Which was another thing to consider: Time was running short. Harry wasn’t the only wizard who needed a date for the Yule Ball, after all.

He was still pondering how to handle this problem when Dumbledore stood up from his seat and announced that the Goblet would now select the champions.

Harry held his breath for the whole drawing, but it went according to plan. And the champions chosen were no surprise either: Delacour, Krum and Diggory.

Harry looked away when Cho kissed Diggory in celebration.

*****

**Hogwarts, November 20th, 1994**

Hermione Granger was impressed when she saw the stadium that had been erected near Hogwarts. It was not as big as the one at the Quidditch World Cup, but it certainly dwarfed the stands at Hogwarts’ Quidditch pitch. And it had been erected in a few weeks, since she hadn’t seen it on her last visit to Hogsmeade.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Ron said, walking next to her. “Percy told me that the Ministry had a special task force build this, drawn from the one at the World Cup. They couldn’t simply conjure stands, since then a single Dispelling Charm could have caused a catastrophe.”

That sounded like a direct quote from his studious brother. “Was he involved?” she asked. Percy had started at the Ministry this year.

“Only a little. He’s working in the Wizengamot Administration Services.”

So, office gossip, or paperwork related to the event, Hermione thought. Good to know either way - as her tutor had told her, good thieves needed to know everything about their marks. She suspected, after hearing the examples he had used to make his point, that he had unknowingly robbed an Auror once. “I’m glad to hear that he’s doing well.”

“You and my mum both,” Ron said, sighing. “She wrote me a whole letter about Percy - she wants me to follow his example.”

“Well, it’s safer than Curse-Breaking or working with dragons,” she pointed out.

“Sure. But it’s also boring. Percy loves his work, but I’m not him.”

No, Ron wasn’t Percy, Hermione agreed. “Where’s Harry?” She had expected both of them to meet her at the gates.

“He’s guarding our seats. With so many visitors, we thought the Boy-Who-Lived might be needed for that.”

She glanced at Ron and nodded. “His godfather is coming as well, then?”

“Yes. He’s already up there with Harry.” Ron nodded towards the towering side walls of the stadium.

And, Hermione thought, Mr Black was probably drawing his own share of glances and sneers. Like herself. She sniffed and raised her chin. So be it - she knew that she was innocent. She had done nothing of which she should be ashamed. And she might have been expelled from Hogwarts, but she didn’t have to be a student to watch the Triwizard Tournament. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

They reached their seats a few minutes later, and Hermione saw that Ron hadn’t been exaggerating - they were among the best seats in the stadium, right at the field. And there was Harry!

“Hi, Harry!” She hugged him, then nodded at his godfather. “Mr Black.”

“Miss Granger.” Mr Black nodded back at her, barely hiding his grin. She clenched her teeth.

“Hi, Hermione.” Ron’s sister was there as well.

“Hi, Ginny.”

“Hello.” And a blonde witch Hermione didn’t know. “I’m Luna Lovegood, Ginny’s neighbour.”

“Ah. I’m Hermione Granger.”

“I know. My father wrote about you.” Luna nodded her head several times. “Worst Nargles infestation in ten years.”

“Nargles?” Hermione blinked. Lovegood... Ah, The Quibbler! She smiled politely. She wasn’t sure whether such creatures existed - but she wouldn’t rule it out either; she had ‘known’ that there was no such thing as magic, after all, until she had received her Hogwarts letter - but The Quibbler hadn’t slandered her.

Luna was already explaining everything Hermione had ever wanted to know about Nargles, and then some. Ron glared at his sister, who glared back, and Harry grinned.

It felt so much like being back at school, Hermione had to turn away and focus on the arena to distract herself as soon as the blonde witch had finished.

*****

Fortunately, the first task of the tournament was a captivating sight. In the middle of the arena, walls had been erected to form three lanes - one for each champion - lined with obstacles ranging from ornate gates to simple-looking pits. And all lanes led into the same building.

Hermione Granger wished that she could observe the spells on the lanes - she could spot signs of Extension Charms, and, thanks to Harry’s Omnioculars which she had borrowed, she could spot the runework indicating complex curses on the gates, but without her detection spell, she couldn’t really study the traps and other obstacles.

Though she assumed that even if her detection spell had had the range to reach the arena’s centre, Dumbledore would have blocked it to prevent cheating. So her best hope was that the organisers had thought to cater to those ‘with a more discerning eye for protections and curses’, as Mr Fletcher had put it, as well as to those wishing to see daring and spectacular spellwork.

She knew her tutor was also attending the event, but she hadn’t seen him so far. He had told her that he would be mingling with the purebloods to socialise as ‘Mr Smith’ in the hope of establishing a few contacts. Without her, of course -  a pureblood of good standing couldn’t be seen with a convicted and expelled thief if they hoped to gain acceptance in those circles.

She could have come with him in disguise, but she wouldn’t have been able to be with her friends in that case. And as tempting as it might be to see how Harry and Ron would react to her disguise, she much preferred to be with them as their friend instead of meeting them as a snobby pureblood witch.

“Did you spot Malfoy?” Harry asked, interrupting her attempt to figure out what obstacle a seemingly bare patch of sand was - quicksand seemed too obvious.

“No.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t looking for him, though.”

“He’s in the Ministry’s section with his father,” Harry said.

“Cozying up to the Minister, I bet,” Hermione said, zooming in on that area. And there they were, with Mrs Malfoy. All clad in the latest robes from Paris, as far as she could tell with only Witch Weekly to go on.

“Of course. Trying to further erode Dumbledore’s influence,” Mr Black cut in. “And Dumbledore is too decent to simply tell off the Ministry and the press.”

Ron nodded. “Percy said the bribes were so large, even the post owls were getting new perches. He got one of the old perches for our family owl.”

So that hadn’t been a joke from Ron’s brother. Hermione should have expected that - Percy was very unlike his brothers, after all. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of wizard who would look the other way, not even for family. Or, knowing the twins, especially not for family. “Aren’t they afraid of your reputation?” she asked. “Or your family’s?”

Mr Black scowled. “Not enough, or too much, it seems. With Crouch and Bagnold murdered under mysterious circumstances, Malfoy isn’t the only one who has realised that if anything happens to him or his friends, I’ll be blamed.” He sighed. “It doesn’t help that I’m the last Black - if there were more of us, those Bowtruckles would be too scared to try anything. I would pull Andromeda back into the fold, but with my current reputation, that would harm her family more than it would help me.”

Hermione wondered what that meant for Harry’s reputation, since her friend was living with Mr Black, but she knew better than to ask - Harry was fiercely protective of his godfather. Even if the man was not a good influence on her friend.

Before the mood could get even worse, though, the voice of Ludo Bagman filled the stadium. “Good afternoon, everyone! Welcome to the first task of the reborn Triwizard Tournament!”

“Damn bloke cheated my brothers out of their winnings at the World Cup,” she heard Ron mutter while Bagman prattled on about the Ministry’s achievements.

Hermione would have pointed out that nomen est omens in this case - Mr Fletcher had said a ‘bagman’ was a term used among criminals for someone handling dirty gold - but she didn’t want to appear too informed about the slang used by criminals. So she simply nodded as she made a mental note - Bagman might be an easy mark to blackmail, if needed.

“...so, our champions have to race each other through these lanes which are filled with the deadliest curses and traps ever seen in Britain! Will they be up to the challenge, or will they fall prey to the dangers of this task? But even if they reach the goal, they will still have to face the task’s ultimate challenge - the mysterious last guardian!”

Which meant it was either an animal or an enchanted, animated construct, Hermione thought.

Ron snorted. “He’s a bad liar. Percy told me that the tasks are safe. They look dangerous, but they’re no worse than a Quidditch match.”

That made sense, Hermione thought. Although as the tournament’s deadly history proved, it hadn’t always been the case. Then she clapped and cheered with the others for the Champions - and especially for Cedric Diggory. He was a really handsome wizard, she couldn’t help noticing. Chang was a lucky witch.

“And they’re off!” Bagman yelled.

The champions stepped over the starting line, and dark flames sprang up in front of them. Cursed fire, Hermione thought. The Flame-Freezing Charm wouldn’t help there. Maybe some conjured clay, to smother them?

The champions, meanwhile, had their own solutions. Delacour created fire herself - caught in a bubble, Hermione noted - which forced the cursed fire to burn out in seconds by consuming all the oxygen around. Diggory conjured a stone tube that created a safe way through the flames and Krum dug a tunnel with his wand.

They hadn’t advanced very far, though - next came the first gate. Krum tried to simply blow his away, but that backfired - literally. The Bulgarian had been ready for that, though - his Shield Charm weathered the blast, and he was flinging his next spells at the gate a moment later. But melting it down didn’t work either. Delacour and Diggory were taking the more conventional approach, their wands trailing over the gate’s surface, tracking the runes engraved into the metal. The Veela soon started tapping the different runes, until the gate opened. Diggory tried the same, but must have made a mistake - he was pushed back as if hit by a Bludger, and almost sent tumbling into the fire behind him - though, Hermione noted, the distance had been lengthened considerably thanks to Extension Charms that might have been conditionally activated.

He tried again, and passed through the gate at roughly the same time as Krum’s latest curse managed to wreck his, and the two wizards rushed on. Delacour meanwhile had proven to be the bigger raptor when faced with a swarm of Bloodravens and had sent the birds flying by transforming. While Bagman wondered aloud if this was cheating, Krum hit his own swarm with an Acid Cloud Spell - Luna loudly protested such cruelty - and Diggory distracted his opponents with a conjured slab of bloody meat.

Delacour was still in the lead, though, and had reached the patch of sand Hermione had been wondering about. The French witch hesitated a moment, then cast a spell at the sand - which erupted into a dense cloud. For an instant, Hermione thought it had been a Reductor or Blasting Curse. But the cloud started to move - towards the champion. It was a miniature sandstorm, Hermione realised. And it engulfed Delacour before she could react.

Hermione wasn’t the only one who gasped. But mere seconds later, the sand was swept up into the air by a sudden whirlwind, revealing the Veela only slightly worse for the wear - her robes had been ripped in spots, and her hair was a mess, but  she seemed unhurt with the exception of a few scrapes as she continued the race. There were a few catcalls among the cheers, Hermione noted. None from her friends, though.

Delacour lost most of her lead when Diggory transfigured the sand into stone without slowing down and Krum blew the sand away. All three were now faced with another gate - one covered with glowing runes. Obvious distractions, Hermione thought. But then, this was a spectator event, so those runes might be used to make it easier for the audience to follow the champions’ actions.

She’d find out soon enough, she knew - the champions were already casting. Hermione started to take notes. Her tutor had been correct - this was not just entertaining, but educational as well. Especially for a budding thief.

*****

“Oh… that had to hurt! Looks like Diggory didn’t quite dodge that tail swipe!”

Bagman sounded almost gleeful, Harry Potter thought when the Hufflepuff champion was thrown in the air and landed hard on the extended stone floor where the last part of the task took place. He seemed to almost bounce.

“It moves like a real dragon,” Ron commented. “Charlie told me about the tail swipes the Welsh Greens like to do.”

“It’s a construct created by Dumbledore,” Hermione added, “so of course it will be very close to a real dragon. I guess Hagrid helped as well.”

“I don’t think so,” Ron said. “If he had the thing would have already maimed a champion or two.”

Harry laughed at that. Ron was probably correct; Hagrid had some rather… peculiar views of what was considered dangerous. The construct was holding back in order to not kill any of the contestants. Then he had to wince when Krum blew one foreleg of the dragon-construct’s away, but paid for it when the construct breathed fire at him. The Bulgarian’s robes caught fire, but he managed to roll away and started dousing himself with water.

“Krum’s on fire today!” was Bagman’s comment - not as funny as the wizard apparently thought.

“Look at Delacour!” Ron yelled suddenly, and Harry jerked. Where was… there! The French champion had used the construct’s damage and distraction, and had changed into her raptor form again, diving at the box the dragon was guarding. The construct’s tail snapped up, but the Veela avoided it, pulled up in time to miss the ground, as Wood used to call almost crashing, and snagged the box right from its pedestal.

“And Delacour uses the opportunity created by Krum and Diggory to sweep in and snatch victory from the jaws of the dragon! A daring but successful move! Beauxbatons’ champion wins the first task!”

It had been an entertaining event, Harry thought as he clapped and cheered for the champions, but he couldn’t help wondering how he would have done. He didn’t know much about Runes or Arithmancy, but his and Ron’s training had taught them how to dodge and fight - and he thought he would have done better at dodging, at least, than either Diggory or Krum. Maybe he’d throw his name into the Goblet next time.

*****

**Hogwarts, November 22nd, 1994**

“There they are,” Ron whispered unnecessarily - Harry Potter had spotted them already. “And they’re alone, just like Sirius’s map showed.”

Harry knew that Sirius and Remus had created - or recreated; the first had apparently been lost in their seventh year - that map to help keep him safe. But he was certain that his godfather wouldn’t mind Harry and Ron using the map to ask girls out without humiliating themselves - Sirius had hinted at using the map to peep on witches as a student himself, after all. Hermione, of course, would have scolded him for this. But she wasn’t there, he thought, feeling the familiar sense of regret.

Then he focused on the task at hand. They couldn’t miss this opportunity - it had been pure luck that they had overheard Parvati complaining about having to give her sister some of the sweets her mother had sent her. “Let’s go,” he whispered as he straightened and checked his appearance for the last time. No wrinkles or dirt on his new robes or shoes. And his hair better stay in the shape it was meant to be - he had paid enough for the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. Ron ran his hands over his own robes - Harry didn’t know if his friend had transfigured his eyesores, or had someone else do it for him, but he looked stylish. Or dapper, as Sirius had called it.

“Alright.” Ron sounded a little nervous, Harry thought - just like himself.

“Just act natural,” he repeated his godfather’s advice, talking as much to his friend as to himself.

“There’s nothing natural about this,” Ron muttered as they turned around the corner.

Harry forced himself to smile. “Ah, there you are!” he said, maybe a little too loudly and cheerfully. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Hello, Parvati, Padma,” Ron added.

The two witches exchanged a glance, then smiled. That was a good thing, Harry thought. Probably.

“You’ve been looking for us?” Parvati’s smile widened. Harry felt suddenly less certain that this was a good sign. Too many teeth, he thought.

But he was a Gryffindor, and the only thing more humiliating than being turned down would be to slink away without asking. He cleared his throat, then bowed with a flourish to Parvati. “Would you do me the honour of agreeing to go to the Yule Ball with me?” The old forms, just like Sirius had taught them.

Ron mirrored him with Padma, bowing as soon as Harry had straightened again.

The two witches weren’t looking as smug any more, he thought. They seemed surprised, but they were still smiling. It looked as if Sirius’s advice had been right - you couldn’t overdo it when courting witches.

He still waited with bated breath while Parvati looked at her sister, then back at him. But she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

It wasn’t quite the correct form to agree to his invitation, it lacked the curtsey, but Harry didn’t care. She had said yes.

And, judging by Ron’s wide smile, so had her sister.

“You honour me, my lady. My wand is yours.” Harry bowed again. The forms sounded rather pompous to him, but, apparently, Parvati liked that kind of talk.

Just like Sirius had predicted. Harry wouldn’t ever doubt his godfather again. Not when it concerned witches, at least - his other advice sometimes seemed a little questionable.

*****

**London, Merton, December 25th, 1994**

Lying in bed, having slept in, Hermione Granger knew she should be happy. She had a new home, her family’s financial troubles had been solved - mostly - and this Christmas saw all their book collections, if not fully restored, at least making good progress towards that goal.

And yet, despite all the positive changes compared to last year’s Christmas, she wasn’t happy. Not really. While she was celebrating Christmas with her parents, her friends were at Hogwarts, preparing to attend the Yule Ball. With the Patil twins.

Well, she thought with a glance at her alarm clock, they wouldn’t be getting ready just yet. It was still morning, after all. But Parvati might already be fretting over her appearance with Lavender - those two witches certainly had spent a lot of time on such things when Hermione had been at Hogwarts, and she doubted that they would have changed in the years since.

She sighed. She was being catty. And petty. She had changed a lot herself, after all, since her second year. But then - Hermione had been forced to, after she had been expelled. She doubted that anything similar had happened to Parvati or Lavender. People were supposed to be ruled by their hormones during puberty, after all, and those two witches had already been obsessed with boys back then, so they had probably become even worse.

She certainly paid more attention to boys now herself, she had to admit, and not just because her tutor wanted her to always be aware of her surroundings, and to learn how to manipulate others. She wanted to be at the Yule Ball, dancing with Harry and Ron… Her eyes widened when she realised that she was jealous.

She wasn’t just petty and catty, she was even jealous of her friends’ dates! Not even the fact that Mr Fletcher had managed to secure invitations to the New Year’s Ball at Smith Manor - his mingling at the first task had been quite successful - was much of a consolation. Her friends wouldn’t be there, and even if they were to attend, Hermione would be in disguise.

Hermione leaned back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t looking forward to celebrating Christmas in this mood. But she couldn’t help it - she wanted to be at the Yule Ball. With her friends. Not alone with her parents.

But she would at least act as if she was happy. Her parents didn’t deserve to have their holiday ruined by her petty mood. Especially not after what they had gone through due to her mistakes.

And, she added in her thoughts, if she managed to fool her parents, then she should be able to fool anyone else as well.

*****

**Hogwarts, December 25th, 1994**

The Yule Ball really was a ‘grand affair’, as Sirius had put it, Harry Potter had to admit. The Great Hall had been turned into a ballroom, with a dance floor polished almost to a mirror sheen and matching decorations. It almost outshone the guests themselves, many of them clad in some of the most beautiful and stylish robes he had seen so far. Though Delacour’s robes would have stood out even if worn by a plain witch. Worn by the Veela champion, they had caused a few accidents already.

“Oh, look, there’s Padma!” Parvati, hanging on his arm, said excitedly. “Let’s go talk with her for a bit.”

She didn’t wait for an answer and started tugging on his arm. Harry simply nodded and went along with her - as he had done for the whole evening so far. Sirius had said to let the witch lead anywhere other than on the dance floor, after all. His godfather had also said to let the witch think she was leading when it came to more intimate affairs, but Harry hadn’t quite figured out how to achieve that.

On the way to Padma and Ron, he grabbed another pâté en croûte from one of the trays floating around. The kitchen staff had outdone themselves - they had prepared delicacies from Britain, France and Eastern Europe, and if something wasn’t available they somehow produced it within minutes. He was already feeling stuffed, and so far he and Parvati had just circled the room once - they had been dancing longer than he had expected, based on Sirius’s tales. Padma and Ron hadn’t been on the dance floor as long, Harry had noted as well.

“Oh, did you see Sally-Anne’s robes?” Parvati remarked. “I didn’t know Perry’s had such nice robes. Everyone said it was Madam Malkin’s, or nothing. But Madam Malkin’s selection is rather British-centred, and I wanted Indian-style robes.”

“I didn’t know either,” Harry said. He hadn’t known that ‘Perry’s’ was a tailor in Diagon Alley, nor that his robes were thought inferior to Madam Malkin’s until today. Nor did he really care about robes. Well, apart from how nice they looked on witches. But according to Sirius it would be both impolite and stupid to point that out. He had also said to flatter their dates often, and so Harry added: “A good decision, in my humble opinion. They suit you very well.” Sirius would said something more… well, Sirius, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to say the lines his godfather would say. They would get him hexed. Boy-Who-Lived or not.

“Thank you,” Parvati beamed at him, and Harry felt both more confident and more nervous at the same time.

They passed a group of older wizards and Harry heard the buzzing sound of privacy spells until they gave them a wider berth, which led them closer to the drapes covering the walls that showed animated scenes from Hogwarts’s history. Hermione would have loved them, Harry thought, and she would have quoted Hogwarts: A History verbatim. His friend probably wouldn’t have danced at all - if she had even bothered to attend.

Although if she had, she would have talked about something other than robes and relationships, he added to himself as they reached Padma and Ron.

“Padma! There you are! How do you like the ball so far?” Parvati asked, and Harry felt her grip on his arm tighten just a little. “I just love the orchestra; we’ve been dancing almost nonstop.”

Harry nodded, once more glad that Sirius had taught him and Ron how to dance as well.

“It is nice,” Padma said, “but I wouldn’t want to spend all my time on the dance floor. This is a unique opportunity to talk to foreign witches and wizards. The differences in their views on spells and customs are simply fascinating.”

That sounded like something Hermione would say, Harry thought. Though even with her slight overbite, she wouldn’t have shown quite that many teeth while smiling. And Parvati’s smile was matching Padma’s. He glanced at Ron, whose own smile looked a little forced, and said: “Oh, it looks like Diggory took a break from dancing for a while. I wanted to talk to him about the last match we played against each other.”

Parvati looked at him, then at Diggory, who was talking with Krum, and beamed at him again. “Oh, yes, let’s go! Have a nice evening, Padma, Ron!”

Indeed, Harry thought as they left his friend and his date behind, letting the witch think she was leading worked well.

*****

“I had a marvelous time, Harry!” Parvati said as they walked back towards the Gryffindor dorms later.

“I simply did my best to measure up to you, my lady,” Harry answered, nodding his head at her. It was, ironically, completely true. Parvati wasn’t the most stimulating conversationalist, but she could dance very well, and she was very pretty, too. “I do hope that I did not disappoint you,” he went on, still channeling the forms Sirius had drilled him and Ron in.

“Oh, no! You’re a great dancer. And great company,” the witch said. “You do your reputation proud.”

Harry hadn’t known he had a reputation - not as a dancer or as company, at least. But he was pleased anyway. “Not as great as you. You were the centre of attention wherever we went.” That wasn’t quite true - no witch would draw much attention next to Delacour, of course, unless she was hexing the Veela, and the champions drew the most attention to begin with. But it wasn’t quite a lie either. As Sirius would have said, it was a ‘polite truth’.

The kind of flattery that impressed witches into showing some affection, his godfather had said. And it seemed Parvati was slowing her steps as they neared Gryffindor Tower. And looking around. They were alone, Harry knew - his Defence training had emphasised such awareness.

Parvati must have come to the same conclusion, since she stopped and leaned against the wall as if taking a breather. “The evening was almost perfect,” she said, smiling at him.

“Almost?” He tilted his head slightly.

“Something’s been missing, so far.” She licked her lips as she kept smiling.

Ah. Harry hoped that he wasn’t misreading her intentions as he took a step closer to her, their chests almost touching. “And that would be?” he asked, leaning in.

For a moment, she seemed to hesitate. Then her arms went up around his neck, and their lips met. Mostly.

But Sirius had told him about the way first kisses usually went, and what to do. By the time they entered the Gryffindor dorms, they were quite proficient kissers, at least in Harry’s admittedly inexperienced opinion.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1994**

“So, how was the Yule Ball?” Hermione Granger asked as she sat down on the bed in Harry’s room. Which was quite a lot bigger than her parents’ bedroom in their new house, she noted. She kept her voice light and her tone casual. She was just making conversation and not desperate to find out what she had missed.

“Well, it wasn’t too bad, I guess,” Ron said, sitting in a chair at Harry’s desk. He shrugged. “We danced, we chatted, we ate good food. I had expected more, though.”

That didn’t sound that great, Hermione thought. Then she looked at Harry, who was sitting down on the bed as well. He had an almost dreamy smile she didn’t think she would like.

“Oh, I had a lot of fun with Parvati. She is a good dancer,” her friend said.

“What he means is that they snogged,” Ron said.

Hermione was glad for Mr Fletcher’s training since she kept smiling politely even though she felt as if she had just been jinxed. “Oh?”

“We kissed,” Harry said, rolling his eyes at Ron. “After the ball. That was all that happened.”

“Well, according to Parvati, it was a bit more than a simple kiss,” Ron shot back. “A lot more.”

“You asked her?” Hermione blurted out.

“No. I heard it from Ginny,” her friend clarified. “Apparently Parvati gave a detailed account of Harry’s kissing skills to the entire dorm.”

“We really just kissed.” Harry was actually blushing, Hermione noted.

Ron snorted. “Mate, that wasn’t just a peck on the cheek. You’ve got a girlfriend. She’s already planning your next Hogsmeade weekend.”

Hermione felt like she had been hexed. If Harry had a girlfriend - especially someone like Parvati - then he’d want to spend his weekends with her, and not with Hermione. She had known that this would happen, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Harry glared at Ron, but didn’t say anything. Especially not something like ‘I won’t let her do that.’

Ron grinned. “Hey, you ‘just kissed’ her.”

Harry scoffed. “You’d have done the same in my place.”

“Maybe. Padma just gave me a peck on the cheek.” Ron shrugged, a bit too casually in Hermione’s opinion. “But she was more interested in the other schools and their differences to Hogwarts than in me anyway. She reminded me of you, actually,” he added, smiling at Hermione. “But for her looks, of course.” He smiled wistfully. Harry nodded in apparent agreement - of course, he was dating Padma’s identical twin.

Hermione wanted to hex both of them for that. It wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t really show how much she had changed and that she could dress up as well as any pureblood witch, not without revealing her training. If her friends could see her in one of her disguises they wouldn’t treat her like that.

For a moment she enjoyed the fantasy of approaching Harry and Ron at a masquerade ball, in daring robes, a mysterious beauty flirting with them, leading them on, then leaving them. Their reactions would be priceless. She almost missed Harry’s next comment. “What?”

“Well, I said I’ll be attending the Smith’s New Year’s Ball with Parvati. Sirius got us invitations.” Harry smiled, and Hermione hoped it was because Sirius’s reputation was apparently improving, and not because he was looking forward to snogging Parvati. Or more.

Then she realised what that meant. Harry would be at the same ball she was supposed to attend in disguise.

She didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But she had to inform Mr Fletcher as soon as possible.

*****

**Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1994**

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione Granger smiled and curtseyed. “You’re a very skilled dancer.”

Her dance partner, an older cousin of Zacharias Smith, beamed at her. “You’re talented as well. Would you like to take a little break in the winter garden?” He stepped a bit closer and reached out with his arm for her waist as he asked, apparently assuming she would agree.

But she had anticipated that - the wizard’s hands had shown a tendency to roam a little on the dance floor - and deftly avoided him with a twist of her hips and a step back masked as another curtsey. “Thank you, but I think my tutor might want a word.”

For a moment, his smile faded - he likely hadn’t expected a refugee from the Colonies to react like that - but he quickly smiled again, bowing. “Of course. May I have the honour of another dance with you afterwards?”

“If possible, yes,” she answered, deliberately not using the proper forms. A few slips were expected of her cover, after all.

She made her way to Mr Fletcher, who saw her coming and excused himself from the three older wizards he was talking to and met her halfway. “Are you enjoying the ball, Miss Merriweather?”

“Oh, it’s marvelous!” she said, in a tone she imagined an impressed witch who cared about such things would use. Like Lavender or Parvati. In a lower voice, she added: “Another one wanted to ‘take a break in the winter garden’.”

“That’s to be expected. They think you’ll be easier to seduce, not knowing the local customs. And of course, your robes support such assumptions. That’s why I chose them.” He frowned. “But I should consider assumptions of ignorance as an insult to my reputation as a tutor. After all, I’m a distant relative of our hosts.”

Hermione wanted to shake her head - she wouldn’t have expected anyone to fall for the ‘I’m a distant relative from the New World’ scam, but apparently, Zacharias Smith’s family was not overly suspicious.

“Did you approach your beau yet?” Mr Fletcher asked.

Hermione drew a deep breath. “No, not yet.” She was wearing a blonde wig, coloured contact lenses and muggle makeup that made her look very different from how she usually did, in addition to dress robes with a neckline that drew attention away from her face, but Harry was her best friend and had known her for years. Even with a Shrinking Charm having taken care - temporarily, alas! - of her slight overbite, and the spell on her robes adding more bust, he might recognise her. At least her voice was disguised by a Volubilis Potion.

“Well, the ball’s halfway over, and the Boy-Who-Lived is very popular. You should get a move on, Miss.” In a softer tone, he added: “You’ve been training for over a year for this. You’re ready. He won’t recognise you, trust me.” He held out his arm, “I’ll introduce you.”

She shot him a look but he simply kept smiling until she sighed and hooked her arm into his. Harry was just stepping off the dance floor, with Parvati hanging on to his arm as if she would stumble and fall if she let him go. The witch had been glued to his side for the whole evening, basking in the Boy-Who-Lived’s fame.

Well, Hermione thought, time to test just how much Harry liked his new girlfriend. She put on her best smile and let Mr Fletcher guide her towards them. It was time to test what she had learned.

*****

Harry Potter noticed the older wizard and the young witch making their way towards him and Parvati long before they reached them. After one and a half such evenings, he could spot people wanting to talk to him well enough. And judging by the sudden tension he felt on his arm, and the sniff he heard, Parvati had spotted them as well. Or rather, had spotted the young blonde in the rather daring robes.

“Is that her father, or her lover?” he heard Parvati whisper, right before the pair reached them.

“Mr Potter? I’m Mr Smith, a distant relative of our hosts. This is Miss Merriweather.”

“Charmed,” Harry said, shaking the man’s hand before bowing to kiss the witch’s. Which brought his eyes rather close to her chest, he noticed. Of which a lot was on display. He straightened. “This is my girlfriend, Miss Patil.”

“Charmed.” Parvati’s smile was as sincere as Snape complimenting a Gryffindor.

“Miss Merriweather has recently arrived from the New World, and I’ve been tutoring her so she can fit into British society,” Mr Smith explained.

The witch nodded. “He’s a very good teacher. I would have been lost without him.” She sighed, which did interesting things to her neckline. “Of course, even in the New World, with all our troubles, we’ve heard of you.” She shook her head. “You’ve lived through so much tragedy! I admire your strength.” She smiled at him. She had bright blue eyes, he noticed, belatedly. And a nice smile too. And a rather husky voice. She was no Delacour, but then, no one else was.

“Many lost family in the war,” he answered.

She nodded as if he had said something profound and twirled a strand of her long hair around a finger. “We’ve had wars of our own, but not such bloody ones. Not usually, at least.”

Well, everyone knew about that, too, Harry thought. Magical North America’s East Coast was like Magical Europe’s Balkans - always on the brink of a war, if not already fighting. Mr Smith seemed to have spotted someone else he might want to talk to, and Harry quickly asked, mostly to keep the conversation going a little longer: “Will you be attending Hogwarts next year?” Her age was hard to tell, but if she needed a tutor, then she couldn’t be that old, or so he thought.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I already finished my education. I would have loved to attend your school, though. It must be marvellous.”

“Best school in the world,” Harry agreed. “You could visit it for the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Maybe I will. That sounds very intriguing.” She smiled at him. “I would need a guide, though,” she added with a glance at her tutor. “Mr Smith didn’t attend Hogwarts either.”

Harry opened his mouth to volunteer - that was the polite thing to do, of course - but Parvati’s sudden death grip on his arm distracted him long enough for the witch to speak up.  “I’m certain there will be many students willing to give you a tour.”

And there were the teeth again, Harry thought. He quickly looked around for Sirius and spotted his godfather talking to a pretty witch in a corner. Good enough. “I think my godfather wanted to talk to me. If you’ll excuse us?” he nodded at Mr Smith and Miss Merriweather.

“Of course.” Mr Smith nodded and led his student away as Harry tried to get his girlfriend to loosen her grip on his arm before he lost all feeling in the limb.

He still snuck a glance at Miss Merriweather’s back as she walked away. Just to check if it matched her front.

It did.

*****

 


	7. Girl Trouble

**Hogwarts, January 6th, 1995**

They were kissing again! Snogging! In a corner of the common room, even!

Ginny Weasley closed her book. She couldn’t do her homework with Harry and Parvati making such a spectacle of themselves near her. It was just too distracting. And too annoying. Her teeth were clenched as she left Gryffindor tower.

Outside in the hallway, she drew a deep breath and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. If anyone knew how much she wanted to be in Parvati’s place… if her brothers knew… She shuddered. They’d tease her worse than they had done back when Harry had visited The Burrow for the first time.

Sighing, she started towards the library. She still had homework to do, and the library was the best place for that. Parvati certainly wouldn’t be caught dead there. And Madam Pince wouldn’t tolerate any fooling around.

And the library was quiet, Ginny thought as she entered. There would be no giggling witches talking loudly about snogging Harry. Bloody show-off! she thought as she sat down at the first free table.

Before she could even start on her homework, though, someone else sat down at her table. She looked up to give them a piece of her mind - she wasn’t in the mood for company - but held her tongue when she saw it was Luna.

“Hello, Ginny,” the other witch whispered. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

Ginny wanted to snap at her that no, she hadn’t had a nice holiday. Not with Harry taking Parvati to the New Year’s Ball at Smith Manor while she was stuck at The Burrow. But that wasn’t Luna’s fault. And she didn’t want anyone to know how she felt about Harry’s new girlfriend. So she shrugged. “The usual, I guess. What about you?”

“Oh, it was very nice. Well, apart from the Yule Ball, I guess. That was disappointing.” Luna pouted. “I had hoped to attend, but the wizard who had asked me out had to take another witch to the ball on his parent’s orders, and couldn’t go with me.”

“What?” Ginny had read about such things, in her mum’s books, but to hear of it actually happening… “Who was that?”

“Michael Corner. He’s a year above us, in Ravenclaw.”

“That’s sad.” The Corners weren’t an old pureblood family, Ginny knew. His parents shouldn’t have put such pressure on him. Or he should have defied his parents, like the wizard always did in those novels. But not everyone was a Gryffindor.

“He hasn’t taken it well either,” Luna said. “He hasn’t talked to me since he told me he couldn’t take me to the ball.”

That made Ginny wince with guilt - she hadn’t talked to Luna in years after her mum had told her to avoid her friend. An order she had obeyed. Which, in hindsight, had been neither right nor brave. Hadn’t Mum told them not to listen to others when the Prophet had been attacking Harry’s godfather and Dumbledore? “I’m sorry,” she pressed out through clenched teeth.

“I’m glad we’re talking again,” Luna said, smiling. “I was worried you didn’t like me any more.”

Seeing her friend smile at her like that, Ginny felt as if she had been hexed in the gut. Some Gryffindor she was! To fill the sudden silence, she said: “I went with Neville to the Yule Ball. Neville Longbottom.” She shrugged. “He’s nice and polite, but…”

“He doesn’t make your tummy swirl?” Luna said.

Ginny blinked, then nodded. That was as good as any description. “Yes.”

“Michael didn’t make me feel that way either, but I would have liked to dance, I think.” Luna sighed. “I would have loved it if Ron had asked me to the ball. But he had to ask out Padma so Harry could ask her sister.”

Ginny blinked. “You fancy Ron?” Her brother?

“Yes.” Luna nodded. “He’s nice, he’s funny, and he makes my tummy feel all weird.”

“Yeah, he has a way with stomachs,” Ginny mumbled. “Mostly his own.”

“Well, you’re his sister; you wouldn’t notice that he’s handsome too,” Luna added, “since you’ve grown up with him. We rarely notice slow changes.”

Ginny was still trying to understand how anyone could find her brother attractive. Well, he wasn’t ugly, or so she had gathered from the gossip of the older girls, but still! He was no Harry Potter. “You’re in luck then - he and Padma Patil didn’t work out.”

“That doesn’t mean that he’ll fancy me,” Luna said, sighing again. “But it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t, either.”

“Yeah.” Ginny sighed. Unlike herself, Luna had a good chance of catching her wizard. It wasn’t as if Ron had a lot of witches after him.

“What about you? Is there anyone who makes your tummy feel funny?” Luna leaned forward.

Ginny sighed. She didn’t want to talk about this, with anyone. But… she owed Luna, and Luna had been open with her. And maybe it would help. “Yes, there is. But he’s with another witch.”

“Oh. Who is it?”

In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. “Harry Potter.”

“Ah.” Luna nodded sagely. “Your one true love.”

“What?”

“You were already in love with him when you were little. You heard all the stories about him.” Luna smiled.

“That wasn’t the real Harry Potter,” Ginny protested. “And that was not love. I was just a silly little girl.”

“And it’s different now?” Luna cocked her head sideways, one of her Dirigible Plum earrings pulling straight up.

“Yes.” She wasn’t a little girl any more. “I know he’s not the Boy-Who-Lived. Nor the boy from the stories. But he’s handsome, kind, brave…” She shrugged. “I just know, you know?”

Luna nodded. “The heart knows, my mum used to say.”

Which probably explained why that witch had married Luna’s father, Ginny thought, then felt guilty. “Well… Harry’s heart doesn’t seem to know yet.” At least she hoped so.

Luna shrugged. “Mummy also said that boys were slower. Daddy too.”

Harry didn’t seem to be slow at all, if Parvati’s boasts were to be believed.“So, what did you do during the holidays?” she asked to change the subject.

“I hunted Nargles. I thought that if they’d left Hogwarts, then they might have found other places to live. But Britain’s quite large, and Daddy and I couldn’t check that much of it.” Luna pouted. Then she perked up. “But we’ve been tracking them in muggle newspapers. Unexplained thefts are on the rise! Sooner or later, we’ll get them!” Then she sighed again, her shoulders slumping. “I felt a bit lonely, with all the Nargles having gone since the school year started.”

“Well, they were probably afraid they’d get punished harshly when the Headmaster caught them,” Ginny commented. She was feeling even worse now - Luna felt lonely when her belongings weren’t being stolen?

Luna nodded. “Yes. I’m certain Dumbledore can see them with his enchanted glasses. I told Daddy to ask him for help in catching Nargles, but he didn’t want to bother the Headmaster, not when he’s so busy.”

Ginny nodded. If she ever had the opportunity to hex Malfoy or Skeeter… Without any witnesses, and when they weren’t expecting it, of course. She wasn’t stupid. “Well, are you certain that there were any Nargles before?”

Luna frowned at her. “All the evidence points at their presence. And no one has ever been able to prove that they do not exist!”

Well, there wasn’t much Ginny could say against that. Not that she wanted to argue with Luna in the first place. “But if the Nargles return to Hogwarts, please tell me.”

“Of course!” Luna beamed at her.

Ginny nodded, satisfied. She might not be able to prove the existence of thieving animals, but she, and her brothers, would be able to do something about human thieves.

*****

**London, Merton, January 7th, 1995**

She was growing into a woman, Hermione Granger thought, studying herself in the new mirror in her room. Well, her honesty compelled her to correct herself, she had started to, at least. Without the help from her enchanted robes, her bust wouldn’t have drawn nearly as much attention as it had at the New Year’s Ball. And her overbite was back - although slightly less pronounced. Mr Fletcher had told her that she should keep it as it was, since it would make it harder to associate her with her future disguises, but she had flat-out refused. She was a witch, and she drew the line at keeping this… blemish just for a marginally better disguise. In a year, her teeth would have ‘grown in’, and be perfectly proportioned for her face.

She snorted. Given how easy it was to shrink her teeth, it wouldn’t be much help as a disguise anyway. At least in her opinion. Some of her friends might even wonder why she didn’t get rid of it, resulting in them paying more attention to her appearance.

Not that that would be an entirely bad thing, she thought. She still had to smile whenever she remembered Harry’s reaction to her appearance at the ball. Her magically enhanced appearance, alas. She doubted that Harry would be as impressed if he saw her rather less curvy figure right now. Which her deep sigh only emphasised. So much could be done with the right clothes, spells and makeup, and the attitude to go with them.

Although… she tilted her head to the side and put a hand on her hips, eyeing herself in the mirror. Even accounting for all those things, she didn’t think Parvati had a better figure. All that climbing and running and jumping Mr Fletcher had her do each day had done a lot of good for her body. Though, she added with a critical eye at her bust, it hadn’t done wonders for those parts of her body which could do with a bit more fat tissue. If only certain charms worked as well on flesh as they did on teeth…

On the other hand, that would probably lead to rather unpleasant incidents in a school full of teenagers. Worse than handing out Polyjuice Potion to first-years. Although… would the hormones of the new body influence the user? She had better research that before she used that potion herself. On the other hand, that might be a way to circumvent the usual protections against love potions...

A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. “Hermione? Breakfast’s ready.”

“Coming, Mum!” she answered as she grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Another advantage of the grueling training regime her tutor had her go through - she had a healthy appetite.

Before she left her room, she made sure that her notes and robes were locked up. Her parents didn’t know exactly what she was learning, and she would rather keep things that way. She had no doubt that neither of them would be thrilled at learning that she was studying how to dazzle men in the guise of a young naive witch. Or that she had tried her wiles on her best friend when he was attending a ball with his girlfriend.

And thoroughly enjoyed both his and Parvati’s reactions.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 7th, 1995**

“So… given your performance at the ball,” Mr Fletcher said as he leaned back in his seat, the Daily Prophet lying folded on his lap, “I think we need to talk a little about seducing and bedazzling marks.”

Hermione Granger frowned. “You’ve already taught me that.” She had been practising her ‘innocently seductive act’ for months, after all. “Unless you mean going further than that.” He couldn’t mean actually sleeping with someone, could he?

He coughed. “No, I’m not going to teach a girl how to sleep with marks.” He muttered something under his breath that she didn’t catch. “What I want to talk about - what I think we need to talk about - is the difference between seducing a mark and seducing a lover.”

She frowned again, and he sighed. “What was the difference between your dance with Melchior Smith and your chat with Potter?”

“Smith wanted to sleep with me in the winter garden. Harry simply snuck a peek at my body,” she answered. Well, more than a peek - he had been ogling her.

“That’s true, but not what I meant. What was the difference between the two boys?”

“One was a creep trying to sleep with naive young witches, the other is a dear friend.” With a jealous girlfriend.

“Almost. One was a mark, and one was a friend. And you shouldn’t mix up the two. When you lead someone on to get into a manor, or to find out a secret, you need to be detached and to keep your goal in mind.”

“You said that I should focus on thinking as the disguise, to better fool those who’d pry at my mind.”

“That too.” he frowned briefly. “What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t treat your friends like marks.”

“It was just a prank!” she protested.

“It was,” he agreed. “And a good test too. But… it’s a slippery slope, there. Where does a harmless prank end and a con start?” He shook his head. “You don’t want to end up manipulating all your friends as if they were marks, trust me. That’s a good way to lose your friends. Even if they never find out you duped them, a friendship shouldn’t be based on lies.”

“I’ve no intention of doing that to Harry. I just wanted to show him that I’m a pretty witch too.” Especially after what he had said about her.

“Good.” He nodded. “You’ve got more important goals to achieve, after all.”

Oh, yes, she did. Hermione grinned. If she could fool her best friend then she could certainly fool her enemies.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 9th, 1995**

“Harry! Harry!”

Harry Potter jerked when he heard his girlfriend yell in the common room, and he drew his wand without thinking as he looked for the closest cover - a seat nearby. On his right side, Ron had done the same. But there was no threat that he could see, just Parvati heading towards him with a magazine in hand.

She didn’t seem to have noticed Harry and Ron’s reaction, though - or she was ignoring their drawn wands. It was hard to tell with her.

“Yes, Parvati?” he asked as he lowered his wand.

She thrust her magazine at him. “Did you see this? We’re on the cover of Teen Witch Weekly!”

“Ah.” He took the magazine and looked at the cover. It showed him and Parvati dancing at the New Year’s Ball. Quite a good picture - both of them were smiling happily. ‘In-depth article on page 5’, the blurb next to the picture promised.

He opened the magazine while Parvati on one side and Ron on the other peered over his shoulder. He hoped that the article would be as flattering as the cover - his family could use all the good press they could get.

“Boy-Who-Lived took his girlfriend to another ball…” The article focused on his and Parvati’s robes, their dancing, and that this was the second time they had appeared arm in arm, so the relationship was confirmed. Not much about Sirius, other than mentioning Harry’s godfather’s presence, and some speculation about his influence on Harry. But nothing negative, either. Which was a good sign.

He smiled at Parvati. “I’ll have to show this to Sirius.” Even though his godfather would tease him about it.

“Oh, yes! We should buy a few more copies!” Parvati hugged him. “This is great! I’ll send one home to Mum! Padma will be so jealous!”

“Is there a picture of that foreign witch you met at the ball as well?” Ron asked. Harry’s friend was craning his neck to look at the other pictures inside the magazine, and seemed to ignore the glare Parvati shot him.

“That hussy?” Harry winced. His girlfriend hadn’t taken well to Miss Merriweather. Not at all. She wasn’t smiling any more either. “No. She’s not in any of the pictures,” Parvati said in a tone that told Harry that she had thoroughly checked.

“Oh, too bad. I hoped to see for myself if she had been as stunning as they said,” Ron, clueless about just what he was doing to Harry’s relationship, said.

“People have been talking about her?” Parvati glanced at Harry.

“Not me!” he said quickly. Not to anyone but Sirius - and Ron. Who, Harry thought with a glare of his own at his friend, should know better than to talk about that witch.

“Ah…” Ron blinked, then shook his head. “No, Harry didn’t say a word about her. I heard it from Smith.”

Parvati sniffed. “You haven’t said a word about her? After you almost hurt your neck staring at her backside when we left them?”

Harry winced again. Ron’s lie had just made things worse. And the next weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend. He didn’t know how Parvati would react to his plans to meet Hermione in the village.

He would have to ask Sirius how best to handle this if he didn’t want to anger either witch.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 10th, 1995**

“Sirius? Do you have a moment?” Harry Potter asked when that day’s special lesson had ended.

“For you? Always!” His godfather said, beaming at him. Then he blinked. “Unless I’m currently enjoying the company of a pretty witch, and it’s not an emergency, of course. In that case, you’ll have to wait.” He grinned widely.

Harry didn’t roll his eyes, but sighed, then glanced over his shoulder at Ron. His friend was still repairing the desks he had set afire in an attempt to distract Remus and Sirius. Remus was doing his own part in restoring the Defence classroom to its prior state - combat training tended to be hard on the environment.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Trouble with Ron?” he asked in a lower voice.

“Not exactly,” Harry said. “It’s more like trouble with my girlfriend.”

“Ah!” Sirius nodded sagely. “But it might concern him?” He gasped. “Oh… you’re not dating both twins, are you? That would certainly cause some trouble, seeing as things didn’t work out between him and the other twin.”

“What?” Harry stared at Sirius, then glanced back. Ron was still busy, and didn’t seem to have overheard them. “No, no!” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t cheat on Parvati!”

“Good. Although a threesome with twins would certainly be among the best reasons for cheating on your girlfriend,” Sirius once again nodded as if he had just stated something very profound, then laughed and shook his head. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood, Harry.” He conjured a seat for himself, and one for Harry with a flick of his wrist. “Come, let’s sit down and talk about this seriously.”

Sometimes, his godfather’s attempts at making light of serious problems were very annoying, Harry thought. He sighed and sank into the soft armchair. “Alright. You know about the New Year’s Ball.”

Sirius nodded with a wide grin. “Oh, yes! Who would have thought that Malfoy’s attempts to destroy my reputation would have resulted in me being seen as so attractive to certain witches?”

“I don’t mean that,” Harry hastened to clarify. “I told you that Parvati was upset about our talk with that American witch.”

“I thought she was upset about your flirting.” Sirius frowned.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “Miss Merriweather was flirting.” With him. As Parvati had explained to him. In detail. Several times. Loudly, too.

“Alright. So, your girlfriend was upset about another witch flirting with you. And you fear that means that she doesn’t trust you.” He nodded, rubbing his chin. “You might be correct, too.” He sighed. “Witches are often very unreasonable when it comes to wizards being polite and sociable with other witches. The stories I could tell...” His eyes seemed to lose their focus as he trailed off.

Harry quickly spoke up before his godfather could get lost in what was left of his memories. Sirius was getting better, but he still had a long way to go, and he was bound to jumble the memories he had retained or recovered so far. At least that’s what Remus had said, in private. “Well, Ron set her off again yesterday, when he asked if there was a picture of Miss Merriweather in that magazine.” And she hadn’t talked to him again until this morning.

“Chocolate and flowers,” Sirius said.

“What?” Harry blinked.

“A tried and true way to get a witch to forgive you for whatever she thinks you have done. Or not done.”

“Ah.” Harry started to nod, then shook his head. “It’s not about that. This weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Take her to Honeydukes then.” Sirius nodded. “Best chocolate in the world. Don’t let any Swiss or Belgian tell you otherwise! Although Madam Puddifoot’s is better if you want to be intimate.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “Please let me explain my problem before interrupting me.” He took a deep breath. “Ron and I were going to meet Hermione in Hogsmeade.”

Sirius nodded. “Ah.”

“And I think Parvati expects me to take her to Hogsmeade. Alone.”

“Yes, you are probably correct.” Sirius rubbed his goatee. “Your friends, or your girlfriend - the age-old question any wizard has to answer one day.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve been there myself.”

“And what did you do?”

“I picked my friends, of course. Unless the witch was really pretty and really affectionate. In that case, I might have made a temporary exception,” Sirius said. “But a few kisses in Puddifoot’s aren’t worth a friendship. Nothing is worth that, actually.”

Harry stared at him. “And what if she dumps me over this?”

“Then you find another girlfriend who isn’t so insecure and controlling.” His godfather shrugged. “There are plenty of pretty witches in Hogwarts, and you’re only in your fourth year.”

“But…” He didn’t want to break up with Parvati. She was pretty, and nice, when she wasn’t angry at him. “I like her!”

“Enough to end your friendship with Ron and Hermione?” Sirius cocked his head to the side.

“What? Of course not!” The three of them had gone through so much together, to end their friendship was… Harry couldn’t find the right word for how unthinkable it was.

“Then any girlfriend of yours has to accept that. She can be with you at Hogwarts every day - or night,” Sirius added with a leer. He quickly grew serious again, though. “You can only meet Hermione on the Hogsmeade weekends, though. Under those circumstance, it would be very selfish of your girlfriend to expect you to spend the weekend with her instead of with your friends.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. That made a lot of sense. But he didn’t think Parvati would see it like that. On the other hand, she couldn’t be jealous of Ron and Hermione, could she? Ron was his best mate, and Hermione… well, she was a witch, but she wasn’t as pretty as Parvati. Or as Miss Merriweather. And she certainly didn’t flirt with him! His girlfriend shouldn’t be jealous of her. He smiled at his godfather. “Thanks! That really helped!”

“Anytime, Harry.”

*****

**Hogsmeade, January 14th, 1995**

“Are you alright?” Hermione Granger frowned as she looked at her best friend. Harry seemed to be a little distracted. And the Hog’s Head Inn didn’t offer many distractions. At least not in the afternoon - she had heard from her tutor that the pub wasn’t a suitable place for a young lady once night had fallen.

“Huh? Yes. I’m just…” he trailed off. Another bad sign. Something was eating at him.

“He’s worried that his girlfriend will hex him,” Ron cut in.

“No, I’m not!” Harry responded, rather sharply, in Hermione’s opinion.

“Why would your girlfriend want to hex you?” she asked, ignoring his claims to the contrary. If Parvati was abusing Harry...

“She said that she was fine with me meeting you,” Harry said.

Hermione blinked. “You don’t sound as if you believe that she’s being sincere.”

“Well… I thought she looked angry for a moment when I told her about our plans for today.” Harry shrugged. “But I told her that you’re my best friend, and unlike Parvati, I can’t see you every day.”

Hermione smiled at him. That was so sweet, to put her friendship over his girlfriend’s desires. It was just like Harry.

“Well, according to Ginny, Parvati’s not happy about it,” Ron added. Hermione nodded in agreement - she had no doubt that the witch wanted to monopolise Harry’s attention.

Harry shook his head. “She shouldn’t be unhappy. There’s no reason to be jealous of Hermione, and I told her that, too.”

Hermione felt her smile slip a little. As with a similar statement before the ball, this flat declaration stung a little. More than a little, in fact. She might not have dressed up, but still! “Well, she might be feeling insecure. We’ve been best friends for years, and she’s only been your girlfriend for a few weeks.”

Harry frowned. “That’s true, but you’re completely different! I mean, she isn’t jealous of Ron, is she?”

Hermione forced herself not to snap at Harry. Fortunately, Mr Fletcher had been teaching her how to maintain her composure and keep smiling even if she didn’t feel like it. “Well, I would think that I’ve got a bit more in common with Parvati than with Ron, since I’m a witch and not a wizard,” she pointed out. She almost pushed her chest out to emphasise the difference, but restrained herself. Not that her jumper was tight enough for that to work well anyway.

“Yes, but it’s not as if I want to kiss you,” Harry said. “Or you, Ron.”

“You better not!” Ron laughed.

Hermione forced herself to join in. “Parvati should trust you then,” she said. “It’s not as if you’re flirting with other witches, right?”

“No, I’m not.” Harry shook his head. “I wouldn’t cheat on my girlfriend.”

“Unless they’re pretty foreigners,” Ron added.

“Oh?” Hermione looked at him. Was Harry flirting with the French witches at Hogwarts?

Harry sighed and glared at their friend. “I wasn’t flirting with Miss Merriweather. She was flirting with me. Or rather, with the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“Miss Merriweather?” Hermione tried to sound as casual as possible. That was the perfect occasion to find out what he thought about her!

“An American witch Harry met at the Smith’s ball,” Ron explained. “Apparently very pretty, and very flirty.”

“Yes. Parvati was quite annoyed with her.”

“Ah.” Hermione pursed her lips to keep from smiling. So much for Harry’s claim that he didn’t want to kiss her!

On the other hand, it also meant that she needed to really dress up and be very forward to impress boys. Her mother’s advice to ‘just be yourself’ obviously wasn’t working.

Hermione didn’t think that she liked what that said about her.

*****

“Harry!”

Harry Potter jerked when he heard the loud voice, and had raised his wand before he recognised his girlfriend. She ignored that, as usual, and he barely had time to move it out of the way before she hugged him.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Parvati beamed at him from between two of the shelves in Tomes and Scrolls, and before he could say anything, she was kissing him. Passionately, as Sirius would say, meaning with tongue. And not just for a brief time, either. He was wrapping his arms around her when he heard Hermione clear her throat.

“Hello, Parvati.”

His girlfriend pulled back from his embrace and smiled at her. “Hermione! You haven’t changed at all! You’ve still got that wild mane.”

“I could say the same,” Hermione answered with a sweet smile of her own, though she was staring at Parvati’s chest, Harry noticed. And her smile looked rather toothy, too. As did Parvati’s.

“I thought I would buy a few books while you were with your friends,” Parvati said. “I didn’t know you’d come here as well.”

“Ah, you must have forgotten how much I like books.” Hermione took a step closer to him. “Harry knows that, of course, and offered to take me here.”

“Ah, he is too kind. Generous too.” Parvati nodded.

“Oh, yes.”

Harry was certain that he was missing some context here. And he was also certain that if he didn’t do something, hexes would fly soon - despite the two witches’ smiles. Or because of them.

“So, let’s look at the latest releases!” he said with forced cheer. “Where did Ron disappear to?”

“He went to the Quidditch section,” Hermione said. “Let’s join him - I think they have an illustrated book of the World Cup, with all the best plays.”

“You’re interested in Quidditch?” Parvati sounded surprised.

“Oh, yes - I was at the Cup with Harry.”

“Ah.” His girlfriend glanced at him.

“We were all there - Hermione, Ron, my godfather and I,” Harry explained. It wasn’t as if he had been there with just Hermione.

“Oh.” Parvati suddenly smiled widely and hooked her arm into his. “Let’s go then!”

Harry wasn’t certain if he should be glad or concerned that Parvati had apparently decided to join their group.

He almost wished that Malfoy would show up to cause trouble. He knew how to handle the git, but he didn’t know how to handle this situation.

*****

Hermione Granger forced herself to smile at Harry’s girlfriend, even though she really wanted to hex the witch. Parvati had shown quite some nerve, forcing herself on Harry when he was in Hogsmeade with her and Ron! And her poor friend must have lost all feeling in his left arm, judging by how tightly the obviously attention-craving witch was clinging to it.

That was as transparent as the ‘chance meeting’ in the bookshop earlier - as if Parvati would be caught dead in a bookshop, outside the cosmetic charms section, at least. Or maybe the Potions section, Hermione added in her head, so she could brew a love potion.

And now they were walking down the main road, and instead of chatting with Harry and Ron, she was forced to listen to the inane things Harry’s girlfriend was spouting.

“Oh, look Harry - they have a sale on Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion!” Parvati said, dragging Harry to the side, almost making him stumble.

Hermione clenched her teeth, then forced herself to keep smiling - she knew what was coming.

“Maybe Hermione would want to buy some? It’s expensive, but I’ve heard it works wonders for even the worst hair!”

Yes - two barbs. One about her hair, and one about her finances. Hermione glanced towards Ron, who was frowning - since his family was poor, he would have likely caught the second barb. Unlike Harry.

“Really? Would you like some, Hermione? Sirius told me that it was invented by my family,” Harry said, smiling at her.

He really was too nice, and too good for Parvati. Too clueless too, alas, Hermione thought. She shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but I would rather not disguise myself like that, she lied. “Imagine waking up next to your girlfriend in the morning, and discovering that her beauty was simply magic and cosmetics. Hypothetically speaking, of course,” she added, with a smile and a glance at Parvati. “Besides, I happen to like my ‘wild, untamed mane’. My mum said she had the same hair when she was a teenager, and as you know, her hair grew out nicely.” She wasn’t entirely lying there - though she doubted that her mum’s hair had ever been as bad as hers, no matter what her mother claimed. She had seen pictures, after all!

Parvati, of course, was fuming behind her smiling and cosmetic-covered facade. Harry hadn’t met her family, had he? “Ah, that’s too bad. You’ll be missing out on so much until that happens.” The way the witch ‘accidentally’ pressed her modest bust into Harry’s arm left no doubt in Hermione’s mind what she meant.

She was strongly tempted to demonstrate just how much a few hairstyling charms could do, but that would not be a good idea - her future cover relied on Hermione Granger being a rather plain girl. Although, in hindsight, perhaps she shouldn’t have dismissed the consequences this tactic would have on her social life as quickly as she had, almost two years ago. But, oh, to stroll through Hogsmeade in her guise as Merriweather, and accidentally stumble upon - or into! - the Boy-Who-lived….

She pushed the fantasy away as she shrugged. “It’s not as if I have much free time anyway, with all the things I have to study on my own.” She noted with satisfaction, though also with some guilt, that Harry and Ron looked sympathetic at this reminder of her circumstances.

Unfortunately, Parvati nodded in - apparent - sympathy as well, instead of falling for the bait and gloating. “And to think that Malfoy and his friends are still at Hogwarts! Fortunately, the Headmaster has cowed them.”

“Yes,” Ron cut in, laughing, “Snape must be having ulcers at having to punish the git on Dumbledore’s orders!”

“Hasn’t Malfoy learned his lesson yet?” Hermione asked. If she wanted to plan her revenge properly, she needed to learn all she could about her enemies.

Harry shrugged. “He hasn’t done anything in public lately, but I don’t think he has changed at all.”

“He’s still a git,” Ron added. “But we’re keeping an eye out for him and his ilk whenever we’re outside the common room. If he tries anything...” - a flick of Ron’s wrist made his wand appear in his hand. Enchanted quick-draw holster, Hermione noticed. Those were expensive - “...then we deal with him.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” she cautioned her friends and Parvati. “He likes to target Harry and all his friends.”

The other three nodded, but Hermione couldn’t help feeling that they weren’t as cautious as they should be. At least Harry and Ron were getting extracurricular defence training, so they should be OK. And so would Harry’s girlfriend, if she kept clinging to him as she did.

Not even Parvati, Hermione added silently to herself as the witch in question dragged Harry over to a stall that sold scarves, deserved to become the next victim of Malfoy.

The witch would be safer if she and Harry broke up, of course, but Hermione couldn’t mention that. Harry would probably think that he should stop seeing Hermione as well, to keep her safe.

She silently sighed as she followed her friends to the next stall. Harry was a great friend, but sometimes he was too nice and too dense.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 19th, 1995**

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Harry. Please have a seat.”

Harry Potter sat down in front of Dumbledore’s desk, a little nervous despite the Headmaster’s friendly manner. He hadn’t done anything - at least nothing he thought that the Headmaster would take offence to - but still…

“You may be wondering why I called you to my office.”

And such remarks didn’t help, Harry thought as he nodded. Had something happened to Sirius? But the Headmaster wouldn’t be smiling in that case, would he?

“It concerns your mother’s protection. As you know, I have been unable to move it from your aunt’s home to Sirius’s home.”

Harry was all too aware of that. He shrugged. “We found a solution that allows me to keep the protection with the absolute minimum amount of contact with my relatives.”

The Headmaster sighed as he inclined his head. “Indeed. It is not ideal, but workable at least.”

“Did you find another solution?” Despite his feigned nonchalance, Harry would love to be able to completely avoid his relatives. Grimmauld Place felt like home, even with parts of it still filled with cursed items and unknown, but likely dark, knicknacks.

“I am sorry to say that I have not. Although I would like to research your protection further, with your permission, of course - I do think that it warrants a closer look, given the Dark Lord’s return. If we could duplicate it, the coming conflict is likely to be much less costly that the previous one.” Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. “But given the extremely personal nature of your protection, and since I cannot guarantee any results, I would understand if you do not wish this to be investigated further.”

Harry stared at the Headmaster. As if he would be so selfish - he understood only too well the terrible cost of the last war. As did his surviving family. “Please go ahead - I certainly won’t oppose anything that can be used against Voldemort.”

“Thank you, Harry.” The Headmaster smiled. “But while I do not think this request will be problematic, there are things that could be useful in such a conflict, yet carry far too great a cost to be used. A cost that you might not realise until it is too late.”

“You mean the Dark Arts?” Harry frowned - Sirius had mentioned using a few dark curses.

“Among other things. The Dark Arts are often just one step along a path that many start with the best of intentions. A slippery slope, if you will. People start making sacrifices, for expediency or effectiveness, convinced that the end justifies those means. They might even be correct, at the start. But slowly, step by step, sacrifice by sacrifice, they reach a point where that is no longer true - but few can bring themselves to abandon their chosen path then, since they fear such a decision would render their previous sacrifices meaningless.”

Harry nodded at the Headmaster’s earnest words, even though he wasn’t certain if the old wizard was talking to him, or to himself.

“You do not think this could happen to you, do you?” Dumbledore asked with a sad smile.

“Well…” Harry shrugged. His parents had done everything, sacrificed themselves, to save him. Could he do any less, should it be needed, to save his family and friends?

“Ah, the confidence of youth.” Dumbledore smiled, but he wasn’t looking at Harry as he did so.

Harry cleared his throat. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Is that why you haven’t, well, squashed Malfoy like a bug?” he quoted his godfather.

Dumbledore chuckled. “I see Sirius still likes colourful language.” He shook his head. “But to answer your question: No, the reason I have not moved more, shall we say, aggressively against Lucius, is not that I fear it would cause me to travel too far down the slippery slope I mentioned.” His smile turned wry. “I am not boasting when I say that I know which lines I can cross, and which I cannot. No, the last war taught me, all too painfully, that I cannot shy away from doing what is needed, even when it might be questionable. The reason I haven’t taken actions such as those to which your godfather so colourfully alludes is that I do not desire to expose myself to the Dark Lord.” He leaned back. “Voldemort is back in Britain. Too much has happened that shows his wandwork for there to be any other explanation. But I do not know what his plans are, other than his obvious objectives, such as my death.”

“And mine,” Harry added.

Dumbledore nodded. “But what role does Lucius play? The Dark Lord is not above sacrificing his followers if he deems it necessary. Is he waiting for me to take more direct action, so he can paint me as a criminal? Or has he prepared an ambush? Or is Lucius not aware of the Dark Lord’s machinations, and acting on his own, as his behaviour during Peter’s trial might indicate?” He spread his hands. “Without knowing more, I have to tread very carefully, lest I play into the Dark Lord’s hands.”

“Ah.” That made sense, Harry thought. But it also meant that the situation was worse than he had thought. And that the Headmaster’s request was even more important.

“So shall we start examining your mother’s magnum opus?” Dumbledore asked, drawing his wand.

Harry nodded.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 26th, 1995**

“Oh… that had to hurt. Diggory failed to dispel the enchantment in that tube, and had to freeze the water below him to keep from falling out of the arena. Can he still continue? Yes, he can! Diggory is getting up! His leg looks broken, but… yes! He’s transfigured it to stone, and is continuing!”

The second task of the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t quite as educational as the first - at least as far as her future career as a thief was concerned, Hermione Granger thought as she watched the Hogwarts Champion limp on. Unless she ever encountered a mansion made of enchanted water which she had to break into. One enchanted with all the spells a master of Transfiguration like Dumbledore could muster. She doubted that anyone else would use such spells for home defence - they were not lethal enough, she thought, for those who would want to turn their home into a trap.

She observed the other champions while Bagman prattled on about Diggory.

Krum was still literally going through the maze on a straight course, no matter whether that led him down a tube made of water or through a wall of enchanted ice. An unimaginative tactic, she thought, but, as Diggory’s example had just shown, not a bad one since the maze’s paths were riddled with spells that required the contestants to deal with them.

Delacour, though, was navigating the maze in a more traditional way, using Divination to pick the best route - or so Hermione thought; she was once again reminded of the unfortunate fact that she wasn’t able to study all the subjects she wanted. She could, of course, study them at a later date. Once those who had framed and slandered her were dealt with. The best revenge was living well, after all.

Diggory had been running through the maze like Delacour, but had then decided to take a shortcut through the second floor - and had almost fallen through the bottom floor when his spell had apparently created a larger hole than he had planned.

The task was visually very appealing, though - Dumbledore might have found twelve uses for Dragon blood, but he had found many more ways to enchant water, often with spectacular, if - for the champions - rather stressful, results.

Harry and Ron certainly seemed to love the spectacle. Parvati though… Hermione doubted that the girl was sparing any attention for the task, not when she was so busy watching her boyfriend as if he’d stray as soon as she took her eyes off him. The witch had trust issues, Hermione thought.

“Delacour is almost at the centre now! With the French witch so close to winning the task, can the other champions still challenge her? Krum seems unimpressed - probably; it’s hard to tell with him. Diggory’s been falling behind ever since he broke his leg, but with defeat looming, will he take another gamble? He’s changing course… towards the red pipe. But that’s away from the centre! What is he planning? Or did he fall victim to a Confundus trap? He’s breaching the pipe! And he gets hit with high-pressure red water! No, he’s riding the geyser - towards the centre of the maze. Or… no! He missed! Diggory goes out of bounds, and Delacour wins!”

The French among the audience - and many wizards, Hermione thought - broke out in cheers as the maze flowed away, leaving the Vela standing in the centre of the arena, holding the jewel that had been the task’s prize.

“And Diggory goes to the Infirmary,” Ron commented as everyone winced at the sight and sounds of the Hufflepuff bouncing on the ice roof of the maze, before sliding off and hitting the ground below.

“The ground’s covered with Cushioning Charms,” Hermione pointed out. She was very familiar with those spells, from her climbing and flying training.

“Well, the roof isn’t. That’s worth a whole bottle of Skele-Gro,” Harry retorted.

“You would know, mate,” Ron said, earning himself a glare from both Harry and Parvati.

Hermione was tempted to ask if her friend regularly had to drink the potion to help his left arm recover from stress fractures, since Parvati seemed to be hanging on to it at every opportunity. She refrained from being so catty, though - she wasn’t like Parvati.

“Let’s go back to Hogwarts,” Harry’s girlfriend said as Diggory was levitated off the field, and Delacour proclaimed the victor, “I’m freezing.”

Hermione doubted that - the witch was obviously soaking up Harry’s body heat. She probably simply wanted to get rid of Hermione, who wasn’t allowed into the school proper. So she smiled sweetly and drew her wand. “I can cast a Warming Charm on you. I didn’t realise you hadn’t learned that spell yet.”

“It’s part of the third year curriculum,” Ginny cut in. “Did you forget how to cast it, Parvati? I thought that rumour that you had your sister take your exams for you was just malicious gossip.” She laughed, but obviously just to be able to claim that she was only joking.

Parvati’s answering smile was sickly-sweet. “Oh, I was actually trying to subtly remind my boyfriend that he should embrace me,” she said.

Unfortunately, Harry seemed to believe her, Hermione noted, since he quickly hugged the witch. Boys! “Let’s just stay here for as bit,” she said. “No one else is in a hurry to leave.”  Which was to be expected - since it wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend, the students weren’t allowed into the village, and the visitors weren’t allowed into the school, so everyone who was using this event as an opportunity to meet their family had to stay in the arena.

“Oh, look! It’s a Grim!” Luna’s delighted cry interrupted the squabble between Ginny and Parvati. Hermione turned around and saw the blonde was pointing at a pitch-black dog in the stands above them, probably looking for food.

“Merlin’s Beard!” Ron didn’t sound delighted at all. “She’s right!”

“I think it’s just a normal dog. Maybe a familiar,” Harry said. He was glaring at the animal, though, Hermione saw. She understood the sentiment - the dog was massive, and certainly did the idea of a Grim justice.

“Probably,” she agreed. “It doesn’t look aggressive, though.” She had seen that dog before, after all, in Diagon Alley. Not that she’d mention that, though - she had been in her disguise as Merriweather.

As if it had heard her, the dog barked and jumped a few rows down, landing next to Harry. Parvati shrieked in response, but the animal ignored her, instead looking around.

Hermione smirked as Harry tried to calm down his easily startled girlfriend. Some Gryffindor Parvati was! “He’s probably hungry. Are you, boy?” she asked, holding out the remains of her meat pocket.

The dog sniffed her hand first, then grabbed the food - and Hermione almost shrieked herself when she realised just how big its jaws were. And then she did shriek when the dog started to slobber all over her.

And her traitorous friends just laughed!

*****

**London, Merton, February 28th, 1995**

Hermione Granger was just about to solve the last Arithmancy task of her ‘homework’ when the doorbell interrupted her. Since both her parents were still at work, she sighed and went downstairs, wondering who was visiting them during the day.

A quick glance through the spyhole gave her the answer: Mr Black, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and a wide smile. He knew her address - he had arranged payment for the house, after all - but to show up like this… If it was him.

She opened the door with her left hand and aimed her wand at his face. “What did you say to me when we met for the first time?”

“Ah, Miss Granger! Welcome to my humble home!” he answered, tilting his head slightly. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch and his grin didn’t falter. Or maybe he didn’t take her seriously, and was just humouring her. “And I said that you were not as serious as Harry had said.”

Good enough, she decided and stepped aside. “Please enter, Mr Black.”

“Thank you, Miss Merriweather,” he said as he stepped inside.

Hermione froze for a moment, but recovered quickly. “I guess Mr Smith needs more students,” she commented after closing the door. They had avoided him at the ball, but apparently, Mr Black had put two and two together.

“Ah… yes, he does.” He nodded. “And not only because he obviously knows how to teach witches to present themselves to their best advantage,” he added with a leer at her.

She glared at him, then pointed at the living room. “Please have a seat.”

A few minutes later, he was sniffing at the glass of her dad’s best whisky she had offered him.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “But feel free to check.”

He chuckled, but didn’t follow her advice before taking a sip. “Ah… it tastes better than it smells,” he said with an air entirely unsuited to a man dressed more like a biker than a rich gentleman. Apparently, her dad’s best whisky wasn’t good enough for the refined palate of the Head of the Black family.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it,” she said.

“Ah… you need to try Ogden’s Best.”

“I prefer not to set my hair on fire while drinking,” she retorted.

That made him laugh.

“So... what brings you to my family’s humble home?” she asked once he had taken another sip from his glass. She had some suspicions.

“Well… I’m here to offer you my help.” He smiled widely at her.

“Your help?” Hermione frowned. “You’ve already saved my family from ruin.”

He dismissed that with a gesture, as if it hadn’t been of any importance. “That was just gold. I want to help you with your ‘education’.” He leaned forward and folded his hands. “And your revenge, of course.”

While she had no doubt that Mr Black would love to see those who had hurt her punished - Harry had told her his godfather’s opinion of those old pureblood families - she also had no doubt that he wasn’t here simply to offer his help. He wouldn’t have had to meet her in private, without her tutor or parents present, otherwise. He probably wanted to use her for his own revenge. But she already owed him too much to turn him down anyway.

But she needed to know more. She shrugged. “You know that I’m far from being ready to take my revenge.” Unfortunately, that was true. She was a good student, but Mr Fletcher had told her repeatedly that she wasn’t yet ready for a real heist. Once she had learned to cast silently, though...

“I know. But Harry also told me that you’re a genius. And Remus said you did very well, especially for a homeschooled student, from what he saw of your exams.”

She almost snarled at that comment. She wanted to excel without such a qualifier. “I’m flattered,” she lied.

“Harry also told me that you’re very competitive.” His grin widened, and she frowned. She had thought she had worked on her tells.

But if that was how he wanted to play it… “What could you teach me that Mr Smith can’t?”

“It’s not what I can teach you - I’m no thief, after all - but what I can offer you: access to the Old Families and the Ministry.” He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. “I’m the Head of the Black family. We might not be the oldest pureblood family, although my dead mother would dispute that, but we’re the richest. As my assistant or secretary, for example, you’d have access to the Wizengamot and the Ministry. In my company, you’d have access to circles your tutor will never have.” He frowned. “Though you probably have to grow up first before we can try that. I don’t need that particular reputation darkening my name.”

She clenched her teeth for a moment - she was growing up! - and controlled herself. He was tactless, but he was right - what he was offering would help her immensely. Even her tutor would have to see that - Mr Fletcher was always telling her that a thief used every advantage they could get without violating their rules. And he knew as well as Hermione that she couldn’t really refuse Mr Black. Not after all the wizard had done for her and her family. And even less now that he had revealed what he knew about her.

And yet… She smiled. “There is one thing you can teach me, though. One thing I really need to learn.”

“Yes?” Mr Black managed to make the single word sound lurid.

“You can teach me how to escape Azkaban.”

*****

 


	8. Forked Paths

**Near Barnstaple, Devon, Britain, March 21st, 1995**

Tonks - just Tonks, no first name, thank you very much - was very glad she was a metamorphmagus. It meant she wasn’t pale or even green in the face as she stared at the most horrible sight she had ever seen. It looked like someone had painted the entire room with blood. It smelled like it as well. And the body parts strewn across on the floor…

A rough voice distracted her before she could shudder and ruin the tough image she had, so far, managed to present to the other Aurors at the scene. “Are you reconsidering your decision to become an Auror, rookie?”

Frowning she turned around and glared at her former instructor. “No, Auror Moody, I’m not,” she said, trying to sound like her mum when she was lecturing someone.

He laughed at her attitude, as she had known he would. “That’s the spirit, lass! Two Hit-Wizards lost their breakfasts just outside. Damn rookies couldn’t even manage to vanish the vomit in time.”

“What are they doing at a crime scene anyway?” she said. Everyone, even rookies like herself, knew that Hit-Wizards were good for one thing only, and that was guarding Azkaban. Anything that required more finesse than pointing a wand at someone and cursing them was beyond the grey robes.

“Fudge’s spooked, apparently, and had a squad of them detached to the Corps, to ‘bolster our ranks’.” He walked past her, his artificial eye spinning madly as usual. “So… what do you make of this?” He asked after half a minute.

She took a deep breath - through her mouth - before answering. “Someone massacred the Outterridge family.” Father, mother, and seven-year-old daughter. They had found the heads mostly intact.

“Tell me something that’s not so obvious even a Hit-Wizard would spot it!” he interrupted her with a bark.

She swallowed her angry retort and continued: “The murderer used dark curses, probably to keep them alive while they were cut apart. Since this was done on the day of the Spring Equinox, this might have been a dark ritual. The blood wasn’t splashed around in a recognisable pattern, though, which might indicate that this was an attempt to make an ordinary murder look like a dark ritual.”

“Or it was a crazed killer revelling in literal bloodlust.”

She looked at the old Auror and narrowed her eyes. His scarred face had the same expression as when he tested her in training. “Such crimes usually have a build-up.”

“Could be a foreigner. Or someone who managed to control himself, until he broke.”

He was baiting her. She shook her head. “You don’t believe that.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” He scoffed. “This is a set up. But this is not someone trying to mask an ordinary murder as a dark ritual.” He knelt down, moving easily despite his artificial leg. “This is the work of someone trying to cover up a dark ritual.”

“What?” She blinked.

“Someone’s been too clever here - the murderer knows how the Corps investigates, and has prepared accordingly. I bet we’ll find ‘evidence’ that Outterridge was involved in some shady dealings, or borrowed gold from the wrong people. Maybe even find a ‘dark wizard’ killed by a failed ritual.”

Tonks slowly nodded. She was too smart to tell Moody that this sounded too paranoid even for him. It looked like the other veteran Aurors had been correct - her old instructor was losing it. That was probably why they had pulled him from the academy last year.

He chuckled. “You don’t believe me.”

She cursed internally. He might be losing it, but he was still too damn sharp. “It does sound a little far-fetched.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” He snorted, and tapped his scarred cheek right under his enchanted eye. “But you won’t have spotted that the blood we see here is not from the Outterridges.”

“What?” She looked around the room again. “They tested the blood. It matches the family’s blood type.”

“It certainly matches their blood type. But there’s also some faint residue from a stasis spell.” He smiled, which twisted his face into a grimace. “And why would anyone try to preserve blood, right before they splash it around, if not to hide the fact that the blood wasn’t taken from the victims at the exact time of the Spring Equinox?”

“That’s not proof.”

“You’re right it ain’t. But I’ll get a colleague of mine analyse the blood and flesh we have here. And I’ll bet you Galleons to Knuts that he’ll tell me they don’t match.” He shook his head. “This is one clever bastard here. But we’ll get him.”

So, the murderer wanted blood. And wanted to hide that he needed blood. And it was done on Spring Equinox. Just like Bagnold’s murder last year. By someone very clever.

She had to ask her mother about the family spells - and about her cousin.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, March 26th, 1995**

Tonks had to suppress a shudder when she approached the ancestral home of the Black Family. Which would have been her family, too, if not for her mother’s decision to marry her father. She had never been inside the house, but she had heard stories from her mum. The kind of stories that veterans told rookies to haze them. But Mum had been serious.

But so was Tonks - she was an Auror, and she wouldn’t be frightened away by either a cursed house, or a possibly murderous cousin who went crazy in Azkaban. She would get to the bottom of this!

Steeling herself, she tapped the door with her wand. Half a minute later, it was opened, and she found herself staring at an old house-elf.

“What’s the half-blood who shouldn’t be darkening the family’s doorstep doing here?”

Oh, yes - she had heard stories about the elf too. Fortunately, house-elves were harmless, barely more dangerous than unarmed muggles. “I’m expected by the Head of the Family,” Tonks answered.

“Stupid Master is tarnishing the family name,” the elf grumbled, but he stepped aside so she could enter.

The entrance hall didn’t look like the stories she had heard. It must have been freshly painted, she thought. That didn’t have to mean anything, of course.

“Ah, Nymphadora! Welcome to my humble home!” And there he was. Sirius Black. The Head of the Family by virtue of being the last Black. The only wizard to have ever escaped Azkaban. And the suspect in a number of murders.

“It’s Tonks,” she said through clenched teeth. “Just Tonks.” Her mum must have been hit by a Confundus Charm when she had named her, she thought.

“Ah.” His smile grew more polite, and he bowed. “Shall we retire to the sitting room?”

“Thank you.”

A minute later, both were seated in a surprisingly cozy-looking room. Even more surprisingly, there were a number of muggle newspapers and magazines next to the Prophet and… Teen Witch Weekly?

He must have noticed her look, since he laughed. “Ah, my secretary has a subscription.”

“You have a secretary?” Who was reading Teen Witch Weekly?

“Yes. I found myself somewhat challenged by all the paperwork and forms required to handle the family businesses, and so I hired a bright young witch to help me out.”

“Ah.” That explained it.

“Nothing of that sort,” Black said, frowning. “She’s far too young for my taste. Very bright, though.”

“Ah.” She wasn’t certain if he was telling the truth, but it sounded suspicious either way. “What’s her name? I might have known her at Hogwarts.”

“Hermione Granger. I trust you’re aware of her circumstances.”

She knew of that witch, but not from her time at Hogwarts. “Yes. Are you already making her work off the gold you paid for her debts?”

“I’m offering her the chance to put her talents to good use. I would certainly not hold my good deed over her head.” He was all hurt innocence. “And once you meet her, you’ll know that really, nothing of the sort you might suspect is happening. I’m only interested in her intelligence.”

Her mum had told her about that, too. And she had seen the pictures. “She’s not pretty enough for you.”

“That’s a harsh thing to say about a young witch. Not everyone can change their looks at will.”

Tonks shrugged. It wasn’t her fault that she was a metamorphmagus, and after seven years surrounded by jealous witches at Hogwarts, her cousin’s disapproval didn’t even register. “Everyone can be pretty with some effort,” she said, the platitude rolling easily off her tongue.

“Maybe.” He shrugged as well. “You mentioned that you wanted to talk to me about a family affair?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve heard about the Equinox Massacre.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Your colleagues already questioned me. Dawlish is such a bore.”

He was correct, but Tonks wouldn’t speak poorly of a fellow Auror with an outsider.

“I have an alibi, though.”

“Yes. You spent the entire night at Hogwarts. As if you knew that something might happen.” Which was very suspicious.

“I suspected something like this would happen, given last year’s events.” He smiled at her.

“Are you also aware that Black family spells were used in the crime?”

“I wasn’t told that.” He rubbed his beard. “But it doesn’t surprise me, either. I have expected that as well.”

“Auntie Narcissa has an alibi as well,” she retorted. “As does her husband.”

“Narcissa is more likely to curse herself than her victim, should she use such spells. She was never the most talented of witches.” He scoffed in dismissal.

“Who do you suspect then?” She glared at him.

“Well… I think that’s a matter best discussed with someone else.”

She tensed up. Was he working with someone? Had he taught the spells to someone else? Maybe his friend Lupin? Were those sordid rumours about them true, too? Was he trying to lure her into a trap? “Mum knows I’m here,” she said.

He laughed at that. “You’re the second paranoid witch I’ve met this month.” He shook his head. “No, we’re going to see Dumbledore. And he’ll tell you who has been murdering people and trying to frame me.”

Once again, Tonks was glad that she was a metamorphmagus. It made it a bit easier to hide her reaction.

*****

**London, Greenwich, March 28th, 1995**

“That was a failure. Do it again!” With an almost negligent wave of his wand, the room was once again filled with stains of all sorts.

Her tutor wasn’t happy with her, Hermione Granger had realised. Mr Fletcher had been a tad curt with her today, and didn’t seem to be as patient as he usually was. But he was still a far cry from Snape. And her cleaning charm had been rather sloppy, if she was honest with herself. That spell wouldn’t have cleaned up every trace of her presence in an entire room.

She took a deep breath, bit her lower lip so she wouldn’t even whisper the incantation and focused on her goal again. Then she swished her wand back and forth and flicked it twice, before pointing it at the ground with a stabbing motion.

The stains closest to her seemed to jump up from the carpet, dust and fluids gathering in the air. The stains on the furniture and walls were slower, but they too flew up and towards the growing ball of dirt that was floating near the tip of her wand.

She held her concentration, almost biting her lip bloody, until no more dirt and specks joined the ball in the air, then lifted her wand and stabbed towards the dirt.

“Evanesco!”

The dirt and fluids vanished before they hit ground. Hermione let out a relieved breath.

“Better,” came her tutor’s grudging acknowledgement. “But the Vanishing Spell wasn’t cast silently.”

The task had been to cast the cleaning charm silently. But mentioning that would make her seem petty - and she needed to be able to cast both silently if she wanted to use them on a heist, Hermione knew. So she nodded in agreement while he once more filled the room with stains of all sorts, and readied herself for the next attempt.

*****

“Are you angry with me?” she asked an hour and countless spells later, when both her tutor and herself were sitting in the - now thoroughly cleaned - kitchen, waiting for the water to boil - Mr Fletcher refused to use charms for making tea, claiming that the results were inferior to doing it by hand. Hermione hadn’t been able to taste the difference, but knew better than to say so.

She saw him press his lips together for a moment before answering. He was angry. “No. Not at you.”

“At my decision to accept Mr Black’s offer, then?” she said, sounding steadier than she felt.

“No. You couldn’t have refused him. The bastard knows you owe him. And still he let you know that he had recognised you.” Mr Fletcher scoffed. “Effin’ Bludger gave ya no choice.”

Hermione was aware of that. She knew that she wasn’t in a position to refuse Mr Black much. Not any reasonable demands, or offers, at least - she doubted that Harry would be very supportive if Hermione complained about his godfather being helpful. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, but I haven’t found the catch. His offer sounds very sensible and helpful, and his motive appears plausible as well.”

Her tutor snorted. “You mean, what does he get out of this that made him come on so strongly?” She nodded. “Information, control and deniability.”

The water was boiling now and Hermione stood to prepare the tea. She didn’t have to ask him how he liked it. “He already had control.” A fortune in Galleons, spent on her family, gave Mr Black all the leverage over her that he could ever need. Hermione paid her debts, for good or ill.

“Not enough. By involving himself in our business, by helping you as he’s offered, he ensures that he knows a lot about our plans. Not just broad strokes, but the details. Timing. Preparations. And if he controls your, our access to the Ministry and the Wizengamot, then he has a great deal more direct influence than someone who simply pays our bills.”

“He would always have controlled access to information and locations we wouldn’t have without him,” Hermione pointed out. That wasn’t exactly the same as restricting their access.

Mr Fletcher sighed. “Yes, that’s true. His offer is sensible and helpful. Far too helpful to refuse. But it also means that he’s just acquired a ‘deniable asset’, as the muggles would say.”

“As his secretary, I’m not exactly ‘a deniable asset’,” Hermione retorted. “He would have a hard time distancing himself from me.” She put his cup down in front of him, briefly wondering if Mr Black expected her to serve tea as well. Probably not, given his reaction to her dad’s whisky.

Her tutor chuckled. “He can easily claim you that you seduced him. Not now, of course, but in a few years, when you’re ready to go on heists.”

She frowned - she wasn’t a little girl anymore! She was no Delacour, but she had drawn more than just Harry’s attention at the New Year’s Ball. He didn’t have to act as if her seducing anyone was completely implausible. And she planned to be ready for a real heist much earlier than in a few years.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mr Fletcher said, and she wondered for a moment if he had caught on to what she had been thinking. Then he continued: “You saw how many witches were interested in him at the New Year’s Ball. Rich, handsome, a tragic past, and the head of one of the oldest pureblood families? With Dumbledore vouching for him to counter Malfoy’s rumours, Black’ll have his pick of witches for years. He won’t bother you.”

“Good to know.” It _was_ good. And she didn’t really fear that - a word to Harry would put a stop to such demands, she was certain. But to be dismissed out of hand like that… she was a witch too! And she was growing up!

“You don’t sound that happy about it.” He was looking at her intently.

“I’m not interested in him,” she was quick to explain. “But shouldn’t I be able to pose as his escort? In a few years, I mean. That’s what we’ve been training for, after all.”

He sighed. “Yes. But you’ll also know better than to fall for the likes of Black.”

“I’m not falling for him. Or for anyone,” she corrected him. “It’s all an act.” He had told and taught her that himself, after all. Even if he hadn’t actually taught her that much yet.

“Even with your friend?” He didn’t have to say which friend.

“Yes. It was just a prank.” Mostly on Parvati, too. Hermione wouldn’t toy with Harry’s heart.

Her tutor didn’t look entirely convinced, but he dropped the topic as they both enjoyed their tea.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 8th, 1995**

Deep down, Harry Potter still didn’t consider Grimmauld Place his home. It was just too good to be true - like magic. Sometimes he dreamed that it had all been a mistake, that he had to return to Privet Drive. And he found himself in front of his aunt’s house, trunk at his feet. Usually, it was raining too. Just as he had had, although rarely, nightmares in his first year at Hogwarts, where they took his wand and sent him back, with Snape and Malfoy cackling as he was sent out the gate to find his own way home - to Privet Drive. The effect of a dozen years spent with relatives who didn’t like him and were afraid of magic didn’t disappear overnight.

He was getting better, though. Just as, Harry added to himself when he heard his godfather in the hallway, Sirius was.

“Ah, there you are!” Sirius said, standing in the doorway.

“In my room, yes. Shocking, isn’t it?” Harry closed his now empty trunk and slid it to the wall opposite his bed.

Sirius snorted. “Sassy like James. Did I tell you the story of how he once got a week’s detention for talking back to McGonagall?”

He had - or tried to. Twice. Harry nodded, though. “Oh, yes. I certainly won’t make that mistake myself.”

Sirius chuckled. “We were a right bunch of rascals. Called ourselves ‘Marauders’, even. Drove Lily spare when she was a prefect. She could never catch us, thanks to the map, and James used to tease her so much...” He blinked. “Ah, speaking of witches. You know how I told you that you have the run of the house, with the exception of my own room and Remus’s?”

“Yes. And Regulus’s.” Harry really didn’t want to incur the wrath of Kreacher, who had turned the room of Sirius’s dead brother into a family shrine.

“Bah! That damn crazy elf needs to let go.” Sirius shook his head. “Anyway, the room at the north-eastern corner is now occupied as well, so if you’re going to ravish your girlfriend, you can’t use that one.”

“What?” Harry couldn’t claim that he had no intentions of getting more intimate with Parvati - those dreams were far more frequent than his nightmares, after all - but he hadn’t actually… “I mean, whose room is it?”

“Hermione’s.”

He blinked. “Hermione’s living here? What happened to her home?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Sirius frowned. “I thought I did. I’m rather certain that I did, actually.”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry said. And why hadn’t she told him? It had to have happened after the last Hogsmeade weekend in March. “What happened?”

“I hired her as my secretary.”

“You what?” Harry Potter stared at his godfather. He shook his head before Sirius could repeat himself. “Why?”

Sirius shrugged. “Well, I need help dealing with the family businesses. My parents were a little disorganised in their last years.”

Since Sirius was among the least-organised men Harry knew - he would have driven Harry’s aunt spare in a single day - that probably meant that ‘complete and utter chaos’ would better describe the state of the family finances. “I mean, why hire her? She’s…” He trailed off. Hermione wasn’t at school anymore, though she should be. “I mean… she’s my age!”

“Well, mostly because she’s your best friend. That means I can trust her.” Sirius said. He grinned. “You wouldn’t want me to accidentally hire a thief, would you?”

“Of course not!” Harry scoffed. “But why is she living here?” And what would her parents think about that? A boarding school was one thing, but living with your employer?

“Oh, she isn’t living here. That’s her office.”

“Ah.” That made more sense.

“Disappointed?” Sirius grinned again.

“No.” Although… if Hermione did live here, down the hallway from his room, it would be a little like Hogwarts. Hogwarts… he winced.

“What’s wrong?” Sirius frowned at him. “I thought you’d be happy to see your best female friend more often.”

“I am!” Harry was quick to assure him. “But Parvati won’t be happy. She thinks Hermione is jealous of her.” Of course, Parvati thought that every unattached witch, and a fair number of those who had boyfriends, was jealous of her - she had said so a few times.

Sirius rubbed his goatee. “Sounds like Parvati is jealous of Hermione.”

Harry had occasionally had the same thought. He sighed and sat down on his bed. “Great. I wish they would get along. I’m not going to abandon my best friend for my girlfriend.”

His godfather shrugged, then stepped into his room and walked towards him. “Of course not! Your girlfriend probably is just insecure.”

“But why?” Harry shook his head. “Parvati is one of the prettiest witches in Hogwarts! And Hermione… well…” Hermione wasn’t ugly, but she certainly wasn’t as beautiful as Parvati. Or Lavender. Or Cho.

Sirius laughed again. “She’s not much of a looker, I’ll admit, but I’m certain that with the right spells and robes, she could be stunning.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his godfather. Sometimes Sirius’s jokes were rather bad.

“I’m serious, Harry.” Like now. His godfather sighed. “Your friend isn’t trying to look pretty. Your girlfriend, though, is. And she probably knows how much of a difference even a little effort can make.”

Harry scoffed. “Even if that were true” - and he doubted it - “then the fact that Hermione doesn’t make an effort to be pretty should show Parvati that she has nothing to fear.” After all, if Hermione were interested in Harry, or anyone else, she would be trying to look pretty, wouldn’t she?

Sirius spread his hands. “Witches aren’t rational. Especially not when it concerns love and relationships. Ah, the times I have been unjustly punished by a witch for something that was no fault of my own…”

“Well, Hermione’s not working full-time for you, right?” Parvati would accept that.

“No. That would cut into her study time far too much, or so I’ve been told.” Sirius laughed again. Harry laughed as well - that was just what Hermione would say.

He was still smiling even after Sirius had left to check on dinner.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 11th, 1995**

Seeing his best female friend working in his godfather’s library - their library, Harry Potter corrected himself - still felt weird. Not as weird as seeing magic at Privet Drive, of course. And it was a good sort of weird, too. Generally.

But probably not today, he thought. “Hello, Hermione.”

She looked up, and he could see how her slight frown at being interrupted was replaced by a smile once she saw it was him. Just like it had been back at Hogwarts.

“Hi, Harry! I didn’t know you were up already - I arrived a little early today, so I can be certain of finishing my work before your girlfriend arrives.”

He winced despite her cheerful tone. Or because of it. “You know, you don’t have to leave before Parvati arrives.”

“I know. But I don’t want to ruin your day with her.” She shook her head. “You know how she is. With me, I mean.”

“Well… if you made a little effort to be nicer to her…” He trailed off when he saw how she was narrowing her eyes.

“I’ve made every effort to be nice to her. Even when she butted in on our Hogsmeade weekend,” Hermione snapped. “And don’t tell me that she hadn’t planned to meet us - Parvati? In a book shop? Hah!”

He pressed his lips together. “That’s not exactly being nice.”

“She isn’t here, is she?” She sniffed. “At least I’m being honest.”

Her tone implied that she didn’t think that Parvati was honest with him. Hermione was not entirely wrong there, Harry knew. “She isn’t nasty about you behind your back.”

“Not with you, you mean.” Hermione held up her hand before Harry could answer that. “Please, let’s not go there. We both know that if she sees me here, there’ll be a scene. At the very least, she’ll be angry, and that would ruin your day.”

He sighed. “I just want my girlfriend and my best friend to get along.”

“Oh?” She grinned suddenly. “Did something happen to Ron?”

“My best female friend, then,” he corrected himself.

She nodded. “Anyway, I do have to study too - my tutor’s not too happy about my part-time job.”

“Alright.” It wasn’t - she could study here, with him even. Like before. But he wouldn’t press her.

“Besides,” she added, “I’ll probably be here every day, so we’ll see each other often during the holiday. We can easily spend time together - maybe go out to eat?”

“Of course!” He agreed and was rewarded with a wide smile.

*****

Hermione Granger felt a little guilty as she watched Harry leave. Just a little, though.

Despite her aspersions, Hermione knew that Parvati wasn’t actually stupid. The other witch would quickly find out about Hermione’s new job. And that she had a room in Harry’s home. Probably from Harry himself - her friend couldn’t keep secrets. Parvati’s reaction wouldn’t be pretty, Hermione thought.

But that wasn’t her fault. Mr Black had decided to employ her, after all. And had arranged a room for her. If there was anyone Parvati could legitimately blame, it was Harry’s godfather. But if she actually were to blame Mr Black, Harry’s reaction wouldn’t be pretty. And that would be Parvati’s own fault.

She sniffed. If Paravati knew that Hermione was ‘Miss Merriweather’... She chuckled, imagining the other witch’s reaction. If only she could visit Harry in her disguise while Parvati was here… see how the witch liked someone else crashing her date!

Well, Harry and she weren’t dating, of course. This was about their friendship. If Parvati couldn’t accept that Harry had a best female friend, then she wasn’t the right witch for Harry. If only Harry would realise that as well!

Sighing, she focused on her work once more. She hadn’t been lying when she had told Harry that she had to study today - Mr Fletcher was a demanding tutor, if much friendlier than Snape. And Hermione wanted to get as far as possible with cataloguing the Black family library before noon.

After all, she would need to know what books were available before she could use the library for her own studies.

*****

“Hi, Parvati!” Harry Potter smiled as he helped his girlfriend up - Parvati was as prone to stumbling while travelling through the Floo network as he was. An endearing trait, in his opinion.

“Hi, Harry!”

His smile grew when she hugged him. He could feel her chest press into his, could smell her hair, feel the warmth of her breath on his neck… he loved her! Alas, all too soon, after a peck on his cheek, she pulled away. “Are those new robes?” he asked.

She nodded. “I persuaded Mum to buy them.” She turned around, showing off her clothes. “They’re spelled so they can be worn no matter the weather, too!”

“Must have been expensive,” he said. His school robes didn’t have such features.

“Mum did it. We’ll be learning that in seventh year. Together with advanced housekeeping spells.”

He’d have to ask Sirius then. “Let’s go to my room. We can pass by the kitchen and get Kreacher to bring us drinks.”

“Kreacher?”

“Our house-elf. He grumbles and curses a lot, but he’s very old.”

“Oh, a house-elf? Of course, the Blacks would have one.”

He shrugged. He wasn’t used to having a servant to call on himself. “He’s been working for the family all his life. Air-tight contract, too.” Which was probably why Sirius hadn’t fired the elf yet. The Blacks hadn’t been fond of servants leaving and spilling their secrets. After Harry’s godfather had told him how his ancestors had dealt with servants they didn’t trust any more, Harry hadn’t wanted to visit the basement for a while. It wasn’t a topic he wanted to talk about.

But before he could lead Parvati to his room - she was already on his arm - the fireplace flared up, and what looked like a tangled mess of limbs rolled out of it. Parvati gasped, but Harry had already drawn his wand - no one but a few select friends of the family could enter through the fireplace uninvited; Harry had had to let Parvati in.

“Ugh… Oh! Hi! You must be Harry!” the visitor - a witch, Harry noticed - said while she stood up. “I’m Tonks. Sirius’s cousin.” He blinked at her, and she frowned. “Hasn’t he told you about me?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Harry answered, keeping his wand trained on her. “Kreacher! Tell Sirius that we have a visitor!” he said.

“So… are you going to keep your wand pointed at me until Sirius arrives?” Tonks said.

“Yes.” Of course he was.

“Lupin must have been trained by Moody,” he heard her mutter. “I’m an Auror, you know. You can trust me.”

He didn’t roll his eyes at that remark. He simply kept staring at her.

“You and Moody will get along just fine,” she said.

Sirius arrived. “Ah, there you are, Tonks!” It was her, then.

“You didn’t tell your godson that you’re expecting me! And you didn’t tell me that he’s paranoid!”

Harry’s godfather shrugged. “Must have slipped my mind. I would blame my secretary, if I weren’t certain that I didn’t tell her to tell him either.”

“You have a house-elf and a secretary?” Parvati sounded very impressed.

“Part-time. I hired Harry’s friend, Hermione. Or Miss Granger, as she insists while we’re working.”

“What?” Harry felt Parvati’s grip on his arm tighten again.

This wasn’t how he had wanted to tell her about Hermione’s new job.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 15th, 1995**

“Come in, Miss Granger,” Mr Black said, with what Hermione Granger had come to realise was his usual grin.

“Good afternoon, Mr Black,” she said, entering the house. No one else was in the entrance hall, but that didn’t have to mean anything given the size of the house.

“Harry’s not here. His girlfriend dragged him off to Diagon Alley for what I suspect will be a lengthy shopping trip followed by dinner.” Mr Black must have noticed her glancing around, and she pressed her lips together in frustration. She had to get better at casing joints. Although she also took note that Harry’s godfather talked of Parvati as ‘Harry’s girlfriend’. And the way he slightly curled his upper lip when he spoke. “She really didn’t like that you’re working for me.”

“I know. Harry told me,” Hermione answered in a neutral tone.

He nodded. “It was a memorable spat. She reminds me of my aunt - smiling, but you can smell the vitriol behind her facade. So unlike my mother, who didn’t really try to be polite when she was enraged. Poor Tonks was caught in the middle, so to speak. She and Remus are keeping an eye on them right now, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Good. The Dark Lord might try to use such an opportunity.”

“Indeed.” His grin insinuated other dangers they were to guard Harry against. He had been doing that a lot this week.

Hermione didn’t take the bait. “Which means no one will disturb us.”

“How forward of you, Miss Granger! That must be your American origins.” He even acted as if he was shocked.

“You know what I mean.” She didn’t roll her eyes at her employer. She wanted to, though - he wasn’t as witty as he thought he was.

“I do. But do you?”

“Yes. We have a deal, after all.”

“We do indeed.” He grew serious. “Pacta sunt servanda.”

Deals had to be kept. She nodded in agreement with the warning.

“Let’s head to my study. No one would ever think to find me there,” he added with a grin.

*****

The study was a marked contrast to the rest of the house. It was dark, from the wooden panels on the walls to the thick carpet covering most of the stone floor and the old furniture, everything was either black or dark grey. “The interior designer must have taken the family name as a theme,” Sirius remarked as he sat down in one of the armchairs in the room.

Hermione Granger sat down in the one opposite his. “I should catalogue those as well,” she said, nodding towards the shelves full of books that covered the back wall.

“You’d need to be a Black to pick those up without getting cursed.” He snorted. “Marrying into the family counts, if you want to propose.”

This time she rolled her eyes. “Curses can be broken.”

“Ouch! That hurt almost as much as Lily’s hex when I asked her out while drunk!” He was grinning, though.

She chuckled at that.

“Anyway. You’re here to find out how to escape Azkaban.”

“Yes.” Finally. She leaned forward a little.

“What do you know about animagi?”

Her eyes widened. Mr Black was an animagus? They were very rare. Then she caught herself. “An animagus is a wizard or witch able to turn into an animal while keeping their mental faculties.” Which was how it differed from normal Transfigurations. “They are limited to one form, and can mimic any of the animal’s abilities - although no animagus has yet been known to take the form of a magical animal, so it’s unknown whether this extends to magical abilities. All British animagi have to be registered with the Ministry. Failing to do so is punishable by law.”

He smiled. “I see McGonagall still introduces herself using her animal form.”

She nodded - seeing her teacher turn into a cat and back was what had prompted her to read up on animagi, back in her first year. “I take it Azkaban’s cells aren’t warded against animagi, then.”

“They’re not warded against _animals_. By design, or so I think - when the prison was established a few hundred years ago, no one wanted to protect the prisoners from rats and bugs.”

“It would have to be a rather small animal to escape the prison. Probably a bird,” she said. They could easily fly away and reach land.

“Or a skilled wizard who knows how to make his way off an island.” He sounded a little sharper there. Had that hurt his pride? She took note of that as well. “But I think you know how to break out of a building - it is, after all, almost the same as breaking into a building, just in reverse.”

It wasn’t quite that simple, and she hadn’t finished her training yet, but she nodded anyway. “But I don’t know how to become an animagus.” The material she had found at Hogwarts had been noticeably bereft of that information.

“That’s not a surprise - Britain, and Europe, has a rather dim view of the art.” Mr Black grinned. “Most think it goes back to the Intervention in Africa. The native wizards were often animagi, and used their powers when fighting the ICW’s forces. And of course there’s the American shamans, who also are noted for the animagi among their ranks - and for fighting European wizards in defence of their lands. That’s why they have to register in Britain.”

“That’s not the whole truth, though?”

“No, it’s not.” He leaned back. “Becoming an animagus changes you. Animals are not people. They are ruled by their instincts. An animagus will, on some level, always feel the urge to act as their animal form - or rather, as they think the animal would react.”

“A psychological effect then?” She could handle that.

He frowned. “Probably. Lily said the same. But don’t underestimate the effect.”

She made a noncommittal noise of agreement.

He stared at her, then sighed. “Anyway, there are two basic methods to become an animagus. The Inner Path, and the Outer Path. Or the Spirit Animal Path and the Skinwalker Path. The Inner Path focuses on discovering your ‘Spirit Animal’ - the animal that embodies your soul, as some wizards see it. Through meditation and various other methods, you strengthen that part of your soul until it grows so strong that it can change your form to match it.” He grinned. “It involves a lot of giving in to urges, and acting impulsively. The things we got up to...” He sighed. “By the time you have become an animagus, you’ll have changed in other ways as well.”

“Professor McGonagall doesn’t act like a cat,” Hermione pointed out. “Quite the contrary, actually.” The stern witch was one of the least playful people Hermione knew.

“Oh, she doesn’t act like a cat - but I bet you Galleons to Knuts that she wants to. I would even say that she overcompensates for her animal urges, which is why she’s such a…” He shrugged. “You know.”

“Ah.” That was a danger to avoid as well, she thought.

“But the important thing is that you can’t choose your Spirit Animal - it represents who you are, not who you want to be.” He sighed again. “We should should have realised something was wrong with Wormtail, when he was revealed to be a rat. We were so stupid…” He trailed off, and his eyes seemed to lose their focus.

She didn’t want to sit there while he got lost in his memories - even though they apparently were slowly coming back. She cleared her throat. “You mentioned a second method.”

“Yes, I did. I don’t know that much about it, though. As you may have noted, I chose the other method.”

“But you studied it before you made a choice.” It was what she would have done.

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “As you may suspect, not every wizard is happy with the form the Inner Path reveals. If you want to defend your tribe against invaders, turning into a doe doesn’t really help. So, some American shamans developed the Skinwalker method. You’re not discovering your inner animal there - you’re forcing yourself to turn into an animal by changing into its skin. Literally, or so I surmise.”

“That sounds like a rather… practical method,” she said. Why bother with your, or gamble on having a useful, spirit animal, if you could pick the form you wanted? Be the animal you wanted to be. People changed, after all.

“Well, the mental effects are even stronger, since there’s more of a gap to bridge, so to speak. And since this method is usually chosen by wizards who want to fight…”

“I see.” That could be troublesome.

“It’s why Skinwalkers are so easily mistaken for werewolves. They often act the same when in animal form. Some also claim that this method is part of the Dark Arts, since it involves catching and sacrificing the animal you want to turn into - by skinning it, or so I read.”

She nodded. Those were considerable drawbacks. She was confident that she could handle the mental effects as well as McGonagall did, but if the effect was akin to a werewolf’s rage...

“There’s one advantage, though - you can become a skinwalker at any age, while the Spirit Animal Path requires a younger, more flexible mind. Hence why shamans are considered adults after their spirit quest.”

“Ah.” So, there was a time limit, if she wanted to use the safer method.

“But in either case, you’ll find that some other magic disciplines will be much harder to master - such as Occlumency or Legilimency. An animagus’s mind is not well-suited for disciplines that require an exact and ordered mind.”

She hadn’t expected that. Mr Fletcher had told her about Occlumency and Legilimency, and both sounded very useful. She bit her lower lip. Was she willing to sacrifice such potentially useful skills?

“On the other hand, that very same quality makes an animagus’s mind hard to read. Legilimency doesn’t deal well with unstructured minds. That’s why no one sane tries to read an animal’s mind. And Dementors ignore you in your animal form.”

“Ah.” That changed things, of course. She slowly nodded. “I will have to give this some thought.” Smiling widely, she added: “I don’t suppose you have any reading material?”

He laughed as he nodded.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, April 15th, 1995**

“Oh, look! They’ve got the new summer robes!”

Harry Potter didn’t mind shopping with his girlfriend, nor did he mind her enthusiasm when she spotted something of interest - even if his arm had started to hurt a bit, not that he’d ever admit that to anyone after Ron’s joke. He actually liked Parvati’s passion.

He could do without the crowds, though. He wanted to be with his girlfriend, not the whole Alley. That he knew that Remus and Tonks were acting as his bodyguards didn’t help either. Remus was hidden by Harry’s own cloak, and Tonks could be anyone in the crowd. It wouldn’t be as bad if he wasn’t famous, though.

“What do you think?” Parvati was beaming at him while holding a pair of robes. He had missed her question, he realised. But she must have asked which one looked better on her.

“The red one looks better.”

Since she blinked before frowning, she probably had asked him something else. Or she disagreed with his choice. He checked the time on his watch. Three in the afternoon. “How about some ice-cream?” Ice-cream was almost as good as chocolate to make up for whatever you had done wrong, Sirius had taught him.

And his godfather had been correct, Harry knew, as Parvati’s eyes seemed to light up and she smiled again. “I’d love to. Fortescue’s is great!”

It was also very popular, which meant there’d be a crowd. “Have you tried muggle ice-cream? There’s this new brand, from the US. They have very original types of ice-cream.” He had seen an ad in the newspaper.

And her smile vanished. She wasn’t very adventurous. “I love Fortescue’s recipes. Let’s go there!”

“Alright.” He could tolerate the crowds there.

Ten minutes later, they were seated outside of the parlour and eating a large bowl of Fortescue’s latest creation - Parvati’s choice, of course. “Isn’t this much better than any muggle ice-cream?” his girlfriend asked.

He nodded, slightly distracted when he saw her lick a speck of whipped cream from her lips. “Have you tried muggle ice-cream?”

“Yes. It was rather bland. Watery. Like frozen syrup.” She sniffed. “It can’t compare to this.” She took another spoonful, closing her eyes and sighing in apparent bliss as she swallowed it.

He swallowed dryly at the sight, then pouted when he caught her smirking at his reaction. “Such a tease,” he whispered.

She hummed, then leaned forward and responded in a whisper: “You like me like that.”

He nodded - she was correct.

Parvati grinned. “Maybe we should head back to your home?” She glanced around. “It would be more private.”

“Ah…” Harry forced himself to smile. “We might want to wait a bit longer - Sirius has an important meeting today.”

She looked puzzled. “But if he’s busy we’ll have more privacy. He wouldn’t want to drag you into the meeting, would he?”

He didn’t want to lie to her and so he hesitated in answering. “Well…”

And she was frowning at him. “It’s her, isn’t it? He’s meeting _Hermione_ , and you’re afraid that there’ll be a scene.”

She made his friend’s name sound like a curse, Harry noticed. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that! Whenever we meet she acts all jealous, as if she has a monopoly on you. She needs to accept that I’m your girlfriend!”

“She has accepted that,” he retorted. “She simply wants you to accept that she’s my best friend. My best female friend.”

“And what about me?” She glared at him.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he answered. Honesty was the best policy unless you had something to hide, according to Sirius.

Apparently, Parvati didn’t share that opinion, since she huffed, shot him another glare and stabbed her spoon into the bowl with enough force to cause an entire scoop to fall out of it.

He sighed. “I don’t know what your problem is with her…”

“My problem with her,” she interrupted him in that clipped tone she used when she was angry, “is that she is trying to steal my boyfriend, and my boyfriend is too dim to realise it!”

“Hey!” He wasn’t dim! “She doesn’t flirt with me!” He shook his head emphatically. “Trust me! I’ve seen her every day this week, she helped me with my homework, she ate dinner with us almost every evening, we’ve spent hours together - if she were trying to seduce me, then I would have noticed.”

She looked even more angry. “You’ve spent hours together? Every day?”

“Well, I won’t see her much any more once we’re back at Hogwarts,” he defended himself.

“I see. I’m good enough to spend time with when you can’t be with her?”

“It’s not like that!” he protested. This was going wrong. She made it sound as if he was cheating on her by spending time with Hermione. “I just want to spend time with my friend when I can.”

“And when you can’t, you’re coming to see me.” Her lips trembled. “Would you have gone out with me today, if _she_ weren’t meeting your godfather?”

Would he? Harry wasn’t entirely certain. But before he could answer, she shook her head.

“You can’t have both of us, Harry! That won’t work. I’m not going to share you!”

“But it’s not like that!”

She wasn’t really listening, though.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 17th, 1995**

_Boy-Who-Cheats? Harry Potter Between Two Witches_

“What? Gimme that!” Harry Potter ripped the Daily Prophet out of his godfather’s hands as soon as he had spotted the headline.

“Hey!” Sirius protested. “You spilled the tea, too!”

Harry ignored him and focused on skimming the article. It was another sordid oeuvre by Rita Skeeter, and managed to both cast doubts on Harry’s fidelity and character and portray Hermione as a homewrecking gold-digger.

“I’ll kill her for this!” he spat.

“Who?” Sirius asked.

“Skeeter!” Harry clenched his teeth. “Who else? That muckraker has gone too far!”

“Ah.” Sirius sighed. “Alas, honour duels have been outlawed in Wizarding Britain since 1812, when a duel between Aloysius Nott and Lisa Parkinson caused a fire that almost destroyed Diagon Alley.”

“What? How could a fire do that?”

“It was Fiendfyre, of course,” Sirius explained. “Which was outlawed after that incident as well. Anyway, if you kill Skeeter, it’ll be a crime.”

“I didn’t mean it literally,” Harry said. “But this… this…” He threw the newspaper down on the table.

“What’s wrong?” Remus asked, entering the kitchen. He looked tired and weary from his transformation the night before, but then, he had looked like that Saturday too, and still had gone out to protect Harry during his disastrous date with Parvati.

“Skeeter’s calling me a cheater and Hermione a…” he trailed off, not wanting to call her names. “...gold-digger.” Harry shook his head. “She’s making out Hermione to be this seductive beauty who ensnared me with her wiles. As if anyone who knows her could believe that!” Hermione was about as far from a femme fatale as you could be.

“Well, most don’t know her,” Remus said, taking a seat and grabbing the Prophet.

“And those who think they know her might be mistaken,” Sirius added with a grin.

“Exactly!” Harry nodded at his godfather. “They don’t know her just because they saw her at Hogwarts years ago!”

“But how did she know about your row with Parvati?” Remus had read the article and was now looking at him, Harry realised. “Didn’t you cast privacy spells?”

“We taught them to you for that reason, you know. Well, also so you could talk dirty with your girlfriend privately in public. Or something like that,” Sirius added.

“I did!” Harry remembered it clearly. “Either someone defeated the spells, or…” He stopped when he came to an uncomfortable conclusion.

“...or your girlfriend told the wrong people,” Sirius finished for him.

Harry winced. Parvati was a gossip - but would she spread the news of their row? Although the article did make her out to be the blameless victim. The poor honest witch undermined by male infidelity and muggleborn treachery. “If she told Skeeter about us, then we’re through!” he declared.

*****

**London, Merton, April 20th, 1995**

Lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling of her room, Hermione Granger sighed. Almost a week had passed since Mr Black had told her about animagi, and she still hadn’t been able to make a decision. Well, she had decided to become an animagus - the benefits outweighed the drawbacks. Especially for a budding thief. To be able to sneak around as an animal was worth the loss of Legilimency. Which was, according to what she had researched, far less reliable than its reputation anyway - it didn’t allow actual mind reading; at most it allowed one to discern surface thoughts and emotions. And she was confident that she could defeat Legilimency attempts without Occlumency. Her mental discipline was strong, after all.

She didn’t fear the mental side effects Mr Black had told her about either. If she could act rationally during puberty, with her hormones were running wild, then she could certainly handle some subconscious urges.

No, what she hadn’t been able to decide was which method she wanted to use. The Spirit Animal Path or the Skinwalker Path.

The Spirit Animal Path was, at first sight, the obvious choice. Not only were the mental effects lesser, but Mr Black had used it himself, and would be able to provide instructions and support for her. She wouldn’t have to use questionable magic either - it required no sacrifice. She had read up on the rituals various cultures used for the Skinwalker Path in the various books Mr Black had loaned her, and they had all made her feel rather queasy.

But the Spirit Animal Path had one disadvantage: She couldn’t choose her animal form. Her research, as well as Mr Black’s personal experience, agreed on that. And as pathetic as it was, she wasn’t certain she would like whatever animal was supposed to represent her soul. A corporeal Patronus was supposed to show one’s ‘inner animal’, which was probably the spirit animal in question, but it was one of the most difficult spells to master according to what she had read. By the time she had managed that feat, she might be too old for the Spirit Animal Path anyway.

She wanted to be a cat, like McGonagall - graceful, elegant, and agile. Or maybe a bird - to be able to fly, to soar above the land... A dog would be acceptable, she thought. Loyal and brave. Even a badger - tough and grumpy, but agile as well.

But what if she was something useless? Like a deer? Or a mule? She didn’t think she was a mule, even if she was a little stubborn, but… it wasn’t as if she was well-acquainted with her soul or subconscious. She didn’t know much about psychology…

Hermione closed her eyes. If only she could influence… Her eyes shot open. She could! That was what psychology was about - among other things. She jumped off her bed and raced downstairs.

She had books to buy!

*****

**Hogwarts, June 1st, 1995**

“What are you thinking about?”

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter looked up from the Daily Prophet article - the latest on the ‘Dumbledore scandal’ - at which he had been scowling when he heard his girlfriend’s question. Had Parvati already finished her essay? She had asked him to read it to check for mistakes. A glance told him that she hadn’t. She was looking at him with a rather intense expression, though.

“I’m wondering why Skeeter hasn’t been fired yet,” he said. As Sirius had taught him, honesty was the best policy if you hadn’t done anything wrong.

She tensed - after talking to her he now believed that she hadn’t talked to the insufferable witch, but it still was a sore subject - she hadn’t reacted well to him suspecting her. And he hadn’t taken well to her reaction. “She’s just reporting what others said.”

“Have you read the article?” he asked, a little sharper than he had wanted.

She shrugged. “Yes.”

“It’s full of veiled accusations and rampant speculation about what crimes Dumbledore might have committed,” Harry spat. “Malfoy probably paid Skeeter for it, just like he paid her to ruin Sirius’s and Hermione’s reputations!” As soon as he said the words he regretted them - Parvati glared at him, and he winced when he saw how thin her lips now were.

“It’s always about Hermione, isn’t it? Dumbledore, Sirius, no matter what, it’s always about her!”

“No, it’s not! But she is a part of this. This whole thing started with Malfoy framing her.” That was the truth!

“No, you just think it’s about her! Malfoy didn’t like Dumbledore long before Hermione had even heard of Hogwarts, and the Bagnold letters were written twenty years ago!” Parvati was almost snarling. “Don’t you care about anyone or anything else?”

“Of course, but she’s my best friend. Best female friend,” he added. “Obviously she’s important to me.”

“And I’m your girlfriend!”

“They didn’t mention you in the article,” he pointed out, logically.

“So? Don’t you care for me? Am I not important to you? Don’t you love me?” She stood up, her hands on her hips.

He noticed everyone in the room was staring at them. “I do. But that doesn’t mean I’ll neglect my friends.”

“But you’re neglecting _me_!”

“I’m not!” He was sitting with her while she did her homework, after all!

“You are!” Her chest was heaving. Then she huffed and raised her chin - he noticed that he had stood up as well during their argument. “I told you before: I’m not sharing you! Choose! Either her... or me!”

He gaped at her. How could she ask, no, demand that of him? He looked at her, noticed her expression, the way her eyes had narrowed, the way her mouth was set. She was serious, he realised. Well, so was he. He stared straight into her eyes.

“If that’s what you want,” Harry said in a flat voice, ignoring how her eyes widened in surprise, “then I choose her.”

*****

**Hogwarts, June 21st, 1995**

“Why’s the third task on a Wednesday?” Harry Potter asked  as he sat down in the stands of the arena. “The first two tasks were on Sundays.”

“It’s the Summer Solstice,” Sirius explained. “An auspicious date to hold a magical event. And most shops have closed anyway, so it’s as good as a Sunday.”

The crowd certainly didn’t look any smaller than before, Harry thought.

“Well, if it was a real Sunday we wouldn’t have had lessons in the morning,” Ron said. “So, it’s certainly not as good as a Sunday.” He must have caught a glance from Hermione since he quickly added: “It’s better, of course, since we have lessons!”

After a second of silence, Hermione started to giggle and Ron laughed. Harry joined in a moment later. It wasn’t that funny, but he didn’t want his ex-girlfriend to think he was miserable without her.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked in a low voice, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes,” he answered, trying to sound convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

“You’ve steadfastly avoided looking to your left,” she said.

That was where Parvati and her friends were sitting. Busted. He sighed. “It’s her fault, anyway.” She had told him to choose between Hermione and her. As Sirius had taught him: Teenage girlfriends didn’t last. Friendships did. Like Hermione’s.

She smiled. “I know. But it still hurts to see her, right?”

“Yes.” But he was getting better.

Her hand moved a few inches, probably to touch him, but then stopped, and he saw her frown. He knew what she was thinking - if she touched him, Skeeter would have another article out tomorrow.

She narrowed her eyes, huffed and squeezed his arm. “She’ll write her lies anyway.”

“Right.”

“But you’ll get over her. It’s not as if she’s the only pretty girl at Hogwarts.”

He returned her warm smile. “You’re right. There are lots of pretty girls who aren’t so…” He sought the right word.

“...insecure, petty and jealous?” Hermione asked with a sweet smile.

He chuckled. “I guess. And witches who don’t believe everything that the Prophet publishes. Or Teen Witch Weekly.”

“Oh, I’m not certain of that. How many pretty witches are smart enough to make up their own minds?” Hermione asked.

“Well… Susan Bones is very pretty, and as the niece of the Head of the DMLE, she should know how many lies the Prophet publishes,” Harry pointed out. Amelia Bones certainly had her fair share of bad press. “And Padma is as pretty as Parvati, but as a Ravenclaw she is smart.” He saw that she was frowning, and hastened to add: “I’ve talked to her; she blames her sister, not me, for the breakup.”

“Ah.” Hermione still looked less than happy. But before Harry could reassure her that he wasn’t about to make a stupid mistake, the third task started.

And watching the three champions do everything they could think of to snatch the cup from the centre, except for attacking each other, was far too exciting and entertaining to worry about girl troubles. Even with Bagman’s commentary.

*****

“And Diggory summons a pack of wolves - within the rules, as long as they’re not ordered to attack Krum. But they’re obviously blocking Krum’s approach. Krum’s trying to go around them, but Delacour’s been busy conjuring a veritable maze on his flank, so that way’s blocked! And Delacour’s making a grab using her wings… Oh! Looks like Diggory or Krum had been sneaky - invisible walls and high-speed flying don’t go well together. Delacour looks a bit like my old Seeker after he fell for a Wronski Feint.

“And Diggory is blasting his way to the centre. Two walls left… one… and the last one exploded in his face. What a clever trap! Krum’s conjured a metal cage too, directly over Diggory. Since the back is open, it’s not an attack - technically. But it means Krum has passed Diggory, and the walls around the centre are down. He reaches for the cup, and… oh, the cup drops to the ground before he can grab it - and slides towards Delacour inside a tube made out of ice. That’s one well-timed transfiguration! She holds out her hand and grabs the cup. Delacour… no, there’s no fanfare! That’s not the cup, that’s a copy! Where is the real cup? Diggory has it! Diggory switched the cup right before Delacour snatched it! Diggory wins! Hogwarts wins!”

“Hogwarts wins!”

“Hufflepuff wins!”

“Play it again!”

“Please don’t!” Harry Potter heard Ron mutter under his breath as the Hufflepuff table once more gathered around the recorder. “That’s what, the fifth time they’re listening to it? It’s as if they hadn’t watched it just a few hours ago!”

Harry shrugged. “Well, it’s not as if Hufflepuff’s won anything in years. They’ll want to celebrate this as much as possible.” He filled his plate with a third helping - the Victory Feast was as excellent as he had come to expect from the Hogwarts kitchen staff.

Ron scoffed. “It’s also rather rude towards our guests.”

“I’m certain that they would have done the same,” Ginny cut in. “Especially Delacour.” The witch sniffed and sent a glare at the Ravenclaw table.

Harry didn’t want to discuss the French champion’s possible faults, so he shrugged. “I wouldn’t knoOW!”

His head erupted in pain and it was all he could do not to scream. Something ran down his face - blood, he realised when he saw the drops on the table. His scar was bleeding. He reached up to touch it, then everything went black.

*****

 


	9. Investigations

**Outside Stafford, Staffordshire, Britain, June 22nd, 1995**

Amelia Bones returned the greetings of the Aurors guarding the crime scene, but her attention was on the house in front of her. Or rather, on its wards. Her enchanted monocle might not be as powerful or versatile as Alastor’s artificial eye, but it was more than able to show her that the house’s defences were still active. Whoever had murdered Alphons Bagnold hadn’t broken through the wards. Which meant that someone had let the killer inside. And seeing as Alphons had been living alone, odds were that it had been him.

A quick survey of the garden told her that the Aurors had the scene covered; she didn’t see any blind spots. She almost grinned - she had been the Head of the DMLE for years, but she still thought like the Head Auror. And the Corps knew it, of course.

Her successor knew it as well. But Rufus ran a tight ship - even tighter, or so she had heard, than her own, back in the day. Which would serve both of them well in dealing with this latest mess.

She entered the house and wished she had cast a Bubble-Head Charm - the smell of blood was overwhelming. She didn’t let any discomfort show on her face, of course - she had a reputation to maintain. Although… the smell shouldn’t be that strong, she thought - not hours after the deed. The blood should have dried up already.

Frowning, she turned to the Auror casting detection spells in the entrance hall. “Where’s the Head Auror?”

The witch turned around and gasped - Amelia made a note that the Auror had apparently missed her presence, too focused on her work. Not the best habit for someone working in the field. “Ma’am! He’s in the basement. Where the murder happened.”

Amelia gave her a curt nod, then went downstairs. Rufus was there, as was Alastor - as she had expected. Both were standing on a floating board so they wouldn’t disturb the pool of blood the ground had been turned into. Alastor was grinning at her despite - or because of - the gruesome scene.

“I was right, Amelia! That’s Outterridge blood there.” He pointed his wand at the blood. “Some of it, at least. Quite the mess.”

“That’s an understatement,” Rufus said. The Head Auror was frowning at Alastor - by custom, in this situation subordinates didn’t speak up until asked. But the old Auror didn’t care much about custom, and he was too experienced and valuable to be disciplined over it. “We’ve called in the Department of Mysteries, but according to preliminary investigations” - he glanced at Alastor - “this contains the blood of at least half a dozen individuals.”

“And the liquified remains of Alphons Bagnold,” Alastor added.

“Liquified?” Transfiguring a corpse into blood wasn’t that difficult, however she knew of only one spell that could do this to a living human.

“Aye.” The old Auror lost his smile. “I checked the residue three times. The murderer used the Bloodfall Curse.”

She drew a hissing breath, uncaring of the stench now. There was only one person who had used that spell in the last war. She looked at Rufus. “Check if Bellatrix Lestrange is still in her cell.”

Rufus nodded. Alastor scoffed. “Not even the Hit-Wizards are so incompetent as to miss another escape. That wasn’t Lestrange’s work anyway. It’s too neat.”

“Neat?” Rufus stared at his nominal subordinate, then pointedly looked at the gory liquid covering the floor.

“Yes. Neat. No signs of excessive torture. No blown up furniture. No torn off limbs. Just a big puddle of blood.” The scarred Auror shook his head. “Not her style. And that was before she was sent to Azkaban.” Amelia had to agree - Lestrange had been unhinged even then, and wouldn’t have gotten better. Alastor went on: “This here was done by someone else who knew the spell. And there aren’t many left alive who were ever taught it.”

“Black,” Rufus said. “It’s a family spell. But he has an alibi.” They would have checked that already, of course. And the alibis of the remaining Blacks.

“Dumbledore’s vouching for him again?” Amelia asked.

“Not just him. Apparently, Potter had an accident at school last evening, and Black spent the night in the infirmary there,” Rufus said.

“Could be Polyjuice Potion, of course,” Alastor cut in, earning him another glare from Rufus, “but I doubt that Albus would have let that fool him. He isn’t that old yet.” He chuckled.

“He could have taught the spell to someone,” Rufus said. That Black had sent hired wands after Bagnold and Crouch was one of the more popular theories in the Corps.

“If he’s making the effort of using someone else to commit murder so he has an alibi, making them use a Black family spell would be a rather dumb move,” Alastor pointed out. Given how paranoid the man was, Amelia suspected he was just playing advocatus diaboli to ruffle Rufus’s feathers.

“Unless Black is trying to be too clever, and expects us to assume that,” Rufus shot back. “He spent over ten years in Azkaban - he can’t be sane. And,” he added with a sneer, “he still hasn’t told us who helped him escape. Anyone who’d spring Black from Azkaban would commit murder as well.”

Amelia had to agree, at least partially, there - you couldn’t trust Black. His claim that he couldn’t remember how he had disappeared from Azkaban was a laughably transparent attempt to protect his helper. Who, she suspected, was Lupin. Or even Dumbledore himself - the Chief Warlock had lately shown a rather antagonistic attitude towards the Wizengamot’s justice.

Alastor shrugged. “I’m not gonna drop him as a suspect. But I think there’s more to this than just revenge. Or at least, it’s not Black’s revenge.”

“Who else could it be?” Rufus scoffed. “Some hitherto unknown Death Eater who has waited until Black escaped from Azkaban to frame him?”

“I’m not even discounting the Dark Lord himself - or his ghost.” Alastor grinned. “He certainly would have the motive.”

Amelia would have dismissed this as a joke, or a paranoid delusion, if not for the fact that Alastor was one of Dumbledore’s oldest friends.

But she didn’t know what was more dangerous - a returned Dark Lord, or a Chief Warlock trying to fake such a threat to regain the influence he had lost since the last war.

*****

**Hogwarts, June 22nd, 1995**

Harry Potter woke up with a headache. A terrible, pounding headache - he hadn’t felt that bad since… He drew a hissing breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He hadn’t felt a pain this bad since his first year. Since Voldemort had tried to kill him.

“Harry?”

Sirius! He opened his eyes. His godfather was sitting next to his bed - he was in the infirmary - and Sirius looked almost as bad as Harry felt. Disheveled. Exhausted. And his expression…

“Did… did anyone die?” Harry asked.

“What? No.” Sirius shook his head. “You collapsed during the Victory Feast. And your scar split open and bled all over…” He shook his head. “Pomfrey fixed you up, though.”

The Victory Feast. Harry had been eating, next to Ron, and suddenly… He winced. Yes, there had been blood. On his face, on the table, and on the floor. Pools of blood. No… that hadn’t been in the Great Hall. That had been… he didn’t know where. He hadn’t been there before, that much he knew. But… he touched his forehead and discovered that a bandage covered his scar.

“Pomfrey couldn’t close the wound. But the bleeding has stopped now,” Sirius explained. “She was quite miffed that she had to use ‘muggle methods’.”

“I can imagine.” Harry forced himself to chuckle, then hissed at the pain that caused.

“Do you want a potion for the pain?” his godfather asked.

“Will it do anything?” Harry had his doubts. This reeked of the Dark Arts.

“It shouldn’t hurt,” Sirius answered.

That sounded less than reassuring, Harry thought. On the other hand, he doubted that he could get any worse. Short of dying, of course. So he nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll stay our secret. You can tell the witches that you toughed it out.” Sirius grinned - though it looked very forced to Harry - and handed him a small vial.

Harry downed the vial and to his surprise, the pain receded until it was a dull ache. He sighed and closed his eyes again for a moment.

“Did it work?”

“Yes.” Harry started to nod, then froze when that caused the pain to flare up. “I’m feeling better, but not well yet.”

“Good. I wouldn’t have liked having to buy muggle remedies. Did you know that you need permission to buy muggle medicines?” Sirius scoffed. “And they threatened to call the police when I tried to offer them more gold.”

“What did you do?” Had his godfather been mistaken for a drug addict, or worse?

“Oh, I wanted to buy some muggle pills. Lily had told me that they worked… something.” Sirius blinked. “Or was it… some sex pill? Something like that.” He nodded. “They didn’t want to sell me the pills, though.”

Harry was certain that his godfather was mixing up memories again, but nodded anyway. “Do you know what happened?”

“Dumbledore said the Dark Lord affected you through your scar.” Sirius was looking at him.

Harry almost nodded, but stopped in time. “Something like that. My scar hurts like it did after he attacked me in first year.”

Sirius mumbled a curse under his breath that Harry didn’t quite catch. “How could he do that? Was he among the guests? Or the students? Dumbledore said he had strengthened the wards!”

“I don’t think so. It felt... ” Harry sighed. “He wasn’t at Hogwarts. I don’t think so. I saw blood. Lots of blood.”

Sirius looked grim and bared his teeth. “Merlin’s balls! There was a murder last night. A bloody murder.”

“What? You said no one died!” Harry hissed when his forehead hurt again.

“Not at Hogwarts. But Bagnold’s nephew was killed. Apparently with a Black Family curse that turns the victim to blood. On Solstice.”

“When I collapsed?”

Sirius nodded. “We have to tell Dumbledore at once. I’ll get him.” He patted Harry’s arm, then left.

Sirius didn’t take long - he returned with the Headmaster after a few minutes. “Good afternoon, Harry,” Dumbledore said, with his usual smile.

“Afternoon?” Harry turned his head, hissing at the pain that caused. It was true - the sun was in the west already. “I was asleep that long?”

“You needed the rest,” the Headmaster said. “Poppy and I agreed on that.” He sat down in the chair Sirius had vacated. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” Harry took a deep breath. “I think I saw Voldemort murder someone - I don’t remember much, or all that clearly, but there was a lot of blood. It was… a basement, I think. There was another man, too.” He was remembering a few more details as he spoke. “The floor was… covered in blood.” His scar was hurting again, but he pressed on. “There was a body on the floor, and…” He clenched his teeth. This was important, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he had seen.

“Don’t force yourself, Harry,” the Headmaster said in his calm, gentle voice. “It appears that you saw Tom murder someone.”

Harry closed his eyes. That sounded… “I’m not sure…” He now knew how Sirius must so often feel, he realised, and snorted.

“We can check your memories,” Dumbledore went on. “I hesitate to ask this of you, but…”

Harry stared at him. They would need his memories to foil whatever the Dark Lord was doing.

“I’ll do it!”

*****

Half an hour later, Harry felt sick. It was one thing to remember what he had seen, it was another to see it happen again. All that blood… He managed not to throw up as he withdrew from the Headmaster’s Pensieve, where his memory had been placed, but it was a near thing.

Even Dumbledore looked grim now when he and Sirius withdrew as well. “While the memories were rather fragmented, they were enough to confirm what I suspected,” he said. “Voldemort has regained a real body and is no longer limited to possessing victims.”

Sirius almost seemed to growl. “Well, at least we can clear my name. Bellatrix must have taught the Dark Lord the spell.”

“We can’t use this,” Dumbledore said.

“What? Why not? It’s not too detailed, but you can see the spell being cast. It proves that it wasn’t me!” Sirius bared his teeth again.

“Using Harry’s memories would also reveal his connection to the Dark Lord,” Dumbledore pointed out.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. If Voldemort found out about this… that he could be affected through the scar… “But... I collapsed in in the Great Hall,” he pointed out. “In the middle of the Victory Feast.” That must have been a spectacle.

“Indeed - outside Hufflepuff’s dorms, your unfortunate incident is probably the talk of the school,” Dumbledore said. “We might have to fabricate a cover story, to explain how you collapsed at the same time as Bagnold was killed. Fortunately, the Solstice is a traditional time for rituals of all sorts, so it shouldn’t be too suspicious that this happened at the same time as the Dark Lord’s ritual.”

“Can we frame Malfoy?” Harry asked. “He already poisoned me in second year.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “As fitting as that might be, I think the risk that Lucius would be able to clear his son of such an accusation would be too great. It would be better to blame unknown assailants.”

“Sic the Aurors on those ‘imperiused’ Death Eaters. They might even uncover some actual crimes,” Sirius said.

That sounded like a great idea, Harry thought. Some good might come from this bloody murder.

*****

**London, Merton, June 22nd, 1995**

If Hermione Granger had been a cat, then the two people who had just rang the doorbell would have caused her hackles to rise. She observed them through the spyhole. A man and a woman, young to middle age, in clothes that were a tad too conservative for their age - she would have pegged them as the police, if not for the lack of a car in the drive.

Aurors then. Probably. If she acted as if she wasn’t at home they might simply enter - there were no wards to stop them. She could flee, of course - her escape tunnel hadn’t gone past the planning stage; she needed the plans of the neighbouring houses to dig it without destabilising any of them - but she had a broom stashed in her room, ready to fly out of the window. But they might be expecting that.

And, she told herself as she opened the door - her wand in hand, though - she hadn’t done anything illegal since her expulsion. Well, not anything really illegal.

She put on her best smile. “Yes?”

“Miss Granger?” the woman asked.

“Yes?”

The woman tapped her jacket, and a badge appeared. “I’m Auror Bracken, this is my partner, Auror Fawley.” Pureblood names, Hermione thought. Bracken wasn’t an Old Family, but Fawley was - but of course, the Auror might not be from the main branch. “We would like you to come to the Ministry to answer a few questions.”

“Questions?” She tried to sound naive and dumb. “About what?”

“A possible crime,” Fawley cut in, in a rather curt tone. He made a good ‘bad cop’, Hermione thought. But then, he could be a bad cop.

She narrowed her eyes. “Am I under arrest? Is someone trying to frame me again?”

“You’re not under arrest, but we would appreciate your cooperation,” Bracken said, with a polite smile. “It concerns your friend Mr Potter.”

She felt as if her stomach tied itself into a knot. “Has something happened to Harry?”

“We cannot discuss this in the middle of the street,” Bracken said.

“Or in your home,” Fawley added, with a sneer.

She wanted to go to Grimmauld Place and ask Mr Black, but he wouldn’t be there if anything had happened to Harry. And Mr Fletcher had been clear that cooperation with the authorities was the best course of action, as long as they didn’t have anything on her. And while she couldn’t dismiss the possibility of another attempt to frame her, she doubted that they would use Harry for that. “Of course. But I’ll need to inform my employer that I’ll be absent today, or he might get worried. It’ll only take a minute to send him an owl.”

They knew, of course, for whom she was working. And they didn’t like that fact, but they couldn’t do anything about it.

It was almost funny, Hermione thought as she wrote a note for Mr Black - she hadn’t expected to be arrested even before she actually stole anything.

*****

“Where were you yesterday between six in the evening and midnight?”

“At home. I’ve told you that already. Twice.” Hermione Granger didn’t bother refraining from rolling her eyes. Bracken and Fawley had at least been professional, even though Fawley might not actually have been faking his apparent dislike of her. But Dawlish, who had taken over her interrogation, was repeating his question for the second time. She couldn’t think of what he might plan on accomplishing by doing this.

“Did you cast any spells?” He sounded boring as well, and spoke just a smidgen too slowly for her taste.

“No.”

“Really? You spent the entire evening without casting a single spell?”

“I’m a muggleborn. We do that all the time.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“You replaced your wand, though.” Dawlish didn’t seem to notice her mood.

“Of course. I’m a witch, after all.”

“That would imply a desire to cast spells.” He acted like a dog too dumb to realise that a plastic bone wasn’t edible.

“I’m underage.” She was propping her head up with one arm. “And I wasn’t with my tutor yesterday evening.”

“Your wand is free of the Trace.” He glared at her.

“I bought it like that. Perfectly legal.” Which she was certain other young wizards and witches with the means to buy a second wand were aware of as well. “Are you accusing me of breaking the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery? I thought this was about whatever happened to Harry. Which you still haven’t told me anything about.” She was getting more and more worried. What had happened to her best friend?

“You claim you didn’t cast any spells but your wand shows that it was used.”

“Yes. I used it to cast spells while with my tutor.” She bit her lower lip before she openly insulted the man. Maybe that was his game - to get her angry and frustrated enough to lose her temper and slip up. She might have to revise her estimate of him if that was the case.

“Can anyone confirm your claim?”

“You can ask my parents.”

“They’re muggles.”

“Yes. I’m a muggleborn.” She almost asked if he was a blood purist.

“They might not have noticed magic, or they might have been obliviated.”

“To hide underage magic?” She scoffed at him. That was absurd! “Just what kind of spell do you think I cast?”

“That’s classified.”

“I didn’t cast any spells. I have told you that several times. Unless you have a question you haven’t asked before, I want to leave now. I need to find out what happened to my friend!” She stood up, glaring at the man. If Harry had been hurt, and they had kept this from her because of stupid prejudice and bigotry...

“Your friend was struck by a dark curse yesterday evening.”

“What?” She gasped. Harry! “Where is he!”

“That’s classified.”

She wanted to hex the man, but she didn’t have her wand on her. So she glared at him, raised her chin and crossed her arms. “I want to leave now.”

“There are still a few more questions you need to answer…” Dawlish trailed off when the door opened.

“Let the lass go, Dawlish,” an old, scarred man said. “Her wand’s clean and she’s got an alibi.” He had an artificial eye, Hermione noticed. She stiffened and felt her stomach drop a little. This was ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. Mr Fletcher had told her a lot about this Auror. One of the best in the Ministry, and no one knew exactly what his enchanted eye could do.

“She’s a suspect,” Dawlish retorted.

“Even if Skeeter’s articles weren’t utter rubbish, the lass’s too young to be able to curse anyone through the wards of Hogwarts.” Moody chuckled. “And Skeeter’s claiming that she cheated for her grades anyway.” The witch would pay for that, too, Hermione thought. “Merlin’s arse, Dawlish! I didn’t think you were dumb enough to take the Daily Prophet’s slander as evidence!”

“What?” Dawlish stood up, sneering. “And who was the one who hexed two post owls because he thought they were disguised assassins?”

“Constant vigilance, Dawlish!” Moody retorted, tapping his eye. Hermione resolved not to approach the man in animal form, should she manage to become an animagus.

“That’s what I’m doing!” the other Auror protested. “I’d have expected you to back me up here!”

Moody scoffed. “I checked her wand, I checked her clothes, I checked her hair. No residue of any dark magic. Dumbledore and Black also vouch for her.” His face broke into a frightening grin. “Besides, we have a list of other suspects to investigate and interrogate. People with the experience to cast dark curses, even. Now, send the lass on her way so she can check up on her friend before she curses you. She looks like she really wants to, too.” He chuckled again. “The boy’s fine, lass.”

He was half-right - Hermione wanted to curse them both. That old Auror had used his eye to spy on her! Mr Fletcher had told her that Moody could see through robes. But she knew better than to start anything in the middle of the Auror offices, of course - even if she had had her wand.

And she needed to get out of here so she could see how Harry was doing! She knew just how bad ‘fine’ could be when it was about Harry!

*****

**Hogwarts, June 22nd, 1995**

“Harry!”

Harry Potter looked up from the game of chess he was playing with Ron when he heard a familiar but unexpected yell. Hermione had arrived in the infirmary. And she was headed straight for him with a rather worried and worrying expression on her face. “Hello, Hermione,” he said quickly. “I’m fine.” It had been the wrong thing to say, he realised a second too late.

“Fine?” she all but growled, only taking her eyes off him for a moment to return Ron’s greetings. “You said that when you were half-dead in our first year! Or when you had half your bones broken in our second year!”

Harry heard Ron mutter “Blimey!” as his friend grabbed the chessboard and put it on the side. “I’m going to be fine?” he said, turning it into a question almost against his will. “Honest! They’ll release me tomorrow.” Which meant it wasn’t as bad as the two times she had just brought up.

She huffed and sat down, mumbling something he didn’t quite catch. “So what happened? All I’ve been told is that you were cursed.”

“Dumbledore said it was some sort of pain curse.” Harry drew his wand. “I bled because I hit my head on the table when I collapsed from the pain and it ripped my scar open.” A nice explanation that made it harder to connect him to the blood spilled by Voldemort - or Sirius’s family. He cast a privacy spell. “That’s the cover story.”

Hermione frowned. “And what really happened?”

Harry tapped his forehead - next to the bandage. “My scar’s a link to Voldemort. He went through a really dark ritual to get a new body, and I was affected by the dark curses he used.” When he saw her horrified expression, he quickly added: “It was just a vision, very fragmented, of what he saw. A few seconds. My scar bled, but that was all.”

“And it hurt a lot, or the Headmaster wouldn’t be claiming that it was a pain curse.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Busted!

Harry winced - his friend was too smart to be deceived like that. He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

She snorted, but didn’t pursue the topic any further. “As long as you’re safe. As safe as you can be, with the Dark Lord back in a body. It’s not simple possession then?”

Harry shook his head. “No. My mother’s protection should still keep me safe, but the scar’s a weakness.”

“Well, it also serves as a Dark Lord detector,” Ron said, grinning. “If it hurts, Voldemort’s close.”

Harry  snorted. They had found that out in their first year. “Yeah.”

Hermione, of course, didn’t see the humour. “Really.”

Ron shrugged. “Yes. A bit of pain can save his life.”

“That’s what Sirius says about training, too,” Harry pointed out. Then he blinked when he suddenly thought of something. “Are you allowed to visit? You know, with you…” He trailed off.

Hermione scoffed. “I’m not actually certain whether visits are allowed or not. But I snuck in through a tunnel Mr Black showed me. Officially, I’m not here. If any Aurors ask, I’m at Grimmauld Place.”

“Why would Aurors ask about you?” Ron looked puzzled.

“Apparently, I’m a suspect in the case,” Hermione said with a sneer. “They already questioned me.”

“What?” Harry shook his head - it didn’t hurt any more - and scoffed. “That’s absurd!”

“I bet it was Malfoy!” Ron cut in. “Trying to frame you for his own crimes. Lucius Malfoy,” he added.

“It’s possible. Auror Moody seems to have squashed the investigation, though,” Hermione explained. “He’s a friend of Dumbledore’s, so he might know what really happened.”

Harry smiled - at least the Headmaster was still looking out for Hermione. “Yes. Tonks told me stories about ‘Mad-Eye’ and his enchanted eye.”

“Can it look through clothes?” Hermione asked quickly.

“I’m not certain. It can look through walls, though…” Harry trailed off, considering the implications of that.

“Blimey! That would be really useful!” Ron said. When Hermione glared at him, he added: “I mean to spot if someone’s hiding something. Or ambushes.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced. “Well, we don’t have an enchanted eye,” Harry said. “And even if we had one, I prefer using my own eyes.” Even if he needed glasses. “Not to peep on anyone, of course. And certainly not on you, believe me!” He wouldn’t do that to his best friend.

She didn’t look any happier, though - quite the contrary, actually. But before he could reassure her, the door to the infirmary opened.

He aimed his wand at it, just in case, and Ron moved in front of Hermione, but it was just Ginny.

“Harry?” she asked. “Oh, hi, Hermione!”

“She’s not here, if anyone asks,” Ron said. “Especially if it’s an Auror.”

“Oh.” Ginny nodded, then looked determined. “Of course.”

“Whatcha doing here?” Ron asked, not quite glaring at his sister, Harry noted.

“I just wanted to visit Harry.” Ginny looked at him. “But I can come back later, if you want to be alone with your friends.”

“We might be here until curfew,” Ron said.

“So?” Ginny raised her chin slightly, meeting her brother’s eyes.

“No, no, you can stay, of course,” Harry quickly said. He didn’t want them to argue. And it would be terribly rude to send Ginny away after she had come to visit him.

Ginny beamed at him. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry noticed a bit belatedly that there were just two chairs for visitors. Before he could summon a third, though, Ginny had already sat down on his bed. “How are you doing, Harry?”

“I’m fine. Pomfrey’s letting me out of here tomorrow morning,” he said. She nodded - apparently, not everyone had to question him.

“Good, I was very worried. No one told us anything.” She pouted at Ron.

“No one knew anything,” Ron said. “Dumbledore had to investigate. Someone cast a pain curse at Harry.”

Ginny gasped, and Harry was quick to assure her that he wasn’t in pain any more. It was nice to see someone other than his closest friends care about him. Especially if it was a pretty girl.

Ginny had filled out a little, or more than a little, since last summer, too, he realised. And she also got along well with Hermione. “Do you want some Honeydukes?” he asked. “Sirius brought some for me this afternoon, but he bought too much.” As usual. They still had a few dozen boxes of Mars Bars at Grimmauld Place, after Harry had mentioned that he liked them.

“Oh! Thank you!” She beamed at him again.

Both Ron and Hermione didn’t look happy, though, he noticed. Of course - he should have offered them chocolates as well. He quickly corrected his oversight, but judging by their slightly forced smiles, he wasn’t entirely successful.

*****

**London, Merton, June 23rd, 1995**

“Hermione?”

Sitting on the couch in the living room, Hermione Granger looked up from her book when she heard her mum call her name. “Yes?”

“You’ve been reading a lot of books about cats. Magazines too.”

Hermione nodded. She had to research her future spirit animal, after all - knowing as much as possible couldn’t hurt when she was about to become an animagus. But her parents didn’t know that. “I’m interested in cats.”

“We noticed,” her father cut in, lowering The Times. “But we’ve also noticed that you haven’t asked us if you could have a cat. You’re not hiding a kitten somewhere, are you?” He grinned, but she didn’t think he was entirely joking.

“No, I’m not.” She shook her head.

“But do you want one?” Her mum asked. “We certainly could accommodate a pet.”

“And you’re old enough that you won’t forget to feed it,” her dad added.

She scowled at him - she had forgotten to water her first plant, but she had been four years old at the time! She sighed as he laughed. “I’m not certain, actually. I wouldn’t see much of it, not between my studies and my work.” And didn’t that sound weird, to talk about her work when she hadn’t even taken her O.W.L.s yet?

“So, you’re studying cats without actually wanting one?” Her mum sounded rather doubtful.

“I’m still trying to make up my mind. I want to know more about cats before deciding whether or not I want one.” And she wasn’t entirely convinced that having an actual cat when she was planning to turn into a cat herself was a good idea - at the very least, the poor thing would be terribly confused. What if it suddenly thought she was another cat, and not its owner? The thought of having to establish a pecking order with her pet seemed absurd.

“Just don’t mix it up with your psychology studies,” her dad said, “or you might start to think like a cat.”

Hermione forced herself to laugh - that was exactly what she was trying to do, after all.

“And act like a cat, too!” Her dad went on with an exaggerated look at her mum: “Can you imagine the size of her hairballs?”

It wasn’t funny, Hermione thought as she glared at her parents. Not funny at all!

*****

**London, Merton, June 27th, 1995**

Her research had confirmed what she had already known, Hermione Granger thought as she put down her last book on cats on her desk and looked over her notes. Cats were widely known as agile, flexible, graceful and elegant.

She was agile and flexible as well - thanks to Mr Fletcher’s training. Not on the level of a cat, of course - that was physically impossible. But she could run over most roofs these days, like a cat on the prowl. And, she thought with a satisfied smile, she was graceful and elegant when she wanted to be. Miss Merriweather had proved that.

Stretching in front of her mirror, even striking a few poses, she nodded. Those aspects of a cat she had down pat. Or, she added to herself with a sigh, her secret identity as a budding thief had them. Hermione Granger was decidedly lacking in grace and elegance as well as athletic ability. Or so everyone but her tutor and her employer thought. Even and especially her best friends.

At least the cat’s reputation for fastidiously keeping itself clean fit her perfectly. And the curiosity for which cats were notorious aligned well with her own desire to know as much as possible about everything. And, she added with a frown, her frustration at not being able to study all of the subjects offered at Hogwarts.

She glanced at the books on psychology she’d read. They hadn’t proved to be as useful as she’d hoped, but at least autosuggestion should work - while she had her doubts about the method’s effectiveness for physical ailments, she merely needed to affect her subconscious, which should be easy.

Easy, she thought with a glance at the cat toys she had spread out on her bed, but potentially embarrassing as well. If her parents caught her doing this, they’d never let her live it down. At least she was too old to accidentally turn herself into a cat. That wouldn’t just be embarrassing, but very dangerous as well.

But her parents were at work and wouldn’t barge in on her. So she sat down on her bed, surrounded by the cat toys, closed her eyes, and thought like a cat. Or tried to. It still felt silly to her, no matter how often she told herself that it was useful and necessary. She also found herself wondering what Harry and Ron were up to. They had exams this week at Hogwarts. Had they studied enough? With all the troubles and distractions at Hogwarts?

Such as Ginny. Ron’s little sister couldn’t have been more obvious in her attempts to seduce Harry if she had thrown herself at Hermione’s friend. And the witch probably would have done just that, Hermione thought, if Harry hadn’t been hurt.

At least Ginny wouldn’t try to come between Harry and his friends, Hermione thought. If the little witch knew what was good for her. Then Hermione blinked. She was certainly feeling rather catty when thinking about Ginny.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 2nd 1995**

“You know,” Harry Potter said, catching his breath after he had just been slammed - again - into the wall of the training room Sirius had installed in their home, “most people don’t use their summer holidays to study and train harder than they did at school.”

His godfather snorted. “Most people aren’t the personal enemy of the Dark Lord.”

“I’m not exactly doing well against you right now, so how can I beat the Dark Lord?” Harry took his time getting up, rolling his right shoulder to check if it had been hurt. He stiffened and winced, the probed it with his left hand.

“Are you alright?” Sirius asked, suddenly concerned. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He stepped closer.

Just what Harry had been hoping for. “I don’t know… it hurts when I move…” He flicked his ‘training wand’, as Sirius had called the wand without the trace he had been given for this lesson, up. “Stupefy!”

“Wha…” Sirius’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, but Harry’s spell hit him before he could react and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Harry smiled widely - he had finally managed to get his godfather.

*****

“That was a dirty trick,” Sirius complained a few minutes later, after Harry had woken him up.

Harry shrugged. “You’ve told me often enough that there are no rules in a real fight.”

“That trick won’t work on Voldemort,” Sirius retorted.

Harry shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that - he struck me as the gloating type.” Admittedly, he hadn’t met the Dark Lord that often, but still. “But everything else wasn’t working against you, so I doubt that it would work on him either.”

“You’re still learning - and you’ve made a lot of progress. I doubt there’s anyone in your year who could beat you,” Sirius said. “Or in the year above you.”

“Great. I can defeat teenagers.” Harry scoffed. “Let’s hope that Voldemort sends Malfoy after me.”

“You mean his son?”

“Of course.”

“I think your owl could beat him,” Sirius said, grinning. “Lucius must be wondering what went wrong with his son.”

“He isn’t that bad,” Harry said, “he knows a number of curses, but unless he has been sandbagging in Defence for the entire year, he doesn’t know how to fight.”

Sirius looked confused for a moment, then he nodded. “I doubt that he managed to fool Remus.” He reached over and ruffled Harry’s hair. “But don’t forget that you’re protected by Lily’s blood - the Dark Lord won’t be able to harm you directly.”

Harry snorted. “Ron and Hermione came up with a dozen ways to hurt me indirectly.”

“And that’s why we’re training so hard.” Sirius nodded with an exaggerated smile. Then he grew serious. “And you already knew all that. What’s bothering you?”

Harry sighed. “It’s a girl.” He sat down on the bench at the side of the room.

“You’re bothered by a girl?” Sirius asked with a grin, sitting down next to him.

Harry scowled at him. Could he be serious for once? “No. I like this girl, but I’m not sure if I should ask her to be my girlfriend.”

“Why not? Do you think she doesn’t like you?”

“No, no.” Harry shook his head. “I think - actually, I’m pretty sure - that she likes me as well.” At least he didn’t think he had misread her interest.

“So what’s the problem? Is she already taken?”

“No. She’s Ginny Weasley.” Harry looked at the floor.

“The cute redhead? Ron’s sister?”

“Yes. And that’s the problem.” Harry sighed again. “What if this goes wrong, and she ends up hating me like Parvati?”

“I told you, I don’t think Parvati really hates you. She hasn’t tried to curse you, after all,” Sirius said.

Harry shot him a glare. “She isn’t a Black,” he said curtly. “But I’m not worried about curses.” No matter what stories Ron told about Ginny. “I’m worried about making visits to The Burrow awkward, and how a breakup would affect me and Ron.”

“You’re afraid that if you break up with Ginny, Ron will stop being your friend?” Sirius sounded incredulous.

“Yes,” Harry pressed out. He was worried - Ron was his best friend, but Ginny was Ron’s sister - wouldn’t he naturally side with her, instead of with Harry?

His godfather shook his head. “Don’t worry. Unless you cheat on her, or do anything similarly stupid, Ron will back you.”

“But she’s his sister!” Harry almost yelled. “Family.”

“Ah.” Sirius took a deep breath. “That’s not how it works.”

“You said family comes first,” Harry retorted. And the Weasleys were a very tight-knit family.

“And that’s true - for serious things and problems.” Sirius shrugged. “Unless you get her pregnant, this isn’t really serious. You’re teenagers, after all. And Ron knows her - he’ll understand, and back you.” He grinned widely, showing his teeth. “You were an only child, so you don’t know what it’s like to have siblings. Trust me, I’d have backed any witch who broke up with Regulus. And not just so I could console her and show her that not all Blacks are that bad,” he added with a rather lecherous expression.

Harry would have mentioned that Regulus had been a Death Eater, but Sirius’s family was a touchy subject, one only worsened by his godfather’s memory problems, so he simply nodded.

“Of course, Molly will take her little girl’s side, so you’d probably have some trouble at The Burrow anyway, for a while,” Sirius added, almost as an afterthought. “But then, that’s no reason not to try your luck with Ginny. She’s a redhead; you’ll probably get into trouble if she likes you and you don’t like her back. Witch scorned, and all that.” He nodded sagely.

Harry pressed his lips together. He needed another opinion. His godfather’s wasn’t very helpful right now. And he certainly couldn’t talk about this with Ron. And he didn’t think Remus had much experience with teenage relationships, not according to Sirius’s stories.

That left his other best friend. He nodded - Hermione would be able to help him.

*****

**London, Greenwich, July 2nd, 1995**

“Well, at least the downward trend has been stopped.” Hermione Granger didn’t quite sigh, but she felt like doing so as she dropped the letter with the results of her ‘exams’ on the table in her tutor’s kitchen. Technically - she had taken fewer subjects, after all.

Mr Fletcher picked it up. “Outstandings in Charms and Transfiguration, Exceeds Expectations in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and History of Magic. Acceptables in Potions, Care for Magical Creatures and Defence.”

“Those don’t count,” she snapped. “Snape hates muggleborns and didn’t grade me fairly, and I had to hold back in Defence.” She frowned at him - he had ordered her to do that.

“Yes, and for very good reasons. If Black managed to see through your disguise then you have to be even more careful.”

“Not even Harry recognised me - and Mr Black only recognised me because I was with you at the ball.” She scoffed and poured herself some tea.

He grinned, acknowledging her point. “Yes. But if he can make the connection, then so can others. Which is why you need to have a very different appearance and manners as Miss Granger.”

“Frumpy, plain, unfit for Quidditch, and a little bit of a nag, I know.” This time she did sigh.

“Just don’t overdo it either. Your friends might grow suspicious.”

“My friends would grow tired of me if I overdid it.” And she had her pride, too - she was a witch, after all! “But at least Skeeter has been completely fooled,” she added, clenching her teeth together. That witch would pay for her lies!

“I’ve read the article too. You should be happy about it,” Mr Fletcher said. He wasn’t grinning, but she was certain that he found this amusing. “She completely absolves you of any involvement in the attack on Potter.”

“Because I’m ‘too incompetent to handle such advanced magic’ and had ‘obviously cheated to earn my grades at Hogwarts’,” Hermione spat. She forced herself to relax her grip on her cup before she spilled - or even broke - it.

“To be thought stupid and incompetent is a great cover. I’m working on establishing that Mr Smith isn’t very good with a wand myself,” he said as he grabbed a cup of tea for himself.

“But you aren’t thought a cheat and a failure.”

“That wouldn’t be helpful for my cover. Good families wouldn’t send their daughters and sons to be tutored by me if they thought ill of me.”

“And my reputation helps my cover? I’m supposed to be Mr Black’s secretary.”

“Black’s a rogue and a rake. Of course he’d hire a witch like you.”

“That doesn’t exactly make me appear innocent.”

“You don’t need to appear innocent. Just incompetent.”

Which, Hermione realised, would be harder than she’d thought.

“Now stop frowning - it’s time for your practical exam.”

Hermione had expected that, after last year’s surprise exam. But she still felt nervous when she saw her tutor’s grin.

*****

**Cuxton, Kent, Britain, July 2nd, 1995**

As she was finding her balance after once more having experienced Side-Along Apparition, Hermione Granger reaffirmed her vow to master Apparition this year. Even if it was supposed to feel as unpleasant as Side-Along Apparition, at least she would have some control over it.

She took a deep breath and looked around. They were at the coast, on a hill. She looked around. East Coast. Kent or Norfolk, probably, since the sea was to the north, and it was too warm for Scotland.

“Welcome to Cuxton, Kent,” Mr Fletcher confirmed her guess. “Home to a few thousand muggles - and one wizard family of modest means.” He pointed at a very old looking farm house at the foot of the hill. “The Allisters. Pureblood, but not of the Old Families - their ancestors married too many muggles. Kind of like the Weasleys.”

“That doesn’t sound as if they are bigots.”

“Oh, they aren’t. Decent folk. Farmers - potion ingredients. Not on the level of the Longbottoms, or the Malfoys, but they make a living.”

She studied the house, waiting for Mr Fletcher to explain what he expected of her. He couldn’t want her to steal from decent people, could he? That would go against his own rules.

“Now, your task is to break into the house without triggering the wards and steal something they won’t miss. Something they will think has been disposed of or mislaid.”

She drew a breath through clenched teeth. A real theft, this time. In a real house. “Do I have to case the joint?”

He shook his head. “No. That would take too much time. I did it for you. The inhabitants of the house are Margaret and Andrew Allister. Married, two children - who have already left home. Since it’s a Sunday afternoon, Margaret is off having tea with her friends and Andrew is using the opportunity to listen to muggle music, which his wife can’t stand.” When she glanced at him, he chuckled. “I gather that she means rock ’n’ roll.”

“Ah.” Hermione nodded, her attention focused on the house below. One wizard, distracted by listening to music. He’d be in the kitchen or living room. Which meant the best route would be to enter through the roof, after getting through the wards. “When will his wife be back?”

“She usually returns in time to cook dinner. Six o’clock.”

She checked her watch. That meant she had three hours. Plenty of time, if the wards were weak. But this was an old house. The wards wouldn’t be that weak. Still… he wouldn’t set her a task that she couldn’t do. She could do this. She just had to apply what she had learned.  She studied the lay of the farm. If the wardline followed a traditional pattern, then… there!

Hermione shrugged out of her robes, leaving her in a black turtleneck and matching jeans. She pulled a balaclava on, hiding both her face and her hair - just in case her spells failed. Then she twirled her wand around herself, casting a Disillusionment Charm. A moment later she was on her way down to the target. When she turned around to look back, her tutor had vanished. Probably disillusioned himself, to watch her work.

She hadn’t seen any sign of a dog, and Mr Fletcher hadn’t mentioned one either, but she still drank a potion to suppress her scent before approaching the area. This would be an expensive test, she realised. But she wanted to impress her tutor. Show him that she was ready for a real heist. At least ready to help him.

The fence surrounding the yard was no obstacle; she dropped to the ground and crawled under it. Then she used the - she hoped former - outhouse as cover to approach the house. She was disillusioned, but it never hurt to be extra careful.

She cast her detection spell at twenty yards from where she expected the wardline to be - they would have buried stones, at the time the house was built, instead of anchoring the wards to the walls. It took her a minute to sneak close enough with that spell up to confirm her guess. Both her guesses, actually - these were old wards. Not as powerful - and, so she hoped, not as lethal - as the wards protecting the Old Families’ manors, but they were composed of many layers, making them far more difficult to circumvent than the wards Mr Fletcher had set for her last exam.

But she could do this! She would do this!

She took a deep breath to calm down, then focused on the layers of the ward. An Alarm Spell was the most obvious. It probably served to announce visitors. The Muggle-Repelling Charm she could ignore. The same went for the Vermin-Repelling Charm. But the Shocking Spell and the Banishing Charm… whoever had cast them had known what they were doing. They were linked; dispelling one would trigger the other.

She had learned how to deal with linked charms, though dispelling them wouldn’t be a good idea - the goal was to sneak in and out without the Allisters realising that she had been there, and dismantling the core of their wards would certainly alert them to the break in. Licking her lips, she started to adjust the spells, twisting and prodding them, tweaking and pulling, until she had created a blind spot she could sneak through.

Blinking, she realised that she was sweating and breathing heavily - that had taken more out of her than she had expected. A glance at her watch told her that it taken her more time, too - almost an hour. She forced herself to calm down. She still had plenty of time before Mrs Allister returned.

She waited until she was breathing normally, then crawled forward. When her hand crossed the wardline she tensed - but nothing happened. No alarm, no spark, no sudden flight back out of the warded area. She had done it! She was inside the wards!

Now she just had to break into the house.

It took another five yards crawling on her belly to reach the wall - which, she checked, wasn’t protected by spells. The windows were, though - basic alarm charms and locking spells. Someone had not trusted the ward, or maybe Mrs Allister had been used to doing those spells in her home before moving into her husband’s. It didn’t matter - Hermione had learned how to deal with those over a year ago.

A flick of her wrist conjured a plank underneath her. She tapped it with her wand, disillusioning it, before levitating it - and her with it - upwards. She could have climbed as well, but this was quieter, and would leave fewer traces.

The attic had a small, dusty window - but Hermione would fit through it without the help of spells. There were no spells protecting this window. Maybe her hypothesis that Mrs Allister was simply in the habit of ‘locking up’ the house as if it had a more modern ward scheme was correct. She would have to ask Mr Fletcher afterwards.

She didn’t use a spell on the window either - she opened it with a few tools a skilled muggle burglar would have been familiar with and stuck her head inside. The floor was covered with dust; walking on it was out, then. She carefully maneuvered her floating plank through the window, with her on it, then closed the window before floating to the trapdoor leading downstairs. That wasn’t protected with spells either and the hinges looked well-oiled, so she reached down and slowly opened it until she could peer through the gap.

Below was a dark stairway. She could hear loud music now as well - as Mr Fletcher had predicted. Although it wasn’t rock ’n’ roll; it was punk. The Sex Pistols. She closed the trapdoor again and looked around. She was surrounded by knick-knacks and other things usually dumped in the attic instead of being disposed of. For a moment, she remembered going through her old home’s attic, and throwing away so many things, then she refocused on her task. She could simply grab a knick-knack here; judging by the dust covering everything, the Allisters didn’t use or need anything up here any more, and didn’t care enough to protect them either.

But… she bit her lower lip. That would be easy. Too easy. She wanted to excel. To impress her tutor. Show him that she had what it took to do real heists. Nodding slowly, she opened the trapdoor again, opening it fully this time. The stairway was clean, so she left her plank floating in the attic and carefully closed the trapdoor behind her, then snuck downstairs.

The music came from the living room. The door was halfway open; she could see crossed legs, one foot whipping, from her spot. She moved towards the kitchen, holding her breath as she crossed the open door. She made it! The kitchen was similar to the one in The Burrow. Ice box. Stove. Cupboard. Pantry. Where… there! The saucer filled with Knuts, for the Daily Prophet. Grinning, she checked for spells, then grabbed one Knut and stuck it in her pocket.

She turned around, and her eyes widened: Mr Allister was just leaving the living room - and headed towards the kitchen! She almost gasped, but held her breath. She had to get out of his way, and hide - her charm might not fool him if he got too close. But where? The pantry? The door might creak - it was an old door, and…

It was an old house - with a low ceiling! She climbed on the table, reaching up to touch the ceiling. Two quick, silent Sticking Charms later, she was stuck to it, her heart racing while she struggled to breathe silently.

Mr Allister entered the kitchen, his head whipping back and forth. He was even singing along! She saw him reach for the teapot and held her breath. If he set the pan on the stove and left… He didn’t. He sat down and waited.

By the time Mr Allister had finished brewing his tea, and left for the living room again, Hermione wanted to hex him for his off-key singing.

Five minutes later, when she was floating out of the attic window, down to the weak spot she had left in the wards, her heart was still racing.

That had been exhilarating!

*****

Her tutor was indeed impressed, both by her plan and her quick reaction to Mr Allister heading to the kitchen. He was also, or so Hermione thought, impressed by her decision to steal a single Knut - which she would mark with a spell and keep as a souvenir. She would even have turned it into a necklace if that wouldn’t have been suspicious.

But he wasn’t terribly impressed, not at all, that he had been able to watch her without her being aware of his presence. Apparently, he had, while preparing her exam, attuned himself to the wards so he could slip in and out without being detected. Something, Hermione had to reluctantly agree, she should have expected. It was only logical, after all.

He still gave her an Outstanding, but, as he put it, it was a little closer to Exceeds Expectation than she liked.

Hermione vowed to do better next time.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 3rd, 1995**

“Hermione! I’ve been waiting for you!”

Hermione Granger was both surprised and pleased by Harry’s enthusiastic greeting when she entered Mr Black and Harry’s house. “Hi, Harry!” She beamed at him. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

He nodded. “Yes. I need to talk to you.” He glanced around and added: “In private.”

If not for her training under her tutor, Hermione would have gasped at that. He wanted to talk to her, in private? Had he finally realised that she was a pretty witch too? Then she reminded herself that that would mean that she had failed in her disguise. Which would be a very bad thing. Even though Harry would certainly keep her secret - it was Sirius’s too - and maybe that would let them grow even closer…

By the time they had reached his room, Hermione had almost convinced herself that this - obviously hypothetical scenario - wouldn’t be a bad thing. Not really.

“So,” she said, sitting down on Harry’s bed, “you wanted to talk to me?” He looked slightly nervous - which was a good thing, too, or so she thought,

He nodded several times, taking a seat in his chair. “Yes. You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”

That… didn’t sound good. “Yes?” she prompted him, feeling her stomach drop.

Harry took a deep breath. “I think I fancy Ginny.” Definitely not a good thing, Hermione thought. “And I think she might fancy me.”

The girl was all but throwing herself at him, Hermione knew. Harry really was clueless - which had to be the fault of his relatives. And probably Mr Black’s. She nodded slowly.

“And you and her get along well. Much better than with Parvati,” Harry added.

That wasn’t a high bar, Hermione thought. And she wasn’t certain that she and Ginny would get along well if the other witch became Harry’s girlfriend. She didn’t say either, though, and nodded again. She had learned to lie, after all. “So, you fancy each other.” And to smile even if she didn’t feel like smiling. He couldn’t be asking what she thought he was, could he?

“Yes. Probably.” He took another deep breath. “But… she’s Ron’s sister. And I don’t know how he and his family will react should we break up. Me and Ginny, I mean.” He smiled at her. “So, I wanted to ask you for advice. Should I ask her out anyway? Do you think Ron would be angry?”

He was! Hermione wanted to hex him. Instead, she asked: “Do you mean that he might get angry at you for dating his sister, or angry at you for - hypothetically - breaking up with her?”

“Ah… both? I’ve never had a sibling, you know. I don’t know how that works.”

She didn’t point out that she was an only child as well. Or that it wasn’t a good sign that he was already thinking about a breakup before he had actually asked the witch out. Her best friend had asked her for her advice, and she owed him both honesty and her best effort. And maybe a jinx or hex for asking this of her.

She pushed a stray lock out of her face as she answered: “Well, I think that your fear of another bad breakup isn’t a sufficient reason to stop you from entering a new relationship. As long as you’re honest with her, then the Weasleys and Ron shouldn’t hate you if things don’t work out between you and Ginny.” They shouldn’t, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t. With the obvious exception of Ron, she didn’t know the Weasleys that well. “Of course, if you cheat on her, or treat her badly, take her for granted, or simply want to sleep with her…”

“Of course not!” he exclaimed, but she noted he was blushing as well. “I wouldn’t do that to a girl!”

“You’d better not,” she said, a little more sharply than she wanted. “Ginny’s got a temper too.”

“Oh, I know.” His expression didn’t look like he thought that that was a bad thing. He stood up and moved towards her. “Thank you! I’ll ask her to be my girlfriend tomorrow, when I go over to The Burrow.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Hermione lied with a smile as he hugged her.

Maybe she could ask her tutor to use Harry for her next practical exam?

*****

 


	10. Summer of Change

**Hogwarts, July 4th, 1995**

“Thank you for coming, Remus, Sirius. Please have a seat.”

Remus Lupin nodded at Dumbledore in return and sat down in front of the Headmaster’s desk. Sirius was a little more vocal: “You couldn’t keep us out of this war if you tried!” he declared. The two of them had acted just the same on those occasions when they had been called into the Headmaster’s office as students.

“That is not my intention, I assure you.” Dumbledore smiled at them.

“Although I would have expected a meeting of the entire Order by now, seeing as the Dark Lord’s back in a body of his own,” Sirius added. “I don’t think everyone else has suddenly lost their nerve.”

Remus agreed with his friend. The Order of the Phoenix had suffered serious casualties during the last war, but there had been over a dozen left last he knew.

“No, they have not. I am happy to say that they are as committed to fighting the Dark Lord as they were twenty years ago.” Dumbledore sighed. “But, as you two know, there is always the danger of someone, willingly or not, betraying us. I have therefore decided to re-form the Order as a group of smaller cells, each of them only being in contact with myself, but not with the others. That way, the effect of any treason will be limited.”

“A little late,” Sirius commented. “We already know most of the surviving Order members.” And knowing that, it wouldn’t be that hard to spot new members, Remus thought.

“You are correct. But you don’t know the new members. And you will not know what the other cells are doing,” Dumbledore said.

“That might be a mixed blessing,” Remus said. “We might inadvertently hinder others.” Or worse.

“I can only ask you to trust me that I will do my utmost to minimise that danger. Although I am not infallible.” Dumbledore sighed. “But I do not see a better way.”

“There’s ways to keep people from talking. Willingly or unwillingly.” Sirius was talking in a casual tone, but Remus knew him well; he could see the tension his friend was trying to hide.

“And we will not stoop to such measures,” Dumbledore retorted. “Some prices are too high to be paid.”

“Well, seeing as the Dark Lord hasn’t used such measures himself, yet, I guess I can’t argue with that.” Sirius nodded. Remus tried not to show that not knowing what Sirius and Dumbledore were talking about irked, no, hurt him. He didn’t like being excluded. He was already forced to suffer that as a werewolf. Always hiding part of himself, always afraid his secret would get out and those he had thought his friends would turn away in disgust, either because he was a Dark creature, or because he hadn’t trusted them with his secret…

“For a cell we’re a mite small, though,” Sirius continued, interrupting Remus’s thoughts. “We’re both very skilled and talented, of course, but I guess you want us recruiting? Even if only so we can both order someone around?” He grinned widely.

“With the utmost caution only. Your task is the most crucial of all.” Dumbledore had lost his smile.

Remus was confused. “I would have expected to serve as the Order’s contact to the werewolves, to prevent the Dark Lord from recruiting them.” That’s what Dumbledore had asked from him in the last war, although Harry’s defeat of Voldemort had ended that mission before Remus could begin it. “I assume that the Dark Lord’s primary goal will be to build up his forces.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “While I share your opinion about Voldemort’s priorities, I do not think that sending you to contact the werewolf community would be a wise course of action.”

“Why not?” It would have been the first time his curse would have been good for something, Remus thought.

“Back in the last war, you were just another werewolf. You had gone to Hogwarts, unlike most of those who share your affliction, but not many would have recognised you. But since you are the teacher for Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, the first in decades to stay on for longer than a single year, that is no longer the case.” Dumbledore sounded almost apologetic. “The risk that you would be exposed in order to force you to resign, further weakening my position, or simply out of envy of your good fortune, is too great.”

“Yeah, Moony. We can’t afford to lose you,” Sirius chimed in.

“But that means leaving the other werewolves to Voldemort.” Remus knew how hard it was for a werewolf to make a living - even if no one knew that he was afflicted, he had to keep his curse a secret, and lived in constant fear of being revealed as a dark creature. But those known to be werewolves had it even worse. And if the werewolves led by that rabid beast Greyback once again joined Voldemort, then every werewolf would suffer for it.

“I have no intention of ignoring them,” Dumbledore said, “but your talents are needed elsewhere. Further, as long as the Dark Lord believes that we are unaware of his return, he will have to be very careful himself when recruiting followers.”

He wasn’t even a good enough werewolf to deal with others of his kind! Remus wanted to laugh at the bitter irony. “So, who will be contacting the werewolves?”

“An acquaintance of mine,” the Headmaster answered. Which meant he wouldn’t tell Remus.

“So we will protect Harry, then.” Remus tried not to sound bitter. He wasn’t certain that he succeeded.

Sirius at least acted as if he hadn’t noticed. “Of course. And train him.”

“He is the key to winning this war once and for all,” Dumbledore stated. “Unfortunately, the Dark Lord is aware of this as well, although he hasn’t yet realised that they share a deeper connection than he must have already suspected. That is why we cannot reveal his return yet. And while Harry is protected from Voldemort’s spells and curses thanks to his mother’s sacrifice, ordinary Death Eaters are not so hindered.”

“And they know where to find him.” Remus shook his head.

“Fortunately, my family has always been rather concerned about completely unprovoked attacks on them, so Grimmauld Place should be safe enough. And I took precautions in case Narcissa or Bellatrix should try anything.” Sirius’s grin was positively feral.

“Hogwarts’s defences are not quite as lethal as those of your home, but they will rebuff even the Dark Lord himself,” Dumbledore said. “Although he might plan to circumvent that by recruiting among the older students.”

“Bloody snakes,” Sirius muttered through clenched teeth.

That explained the focus on training, Remus thought. Harry would soon be able to deal with any attacks by students - provided they didn’t use any dark items, of course.

“While it is very likely that a sizeable part of Slytherin house’s students have sympathy for the Dark Lord’s cause, it would be fatally shortsighted to assume that only Slytherins will heed the Dark Lord’s call,” Dumbledore said. Remus exchanged a glance with Sirius. They knew that all too well. “To quote an old friend of mine: Constant vigilance is needed,” the Headmaster went on. “I am sorry to have to say it, but Harry will have to be very cautious. More cautious than others of his age.”

Remus agreed. He only hoped that Harry would be mature enough to realise that too.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, July 4th, 1995**

Harry Potter told himself that he didn’t have to be nervous. Ginny liked him. He was certain of that. She was always happy to see him and talk to him, and she smiled at him in that special way, and… he couldn’t actually recall any other solid evidence that she liked him. He just thought she did, but maybe she was just being friendly to the best friend of her youngest brother? Then again, she didn’t seem to particularly like Ron. And yet… if she liked him, wouldn’t she have said something when he had been with Parvati? Or showed some jealousy? Of course, she had exchanged a few catty remarks with Parvati, but so had Hermione.

He sighed. What if Ginny didn’t like him? What if she turned him down? Or worse, what if she laughed, thinking it was a joke?

“Mate, what’s wrong? You’ve been staring at the shed for almost a minute,” Ron’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Did you even hear me?”

Harry sighed. “Sorry Ron, I was… thinking,” he finished lamely.

“Thinking? About, you know?” Ron asked, glancing back at the porch of The Burrow, where Tonks was chatting with Ron’s oldest brother Bill, who was strengthening the wards over the summer.

“No, it’s not about that, nor Voldemort,” Harry said. Although he should consider that too, shouldn’t he? Any girlfriend of his would be in danger, since Voldemort wanted him dead and wouldn’t spare her. On the other hand, the Weasleys were among the most famous ‘blood traitors’, and Ron was his best friend, so Ginny was already in danger…

“So, what’s this about? Better talk about it before you fly into the ground or get hit by a Bludger because you’re distracted.” Ron shouldered his broom.

Harry drew a hissing breath - he didn’t really want to talk about this with Ron. On the other hand, maybe he should talk with Ron before he asked Ginny out. His friend might get angry otherwise. Or think Harry didn’t trust him. He sighed, then cast a privacy spell.

Ron tensed at once and looked around for eavesdroppers, flicking his wand back and forth. “Looks clear,” he announced after a few seconds.

Here goes nothing, Harry thought. “I’m thinking of asking Ginny to be my girlfriend.”

Ron blinked at him, then sighed. “Oh.” He sounded… almost resigned? Was that bad?

Harry quickly went on. “Yeah. I think she’s cute, and she knows me, you know, and she seems to like me, and she’s friendly, and she gets along well with Hermione.” Ron seemed to be nibbling on his lower lip like Hermione right then. “Do you think she likes me?”

His friend wasn’t answering. Harry could see his jaw muscles move, but Ron had stopped looking at him.

“Ron?” Harry asked, a little louder.

His friend didn’t startle, though, unlike Harry earlier. But he sighed too. “Yeah. I reckon she likes you, mate.”

Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “You do? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Ron didn’t sound altogether happy, though, Harry thought.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Did Ron fear that Harry would drop him and Hermione for Ginny? Or was he jealous that he hadn’t found a girlfriend yet?

“Look, mate, just…” Ron sighed again. “It’s nothing. Just don’t get weird, alright?”

“Weird?”

“You know, snogging. In public,” Harry’s friend added quickly. “Some things I don’t want to see Ginny doing.”

“Ah. Of course not.” Harry nodded. He wasn’t much for public snogging either.

“Alright. So, let’s fly a bit, until Ginny’s back from Luna’s.” Ron mounted his broom and leapt into the air without waiting for Harry’s answer.

*****

“Harry! Hi!” Ginny beamed at him. She was wearing a casual robe, quite tight, Harry Potter noticed. And slit up to her knees, perhaps a little higher. A ‘broom riding cut’, as Parvati had once explained to him, for those witches who didn’t ride side-saddle.

He buried the memory. He didn’t want to think of his former girlfriend. Not now. Not ever. “Hi, Ginny.” He tried to sound casual. Ron had said that she liked him, after all. There wasn’t any reason to be nervous. “You’ve been at Luna’s?” Smooth, he thought. Really smooth.

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice. “Yes. Since Mum’s not allowing us past the wards, I had to travel through the Floo network, but I wanted to visit her. She’s going on an expedition with her father in a few days.”

“Ah.” Harry was a little envious. He was pretty much stuck at home or The Burrow, or similarly warded places, until it was time to return to Hogwarts. On the other hand, he would miss his friends, especially Hermione. “Do you think they’ll manage to catch one of the animals they’re looking for?”

Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know. They haven’t found any so far.”

“Ah,” Harry said eloquently. “So…” he looked around. Ron was pointedly reading his Quidditch magazine. Tonks winked at him from the couch, over whatever book she was reading. Apparently, she knew what he was about to do. Or wanted him to think she did. And Mrs Weasley was in the kitchen talking to Bill.

“So?” Ginny asked, with a slight grin. Or perhaps it was a smile.

He took a deep breath. “Let’s go out on the porch? It’s a bit loud in here.”

“Loud?” She blinked. Then her eyes widened. “Ah… of course!” She nodded enthusiastically and was out of the door in a second.

Harry followed her outside, taking a few deep breaths. He could do this. It was easy. He just had to ask her without sounding like an idiot. Or like Zabini the smarmy git who Parvati was now fawning over. “So… I was wondering…”

“Yes?” She was licking her lips. She had put on a little makeup, he noticed. A year ago, he wouldn’t have.

Here goes, he thought. “Well, I think you’re cute, and nice, and a great flyer. And I like hanging out with you.” He swallowed. “So… would you like to go out with me?”

“Yes! I mean, yes, I would.”

Harry hesitated a moment, then took a step closer and opened his arms. She hugged him almost as hard as Hermione, and he wondered why he had ever doubted that she liked him.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 6th, 1995**

Waiting at the door of Mr Black and Harry’s home, Hermione Granger realised that despite working there for a few months now, she still lacked a key for the house. Which was a little weird, given the fact that the wards allowed her inside. Not that the lack of a key would stop her, if she really wanted to get inside, she added to herself with a faint grin. All the dark curses on those windows, however, would.

After about a minute had passed since she had rung the doorbell, Kreacher opened the door. The elf had probably been waiting more than half that time right by the door, Hermione thought. Mr Black had had to order him to stop insulting her, but the little cretin had found other ways to try and make her feel unwelcome.

He wouldn’t succeed, though. “Hello, Kreacher!” she called out with an extra wide smile, and, as expected, he was scowling fiercely when he stepped aside to let her enter. “Is Mr Black in his study?”

The elf nodded, almost slamming the door closed.

“Thank you, I know the way.” She nodded at him as she passed. Maybe she should pat his head next time? One way or another, the elf would learn to respect her.

Mr Black was sitting behind his desk as she entered, but stood at once - manners had been drilled into him with hexes and curses, he had once explained to her. “Hello, Miss Granger. As usual, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he said as he bowed to her as if they were at a reception hosted by one of the Old Families. His grin was out of place, though.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr Black.” She curtseyed in return. Ever since her last refusal to call him Sirius, he had started to overdo the Old Family airs in an attempt to make her give in. She wouldn’t, of course.

“Please, have a seat!” he said, gesturing at the couch. “You’re here as my guest, after all, not as my secretary. Although,” he added with a frown, “there are some notes I think you might go over after we’re done.”

“Of course, Mr Black.” She sat down gracefully, crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap.

Mr Black narrowed his eyes slightly, then grinned again. “You wouldn’t be as formal if Harry were around,” he said as Kreacher entered with a tray.

Of course not - she couldn’t act like Miss Merriweather when she was with Harry! Unless she was acting as Miss Merriweather. “He’s not here, then?” she asked, with her head tilted to the side. “No sugar, please,” she added when Kreacher tried to turn her tea into syrup while serving her.

“He’s at The Burrow. Visiting his new girlfriend.” Sirius sighed theatrically. “Ah, young love!”

“Ah.” Hermione kept her expression neutral. Ginny was a nice girl, and would treat Harry right. And it wasn’t as if she wanted Harry to be at home when Mr Black was teaching her illegal magic.

“Is that a hint of jealousy I detect?” Mr Black was grinning widely.

“No. As a matter of fact, I told Harry that he should ask Ginny out.” She smiled politely.

“You also tried to seduce him under the very eyes of his last girlfriend.”

“I was merely testing my disguise and acting skills,” she replied, perhaps a little stiffly. Was he implying that she couldn’t have seduced Harry if she had wanted to?

“Of course.” His amused expression didn’t change. He was!

She swallowed her first retort, and simply nodded. She wasn’t here to talk about Harry. Or his new girlfriend. Harry did enough of that when he was around. “I’ve decided to pursue the Spirit Animal Path,” she said.

“A wise decision.” Mr Black nodded. “I and my friends decided the same, after all.” His ‘wise mentor’ impression needed some work, Hermione thought - he was smiling too widely. “Now, as a responsible tutor, I have to ask: Are you aware of all the legal, magical and mental risks this will incur?”

“Yes.” Compared to her decision to rob entire Old Families blind, becoming an illegal animagus wasn’t really much to quibble about. And Hermione was certain that she could handle any mental or magical challenges.

“Good! Now, a few ground rules: You don’t try to change without me present. Partial transformations are not something to take lightly. Especially if they involve your wand arm.”

He seemed to be speaking from personal experience. Hermione nodded - that made sense.

“Further, you don’t talk to anyone about this. You don’t show off to anyone, either. Not even to Harry.”

That made sense too, even if she didn’t like it. “My tutor might have to know, once we start doing real work.”

“Maybe. I’ll decide once we reach that point.”

Once she was an animagus, it wouldn’t be his decision any more. Hermione nodded anyway. “Haven’t you told Harry about your own animagus form?” The way Mr Black doted on Harry, and loved to tell the stories he remembered of his friendship with Harry’s parents, she would have expected him to inform Harry about such an important part of his past.

He shook his head, sighing. His shoulders slumped, too. “I wanted to, but Dumbledore warned me off before I even met Harry for the first time after my breakout. Harry just thinks I’m some nosy dog who likes him.”

“He warned you?”

“Yes. He said Harry should be trained in Occlumency first, so as not to endanger me.” He scoffed. “I bet he knew - or at least suspected - about Harry’s connection to the Dark Lord!”

“I hadn’t heard that Harry was to receive such training.” Had Harry been holding out on her? The thought hurt, even though she was keeping secrets from him as well.

“No. He was a little too young. Still is, actually, but we’ll start next school year anyway.”

She could understand that after hearing about Harry’s collapse on the Summer Solstice.

He straightened. “Well, we’ve gathered here to teach you how to turn into an animal. You know the theory already.” Of course she did. “You know you can’t choose your spirit animal.” She nodded. But she could influence her own self-image. Which should influence whatever form her spirit animal would take. Or had taken. “That said, everyone imagines themselves as a certain animal anyway. Sometimes it even turns out to be the right animal. What did you choose?”

“A cat.”

He seemed surprised. “A cat? Not an owl? You know, symbol of wisdom, flight, and very inconspicuous thanks to the abundance of post owls?”

She had thought about that, of course. “I can use a broom if I need to fly.” Or climb, or levitate. “But an owl wouldn’t be too useful since people are aware of their magical nature - and of the dangers they can cause. Most of the places I would want to break into will be warded against owls.”

“That’s true. Kreacher fetches our own mail from the perch outside, after all. Still, a cat?”

He shouldn’t sound so sceptical, she thought, then shrugged. “I’ve always loved cats. They’re graceful, elegant, good climbers, very agile - and most people love cats too.” And she wanted to be a cat, not a bird.

“And vain. And catty.” He grinned widely again.

She didn’t deign to respond to that. “And will you show me your animal form?” After all, he would need to demonstrate the transformation, if he truly wanted to teach her, instead of simply providing her with notes and advice.

Instead of answering, his form blurred, and Hermione was faced with a huge, black dog grinning at her from Mr Black’s seat and showing a row of large, gleaming white teeth.

A familiar dog, she realised, remembering the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. “You! It was you! You slobbered all over me!” she exclaimed.

The dog barked, then grinned again, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, before jumping off the seat and trying to sniff her hand and leg.

If Hermione had been a cat, she would have raked her claws across his nose!

*****

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lose your sense of self. Lose the trappings of your consciousness. Focus on your soul, on what you are when reduced to your soul. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Hermione Granger was sitting cross-legged on the floor in Mr Black’s study, with her back straight and her eyes closed. Just as the books on meditation she had read had said.

Focus on your soul. On your essential self. Shed all the trappings of society. Forget all the desires brought on by others. Focus on yourself. Focus on your innermost self. Focus on your essence. Your spirit. Your centre. You.

Just you.

She folded her hands in her lap, her thumbs touching. She felt herself breathing, slowly. Regularly. Nothing else mattered. There was just she, and she alone.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“So, any progress? Do you feel furry yet? Catty? Any cravings for cream, or chasing rodents?”

She whipped her head round and glared at Mr Black. “No. I’m still working on finding my centre.”

“Well, you’ll need to postpone that. Harry’s going to be back soon.”

“What?” She stared at him with wide eyes, then blinked. “What happened?” Had there been an attack?

“Nothing. It’s time for him to return home, so I can take him to the Dursleys for the night.”

“What?” She looked at her watch. He was correct. She drew a deep breath. More than an hour had passed, without her noticing? That had to be a good sign, Hermione thought.

Then she noticed the rubber mouse on the floor and narrowed her eyes. “Very funny,” she said in the most flat voice she could manage.

“Oh, that’s not meant to be funny. It’ll help you. We had a lot of such toys, back in the day. I found my animal when I woke up with a rubber bone in my mouth.” Mr Black chuckled. “My friends made fun of me for weeks. Couldn’t eat a meal without someone trying to sneak a dog treat on my plate. Or transfiguring the food into a chew toy.” He rubbed his chin. “Of course, if you turned out to be an owl, you’d attack the toy too, I think.”

She wouldn’t. She would be a cat. A graceful, elegant feline.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, July 23rd, 1995**

“Watch out!”

“Block him!”

“How?”

Harry Potter barely heard the shouts from the other players as he dove towards the rings, Quaffle tucked under his right arm as if he was playing rugby. Fred flew towards him, trying to intercept him, but Harry flew straight at him, rolling at the last second when the other wizard flinched, his boots missing Fred’s head by inches.

He finished the roll in the perfect spot for a throw, and let the Quaffle fly - straight at Ron, as it turned out. His friend had no problem blocking the shot.

And Ron passed the Quaffle to George, who passed to Ginny, who took off like a rocket - her slim build might be a disadvantage when jostling against another player, but it meant she was faster than anyone else on the same broom.

Even faster than Harry, not that he didn’t try to catch her anyway - she looked great when flying, even from behind. Those slightly too tight Quidditch robes, and her back…

He was grinning as he gave chase, despite the fact that he knew he couldn’t stop her, not with the lead she had. He came close, though, when she slowed down a little to aim. Unfortunately, she sent the Quaffle at Percy’s rings before he reached her, and Percy was no Ron - he missed his block.

“Yes!” Ginny raised her fist in triumph. “That’s five-two for us!”

She was just so beautiful, Harry thought, when she was smiling with a flushed face, the wind causing her long hair to fly, and pressing her robes against her chest...

“Well, that’s what you get when you turn a Seeker into a Chaser,” George complained.

“Oh, he’s chasing Ginny alright,” Fred retorted with a chuckle. “It’s just that he’s focused on her and not the Quaffle.”

Ginny glared at her brothers. “You cut that out! We won fair and square!”

“Sure, Ginny,” George said. “And he isn’t staring at your backside right now either, hm?”

She glanced over her shoulder, and Harry smiled, hoping his blush would be attributed to the exertion of the game.

“Well, you two insisted on splitting up Harry, Ginny and me,” Ron cut in, pulling his helmet off and running his hand through his hair. “Just because we trounced you twice in a row.”

“That’s just because we’re playing without Bludgers. We can’t really play to our strengths like this,” George said.

“I blame Percy, actually,” Fred objected. “He’s almost as bad as Hermione.”

“Must be all the studying,” George said, sagely. “Ruins any talent for Quidditch.”

Percy rolled his eyes at them. “I blocked most of your shots, Fred.”

“So you admit to going easy on her!” Fred quickly said.

“No, I don’t. I just pointed out that I wasn’t the reason for our loss,” Percy retorted. The twins weren’t listening, though, and he quickly gave up. “So, that’s it for me. I wouldn’t want to be late for dinner.”

“Oh, better not! She made it extra-specially for you!” George said. “The lost son, returning home, after he cruelly left his family!”

“I’m visiting every Sunday,” Percy pointed out. “And unlike Bill and Charlie, I even stayed in Britain!”

“But you never call, or visit as often as you could!” Fred shook his head. “Probably having a sordid affair with a stack of parchment in London!”

“I’m taking my work seriously, and not as a joke!”

“But jokes will be our work!”

“That joke isn’t funny.”

Harry chuckled as he followed Ron and Ginny to the Burrow, leaving the bickering older Weasleys behind. This was his best summer ever! He had a great girlfriend, he saw his best friends almost every day, and in a week, he wouldn’t have to sleep at the Dursleys any more either.

And judging by the glance and smile Ginny shot at him when they landed, they’d meet for a little snogging later!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 25th, 1995**

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on your soul. Focus on yourself. Focus on your inner spirit. Your inner cat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in… Sigh.

Hermione Granger slumped, then leaned back against the wall in Mr Black’s study. She wasn’t getting anywhere. She wasn’t seeing even a hint of progress. She wasn’t even certain that she was getting better at meditation - the frustration she was currently feeling seemed rather counterproductive.

“You know, we took months to find our spirit animal,” Mr Black remarked, seemingly without looking up from the magazine he was reading on the couch in the room.

His presence, even if needed to deal with any magical mishaps, not that this was likely given her lack of progress, wasn’t helping, in her opinion. What self-respecting cat would appear in a room with a very large dog? A dog with a very bad reputation, too! She sighed, unwilling to admit that she had expected to be quicker. Judging by his wide grin, he wasn’t fooled anyway.

“You’ll get there, don’t worry. After all, James and I managed as well.” His tone was encouraging, but his smile carried a hint of a rebuke.

Hermione didn’t pout in return. “It’s just that… I would have expected something to happen by now. Even a mishap. Anything.”

“Maybe your spirit animal isn’t a cat? You might be barking up the wrong tree. Although, with cats, it would be miaowing down from the wrong tree.”

She rolled her eyes at his mangling of the metaphor and started to meditate again. At least she had enough time, seeing as Harry seemed to be living at The Burrow these days.

And she could only imagine what he and Ginny were up to during those visits. Realising that she was clenching her teeth, she forced herself to relax again. Just like her books said.

*****

**Near Blagdon Hill, Devon, Britain, July 29th, 1995**

Hermione Granger held her breath as she pushed the shaft of her broom down, entering a steep dive. Five hundred yards to the target. Five hundred and fifty to the ground. Or so she guessed - but she had trained to estimate distances.

Four hundred yards. She saw something move near the target, and started to roll. Two red flashes flew past her - colour jinxes. Disillusioned caster. She pushed the shaft further down, rushing almost vertically downwards. Three hundred yards to the ground. Two hundred. One hundred and fifty. She started to pull up and her muscles strained against gravity and inertia. For a horrible moment, she feared that she had overestimated her strength. The ground was rapidly coming closer. Much quicker than she had thought.

But she managed to level out her broom in time - fifty yards above the ground. Right at the same height of the target, even. Panting through clenched teeth, she leaned forward, lowering both air resistance and her profile, and pressed forward, banking left and right and rolling as more colourful flashes flew towards her. Some came uncomfortably close, but none touched her shield.

Almost there! Less than a hundred yards! She did another barrel roll, avoiding the next volley, then released the shaft with her right hand. A flick of her wrist later she was holding her wand. A whispered incantation, and the Chameleon-Tongue Spell shot towards the target, a sticky line wrapping itself around a small red box as she veered hard to the right.

As she had expected, a volley of jinxes cut through the air right between her and the target - if not for her manoeuvre, she would have been hit by at least one of them. Though none hit the box either, as a quick glance over her shoulder confirmed as she sped away, diving another twenty yards towards the ground.

But the glance also confirmed that the jinxes were not letting up - and coming closer. Their caster was on a broom as well! She gritted her teeth and started to jink and roll. She just had to reach that tree on the hill, and she’d win.

But the direct path was too open. If she flew evasively, she wouldn’t be able to keep her distance. And the closer he got, the better her pursuer’s chance were of hitting her. Taking a deep breath, she veered to the right, towards a copse of trees.

Trying not to think of the Star Wars speeder chase, she flew around the copse, then, once she glimpsed an open path, through it. No spells flew past her, so her pursuer would be trying to gain the height for a dive at her.

But she hadn’t slowed down, and by the time she left the cover of the trees, he was too far behind to catch her.

Hermione raised her fist in triumph when she flew past the finishing line, smiling widely as she slowed down and turned around in time to greet her pursuer.

Mr Fletcher was shaking his head as he dismounted his broom. “That was a little bit too darin’ for a mere test, girl.”

She shrugged as casually as she could manage while still high on adrenaline. “I didn’t actually fly through the copse; I simply skirted its edge.”

He snorted. “No wonder ya were sorted inta Gryffindor. But it wasn’t just the detour through the woods. Your first dive was cuttin’ it fine too.”

“I had it all planned out,” she lied. Then she looked back at the ‘track’. “I guess we’ll need to clean up the splashes left by the spells.”

“Yes. This area is covered by Muggle-Repelling Charms, and very few wizards and witches know about it, but you know the rule.”

“Leave no trace,” she answered.

“Yes.” He looked at the small valley himself. “Hasn’t changed much, I guess.”

“You’ve been here before?” she asked. “I mean, before you prepared this for my test.”

For a moment, he seemed to freeze, and when he answered in a rougher voice than usual, he wasn’t looking at her. “Yes. It’s been a long time, though. Damn long time.”

For a moment, she wanted to ask when he had been here the last time. Had he grown up here? Or had he trained another thief here? But his expression…

Hermione nodded, and then mounted her broom. Those spots and stains wouldn’t clean themselves. Good training for the field, though.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, July 31st, 1995**

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Harry! Happy birthday to you!”

Harry Potter stared at the cake. Mrs Weasley - he had trouble thinking of her as ‘Molly’, as she asked - had outdone herself. The cake was massive. Easily large enough, in his opinion, to feed double the number of guests present. Fifteen candles burned brightly - the twins’ attempts to tamper with them had been foiled by Mr Weasley - and everyone was singing, off-key in most cases.

He didn’t mind the cacophony at all - it reminded him of the school song at Hogwarts. He took a deep breath, then blew all the candles out at once, to the applause of everyone present.

“Well done, mate!” Ron said, clapping his shoulder. Hermione nodded in agreement.

“Thanks,” Harry said, but his attention was on Ginny, who had wrapped her arm around his waist. He returned the gesture and pulled her closer while Mrs Weasley started to cut the cake.

The first slice went to him, slowly floating towards him on a small plate. He offered the first piece to Ginny, though, and, before he realised it, they were feeding each other. He was about to wipe away the speck of whipped cream that had ended up on the tip of her nose with his index finger when Neville addressed him.

“Harry?”

“Yes?” He wasn’t annoyed at the interruption, just… slightly miffed, maybe.

“I wanted to thank you for your invitation,” Neville said. “Yeah, thanks!” Seamus and Dean chimed in, waving their forks. Between them, the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and the Weasleys, maybe the cake was just the right size, Harry thought.

“Of course, guys,” Harry said.

“I just wish you had invited more birds,” Seamus said. “And all of them are already taken,” he added with a nod towards the porch, where the twins were flirting with Angelina, Alicia and Katie.

“You know, a girl doesn’t have to be taken to turn you down,” Dean pointed out with a grin.

“Leave me to my delusions!” Seamus elbowed his friend.

Dean sighed and turned to Harry. “He asked out every pretty witch present. And all of them shot him down. That has to be a new record.”

Seamus scoffed. “As long as I keep asking girls, sooner or later one will say yes.”

“Or hex you.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

The two left them, probably to get another slice or two of the cake. Neville and Ron had wandered off as well, leaving Harry and Ginny by themselves. “I’m so happy I’ve got you,” Harry whispered, pulling her close again.

“You should be!” Ginny said, then giggled and hugged him. “I’m happy to have you too.”

“Although…” Harry looked around, then lowered his voice. “I do feel a little guilty, being so happy when Ron and Hermione haven’t found anyone.”

“It’s not your fault.” Ginny shook her head, then pouted at him.

“It actually is,” Harry said. “Apparently, being my best friend means he wouldn’t work out with Lavender.” Who was Parvati’s best friend.

“Ron asked her out?” Ginny blinked.

“Well, what he he told me was that Lavender thought he was cute, but she picked Parvati over him.”

“Good!” Ginny was scowling fiercely now. “She isn’t right for him!”

Harry fought not to wince. If she felt that strongly about this... “I can’t really fault her for picking her best friend over a potential boyfriend.” He had done the same, after all.

“What? No, not that. But Ron wouldn’t be happy with her,” Ginny declared in a tone that brooked no dissension.

“Why do you think that? Because she’s so close to Parvati?”

Ginny shook her head. “She’s just not right for him.” She looked away. “She doesn’t like Quidditch, for example.”

“I’ve seen her read Quidditch Weekly,” Harry said. Back when he had been with Parvati.

“She likes Quidditch players,” Ginny said. “Not Quidditch.” Harry thought that would help Ron’s chances, seeing as he was about to succeed Oliver as the team’s Keeper - there certainly wasn’t anyone better around in Gryffindor - but before he could voice that thought Ginny pulled on his arm. “Come on, let’s get a game started!”

That was another advantage of The Burrow had over Grimmauld Place, Harry thought - you could play Quidditch here.

*****

Picked last, and put into reserve. For a moment, Hermione Granger had felt as if she had been back in primary school. Once again, she had been picked last for every team in P.E. As if being smart meant that you were bad at sports!

Well, she actually hadn’t been very good at them. But that had been back then. Before she had started to train as a thief. Nowadays? She narrowed her eyes as she studied the two teams playing above her on the Weasleys’ pitch. Well, she wasn’t as good as Harry. But no one was. The twins said Charlie might be, but without seeing the man fly, she wouldn’t be able to tell. And Hermione’s training hadn’t focused on playing Quidditch, so she certainly couldn’t expect to beat people who had been training for years in the hope of becoming professional players.

But if she were playing seriously, she certainly wouldn’t be a liability! Not that she could, of course - her tutor’s orders had been clear. If she broke her cover over such a small thing, then she certainly wouldn’t be ready for a real heist.

But it was so annoying, to hold back and play the clumsy old Hermione!

“Hey, Hermione!”

Almost as annoying as Seamus, she thought as she turned her head. “Yes?”

The boy sat down next to her. “You’re a reserve player too, huh?”

“Yes,” she said, curtly.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he said, in a rather patronising tone, in her opinion, “all of them are maniacs who want to win at all costs.” He was sitting a little too close as well, she noticed.

She shrugged and lied. “I don’t mind. It’s fun to simply watch, too. They rarely have enough guests for two full teams.”

“Yeah. It’s more fun to watch in good company, of course.” He smiled at her. “You know, we all miss you at Hogwarts.”

She wanted to groan at his transparent attempt to butter her up. “Well, apart from Parvati and her friends. And the Slytherins. And some of the Ravenclaws.”

“Ah… yes.” He didn’t lose his smile. “But those who count are missing you.”

“I would certainly hope so.” She looked up. Alicia had scored again. Ron was doing well as Keeper, too. Even Harry and Ginny were playing seriously, and not flirting with each other. Or feeding each other cake as if they were on honeymoon.

Her curt tone obviously hadn’t managed to dissuade him. Either he was that dense, or he simply didn’t care. “So… do you have a boyfriend?”

She considered lying, but discarded the thought. It wasn’t worth the trouble. “No.”

“Ah, I thought so. Most boys just care about appearances, you know.” He nodded slowly at his own words. “I’m not one of them, though. I care about a girl’s personality. I think we would make a nice couple.”

She almost couldn’t believe it - he called her ugly and asked her out in the same breath! She wanted to hex him badly. No one would judge her for it! No witch, at least. But… she smiled sweetly as she had a better idea. “I’m sorry, but between my work and my studies, I don’t have time for a relationship,” she said and patted his shoulder.

“Not even for the summer?” He smiled at her. “One month. Consider it a holiday?”

Her smile grew less sweet. “No, not even one month,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt how she meant that.

He shrugged. “Ah, well. I tried.”

As he stood up and walked back to the house, Hermione patted her pocket, which now contained most of the money from his wallet.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 3rd, 1995**

"Occlumency is often touted as the art of protecting your mind from intrusions - the counter to Legilimency. But just as Legilimency does not exactly let you read someone’s mind, this definition of Occlumency is somewhat incorrect.”

Harry Potter frowned at the Headmaster’s explanation. “Incorrect?” he asked, seeing as Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for a question.

“Yes. Many describe Occlumency as building a wall around your thoughts. That is simply a mental construct - a sort of crutch. At its core, Occlumency does not protect your mind - it allows you to know your own mind. The protection it provides stems from the fact that a skilled Occlumens will know their own mind so well that they can detect any intrusions, no matter how small or subtle. In theory, at least,” Dumbledore added with a wry smile. “In practice, no one is perfect. Not even I, despite decades of experience.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising, sir,” Harry said, then pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful - the Headmaster was spending a lot of his time to help him with this, after all - but he had hoped for something more… effective. He had to deal with the Dark Lord, after all.

“Oh, it is effective. I have no doubt that it will adequately protect your mind from Tom’s intrusions. But it’s not perfect, lest you grow complacent.”

There was no danger of that, Harry thought. He’d have to learn Occlumency first to grow complacent. Not that he would ever fall into that trap knowing that the Dark Lord himself was after him. “I’ve also heard that you clear your mind with it.”

“Another mental crutch, I would say. Ultimately, both a wall and a clear mind make it easier to detect an intrusion - by spotting a hole in the wall, to use the metaphor, or by removing any metaphysical cover, so to speak, which an intruder could use.” He smiled. “For a mental art, those are quite the physical images, are they not?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded. What else could he say?

“But that is the very reason why such mental crutches result in defences with inherent weaknesses. In a battle between minds, everything is possible. Limiting your imagination by using such physical metaphors is not a good course of action.” The Headmaster sighed. “That so many practitioners of the art use them is likely because so few really wish, or can stand, even, to truly know their own minds.”

Harry wasn’t quite certain that he wanted to know his own mind that well either. Some of the dreams he had had lately were very embarrassing. Exciting, but embarrassing. Weird too, at least sometimes. “It isn’t as if I have a choice, though.”

Once more Dumbledore sighed, before smiling sadly at him. “No, I do not suppose that you do. Shall we start then?”

Harry swallowed dryly, then nodded.

*****

**London, Merton, September 18th, 1995**

Hermione Granger tossed the rubber mouse through the air and watched it bounce on the floor once. Her inner cat remained unaffected. Not that she had expected anything else - she wasn’t making any progress in her ‘spirit quest’. Combing her hair several times a day hadn’t brought her any closer to feeling like a cat either, although it seemed to have helped with taming her hair - unless that was simply the first sign that her mum hadn’t been lying to her when she had told Hermione that she would grow out of her hair troubles. Which, in retrospect, seemed like a pun worthy of Mr Black.

Napping in the sun felt nice, if she managed to forget her troubles. Otherwise it was just time lost. At least meditating helped her to keep a positive outlook. Mostly. She sighed and leaned back on her bed, stretching a little. She didn’t feel the urge to hunt anything, either. Well, she often wanted to hex Kreacher, but that was because the elf still sneered at her whenever they met. Which, fortunately, wasn’t that often now that she had a key to Grimmauld Place.

Unfortunately, with Harry back at Hogwarts, she didn’t see him any more either. Hermione frowned - she hadn’t seen him that often anyway, not since Ginny had become his girlfriend. Harry had practically started living at The Burrow, even though he would see his girlfriend every day once they were back at Hogwarts. Was seeing Ginny every day now, Hermione corrected herself, frowning.

At least she’d see him next weekend in Hogsmeade. They might even celebrate her birthday. Her wistful smile disappeared when she imagined watching Harry and Ginny feed each other cake again. That wasn’t what she wanted on her birthday! They could show some restraint, instead of showing off like that. That was something she would have expected Parvati to do, not Ginny.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Mum?” She looked up as her mum stepped inside her room.

“You’re still in your pajamas?”

“It’s still early,” Hermione defended herself. And she liked wearing them too - sleek, black silk pajamas which felt wonderful on her skin.

“It’s almost noon,” her mum said dryly.

“What?” Hermione stared at her clock. She could have sworn it was earlier…

“Anyway, get dressed, lunch will be ready soon.” Her mum knelt down to pick up the discarded toy mouse, then looked at her with her eyebrows raised.

Hermione met her mum’s eyes until the older woman turned away.

*****

“Dear, we think it’s time for you to get a cat,” her father said at the table.

“I told you, I don’t want to get a cat,” Hermione said.

“Hermione, you bought more than a dozen books on cats, more cat toys than that, even, and you spend entire afternoons at Mrs Attenborough’s who owns three cats,” her mum said as she gathered the plates on the table.

Hermione had done that to observe cats and get more insight into their behaviour. She clenched her teeth. “I like her cats.” Mrs Attenborough was a terrible bore, but her cats were nice. Spoiled, though. And they were warming up to her, but that might have just been because of the treats she brought them.

“You even bought cat treats,” her father cut in.

She winced - trying those had not been one of her better ideas to get closer to her inner cat.

“Dear, it’s obvious that you want a cat of your own. And despite your past experiences, I’m certain that you can handle one. Even with your studies and your work, it wouldn’t be neglected either - they sleep most of the time anyway.”

“Not all cats do,” Hermione protested. Cats weren’t lazy!

“Well, the ones my parents had did,” her father retorted, picking up the casserole from the table. “Anyway, I don’t know why you are so afraid of getting one.”

“I’m not afraid, I’m just…” she trailed off. Why didn’t she want a cat? Just because she feared that things could go wrong once she was one herself? Of a territory dispute with her pet? She shrugged. “It’s a big responsibility.” She gathered the glasses and carried them over to the dishwasher.

“You’re a responsible girl,” her dad said.

“Well, apart from sleeping until noon lately,” her mum added. “It’s a good thing neither Mr Smith nor Mr Black expects you to start working early in the morning.”

Hermione sniffed. She got up early enough, and she was working diligently. That she didn’t have to leave her bed for it wasn’t her fault! “And you think I should get a cat.”

“It would make sense,” her mum said, putting the rest of the silverware into the dishwasher. “You’re acting like someone who wants to swim, but won’t get into the water.”

“We’re a little concerned, you see,” her dad added. “If you’re bent on becoming a crazy cat lady at your age, you should at least have a cat.”

Hermione glared at him. “I’m not trying to become a crazy cat lady, thank you very much!” Although maybe she should have been a tad more discreet with her attempts to become more cat-like. She sighed. “But you might be correct.” Having a cat of her own might help her with her plans. If she was honest with herself, her fear of trouble with her pet was irrational. She would just have to be ready to deal with any unforeseen consequences of her inevitable success. “But,” she added, “we’ll buy one in Diagon Alley. They’re used to magic.”

“Why is that a concern?” her dad asked.

“I’m not going to stay a teenager forever,” Hermione said. “And when I move into a flat of my own, it’ll be a magical flat.” She had a room of her own already, at Grimmauld Place, but this wasn’t the time to mention that.

“Ah.” Her parents exchanged a glance, but didn’t comment on whatever they were thinking. Did they expect that she would keep living with them? She didn’t need the telly so much that she would keep living like a muggle forever.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, September 19th, 1995**

He - definitely a he - was the ugliest cat she had ever seen. He was fat, squat, with a face that looked like it had been squished as a kitten and stuck that way, orange-brown fur that seemed to be sporting half-hearted attempts at stripes and wasn’t short enough nor long enough, and he had legs that were slightly bent, and a little too short for his size. He was also larger than any other cat she had seen in the Magical Menagerie, or anywhere. And he was staring at her from the shelf he had jumped on, unconcerned about the boxes of pet food that had fallen down as a result.

“No! Get down! Miss, don’t step any closer - he has a nasty temper and likes to scratch customers! How did he get loose, anyway?”

Hermione Granger ignored the clerk’s yelling and stepped up to the tomcat, craning her neck to look straight into his eyes. He didn’t move and returned the stare.

“Miss! Watch out!”

“Hermione?” Her mum sounded worried.

She didn’t care. He was the most un-catlike cat she had ever seen. Almost like a miniature bulldog in a cat’s fur. Nothing like the kitten her mum had pointed out, or Mrs Attenborough’s purebred cats. He was neither elegant nor graceful, if his jump was any measure.

But she knew for certain that she’d buy him.

“I’ll call you Crookshanks!” she declared, smiling widely.

The clerk looked astonished and her parents exchanged another of those weird, concerned glances. Hermione didn’t care. She had found her cat!

*****

**London, Merton, September 20th, 1995**

Crookshanks fit into the house as if he had been born there, Hermione Granger thought after a day with her new pet. He didn’t care for all the toys she had collected, and he pointedly ignored the scratching post as well as the cushion he was supposed to sleep on. Hermione hoped that the tree in the garden would survive his attentions, and she was glad that her bed was large enough for the two of them.

But he acted as if he owned the house. When he strolled through the rooms after his arrival, he didn’t seem to be so much exploring as conquering the place, Hermione thought. He might look like his father wasn’t a Kneazle, as the clerk in the Magical Menagerie had claimed, but a bulldog - and an ugly bulldog, at that - but he acted as if that didn’t matter at all. He strutted as if he was a prized purebred tomcat. When he smashed one of Mum’s prized vases - which Hermione quickly repaired with the Mending Charm before her mum noticed - he looked at her as if that was her fault, and not the result of his own jump missing the mark. He certainly didn’t lack confidence.

Which, she thought, watching him curled up on her bed, napping without a care, was a lesson worth considering.

As was taking a nap herself.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 25th, 1995**

“You look different. Did something happen in Hogsmeade?” Mr Black asked as he opened the door to his study for Hermione Granger.

“No.” She shook her head. They had celebrated her birthday, and while Harry and Ginny had been as obnoxiously sweet together as she had expected, it had been tolerable. Ron hadn’t complained either - though her other best friend had been somewhat distracted by Luna trying to fit him with an ‘Anti-Nargle-Device’ which looked as if it had been made of Butterbeer corks and tinsel. Hermione had seen stranger things.

“Are you certain? No sudden revelations? Urges?”

“No.” She glared at him, and he shrugged. He had been dropping such hints for a while now, and she had grown tired of them. “I have a cat now, though. A half-Kneazle, to be exact.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head sideways as he closed the door. “A cute little kitten?”

She snorted. “Hardly. He’s a grown tomcat. Adorable, though.”

“I’ll have to visit then, if only to meet the one male creature who finally managed to capture your heart!” Mr Black declared pompously.

“Not as a dog,” she warned him. “Or you might get scratched. Crookshanks has a temper, and doesn’t suffer fools lightly.” It wasn’t his fault that the stupid postman got scratched - you didn’t just pet a cat. And you certainly didn’t insult them!

“‘Crookshanks’?” he grinned. “Now I definitely have to meet him. He sounds like my kind of cat.”

“You’re a dog,” she pointed out.

“Why yes, I am.” He transformed into a dog without ever losing his shameless grin and barked at her.

She rolled her eyes at him and unrolled the yoga mat she meditated on with a flick of her wand. She almost hoped that he’d try to sneak into her garden as a dog - Crookshank would maul him.

*****

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Get in touch with your inner cat. Feel like a cat. Be a cat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Hermione Granger’s next breath was a sigh. This felt like another pointless evening spent sitting on the floor. She could do something else. Something more productive. Or something more relaxing. Why should she follow Mr Black’s instructions, anyway? He was a dog, not a cat. Who’d ever heard of a dog teaching a cat anything?

She snorted. Maybe she could take a nap while sitting. It certainly would be a more productive use of her time, and she doubted Mr Black would notice anything amiss - he was a dog, after all. And what did she care if he noticed? She was doing this for herself, not for anyone else.

She sneered. He probably still thought she was an owl, the stupid dog. She wasn’t an owl, though, nor any silly bird. She was a cat. Self-reliant, proud and smart. Unlike a dog, she didn’t need either pack or owner, and certainly not a leash. She could do what she wanted, go where she wanted. If she wanted to take a nap, then she would do so.

And if she wanted to bloody that dog’s nose, she would do so!

Hermione Granger blinked. She was… stuck to the wall? And Mr Black was holding his nose. Why were half his papers scattered around the room?

And… was that blood under her nails?

*****

 


	11. Breakthroughs

**Dunstable, Bedfordshire, Britain, September 25th, 1995**

Standing in the street of the muggle town, Corban Yaxley was nervous. Afraid, even. He shouldn’t be - he was a skilled wizard. He had fought in the Blood War and had proved his mettle there. He had escaped being punished for his actions after the war’s end as well, together with the rest of the smarter Death Eaters. And his current position in the DMLE, as well as his connections, assured that few would dare to anger him.

But none of that mattered right now. Not with his Dark Mark burning. Calling him to this old house tucked away in the heart of the town. He rubbed his left forearm, but the gesture didn’t bring any relief. Only compliance would - and not even that might be enough, should this be the Dark Lord calling. But he was supposed to be dead. Defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived. Of course, there had been rumours in the last few years. But they had been only that - rumours. To think that the Dark Lord could have actually returned from death! But who else could control his Mark? If another Death Eater had found a way to use the Marks…

Maybe the Dark Lord hadn’t died, he told himself. Maybe he had just been grievously cursed, and had taken this long to recover. He couldn’t blame Corban for lying low in that case, could he?

The pain from his arm was growing stronger - he couldn’t delay any longer, Corban knew. The punishment for such defiance would be horrible. Steeling himself, and trying not to show any sign of the pain he was feeling, he approached the door.

It had a knocker, like every decent wizarding house. None of those muggle contraptions Weasley was so fond of. The door opened a moment after he knocked. No one was there, but he heard a voice call out.

“Enter, Corban.”

He didn’t recognise the voice. Maybe someone had managed to find a way to control the Marks. It was plausible - he didn’t know all of the Dark Lord’s followers, after all. But whether this was the Dark Lord, or someone else, didn’t change anything - he had no choice either way.

The door closed behind him with barely a sound. He found himself in an entrance hall far too large for the building - strong Extension Charms had been cast here. Another sign of the power of whoever had called him.

“Come, Corban,” the voice rang out again. Not loud, but it carried some distance. It was a smooth voice, too. Cultured. Like his memory of the Dark Lord’s. But it wasn’t his. Another door opened, revealing a dark hallway.

Swallowing, he stepped through. He set his jaw as the pain grew slightly stronger. A door swung open at the end of the hallway. The room behind it was well-lit - a noticeable contrast with the dark, windowless corridor. He continued, drawing his wand as he walked towards the door, and stepped inside with his wand raised.

The man sitting in a plush chair inside the lavishly decorated room seemed entirely unconcerned about this - even though he hadn’t drawn his own wand, as far as Corban could see. He was far too young to be the Dark Lord, too.

Then the man smiled, and Corban’s arm seemed to burn from the inside. Despite his best efforts, he fell to his knees, his wand clattering on the floor. A guttural groan escaped his lips as the pain overwhelmed him. Who was this wizard to best him so easily?

When the man laughed, he knew. And felt as if he been dipped into ice water.

The Dark Lord had returned.

*****

“I can, of course, understand why you didn’t declare your allegiance to me after I seemed to have been defeated,” the Dark Lord declared a few minutes later.

Corban nodded, still trembling. The pain had been as bad as the Torture Curse. He had been tempted to cut off his own arm to escape it, not that he had been able to move his limbs.

“But to do nothing? To not even move a finger to find me, even though I told you that not even death itself would be able to stop me?” The Dark Lord shook his head, his smile vanishing. “Didn’t you have any faith in my claim? Or were you more concerned with your own advancement?”

Corban drew a shuddering breath. “Forgive me, milord. I was weak. There was no sign of you, and everyone was acting as if you were dead…”

“You were weak indeed. But I think you were more selfish than gullible, weren’t you?”

“Milord…” He clutched his left arm. “Please forgive me!”

The Dark Lord twirled his wand - not the wand he had used in the war, Yaxley realised - and seemed to consider his plea. “I will - provided you do not fail me again.”

Relief filled him. “I won’t, milord! I swear it!”

“You swore an oath to me before. It didn’t stop you from denying me.” The Dark Lord sighed. “But others failed me as well. Not many remained faithful and loyal.” Corban waited, holding his breath. “It will fall upon all of you to earn my forgiveness - and my favour. You have a high position in the DMLE.”

“Yes, milord.”

“That will be useful. If we want to save Britain from the mudblood filth, the Ministry is the key. Who controls the Ministry controls the country.”

“Yes, milord.”

The Dark Lord tapped his chin with the index finger of his free hand. “But my old foe has his supporters in the Ministry as well. Blood traitors and mudbloods. They will oppose us - unless dealt with.” He stared straight at Corban, who felt a chill run down his spine. “That is where you come in.”

“Yes, milord!”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 25th, 1995**

“What… what happened?” Hermione Granger asked, staring at Mr Black from where she was stuck on the wall in his study.

He pointed his wand at his nose, which both looked crooked and was bleeding, and cast two spells. “You tried to take my nose off!” he answered, after the part of his face in question had been fixed.

“I don’t remember that!” she protested. Although it would explain the blood under her nails, she thought. “And you banished me at the wall and stuck me here?” she added indignantly. The nerve!

“It was the quickest way to deal with you. You were acting like a cat - hissing and scratching. And pouncing,” Mr Black added, with a nod towards his desk and the scattered parchment surrounding it.

“I was?” Hermione blinked. But that meant… “I did it!” she cheered. “I discovered my inner animal! I’m a cat!” A graceful, elegant cat!

“You’re an animal, at least,” Mr Black said - a little sulkily, she thought. “A bloodthirsty one. You ignored all the toys I had laid out, and went straight for my throat.”

“For your nose,” she corrected him as she used her wand to unstick herself from the wall, pushing herself off it and landing gracefully on her feet the moment the spell was broken.

“And why would you have done that?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I wasn’t even doing anything. Suddenly, you started hissing, and when I looked up from my reading, I had a crazy witch on my desk swiping at my face!”

“Obviously, my inner cat felt threatened by the presence of a large dog.” She smiled sweetly.

“That sounds more like what a badger would do,” he retorted. “Cats are supposed to be smarter than that.”

“Any animal that feels threatened has a flight or fight response. And if flight seems impossible...” She shrugged. “I’m not sure if my inner cat knows how to open doors locked with spells.” She would certainly hope that her animal spirit was smart enough to open an unlocked door - even normal cats could do that!

He didn’t look convinced. “And why would your ‘inner cat’ feel threatened by a loveable, friendly dog such as myself?”

“Well…” She felt her cheeks grow a little warm. “I may have thought earlier that you might deserve a swat across your nose. And my animal spirit might have acted on it.” She shrugged. “No harm done, anyway.”

“No harm? You drew blood! Almost broke my nose, too!”

He was right - Hermione still had blood under her nails! A quick Cleaning Charm dealt with that. And even for an animal, she had reacted a tad violently, she added to herself, feeling guilty.

He rubbed the sides of his nose with two fingers. “You bloody hit harder than James did when I enchanted the mirrors in the girls’ bathroom to project images.”

Any guilt she had been feeling evaporated in the face of her indignation. “You peeped on the witches at Hogwarts when they were changing and showering?”

“No!” He shook his head and took a step back.

“Why did you enchant the mirrors then?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Well, I wanted to peep on them, but James didn’t let me, so technically, I didn’t peep.” He smiled broadly.

She rolled her eyes at him. And the man wondered why any self-respecting cat would want to claw his nose off! Then she had a worrying thought. “I hope you’re not trying to get Harry to do such things!”

“Don’t worry, he would never do that!”

That sounded as if he had seriously considered it. But she could trust Harry, Hermione knew. And she had more important things on which to focus. She sniffed and shook her head. “Anyway - this is a breakthrough! I’m going to be an animagus!”

“You’ve taken your first step,” he corrected her. “Now you have to learn how to change your form so it fits your spirit. Or there will be tales of a crazy witch acting like a cat.” He rubbed his goatee. “Although I’m wondering how you, I mean, your ‘inner cat’ would have acted if Harry had been here.”

She was wondering that herself, but this wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss with Mr Black. So she sniffed and pointed at the mess on the floor. “And I’m wondering how long you’ll want to leave all your parchments in such disarray,” she shot back.

“Well, sorting out my files and correspondence is what I hired a secretary for.” He rubbed his nose. “Please take care of that while I go and check if my nose has healed correctly. After all,” he added with a wide grin that showed his white teeth, “you scattered them when you jumped on the desk.”

Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t dispute that. Mr Black was such a lazy dog! But not even the rather daunting task of sorting out all the paperwork - again - could really dampen her spirits. She had done it! She had discovered her inner spirit animal! She would be an animagus in no time!

*****

**Hogwarts, September 29th, 1995**

Harry Potter was standing in the middle of a wide, open field. A bare field. A bare field made of stone. Not even a mouse could be hiding here. Nothing could escape his gaze… unless it was behind him. He turned around. Nothing. He turned back. Then kept turning. He knew there would be an intrusion coming, but where? And when?

And suddenly, the Headmaster was standing there, next to him, smiling gently. Harry opened his eyes and scowled. “Failed again.” At his exclamation, Fawkes trilled from his perch, then went back to grooming his wings.

“You have just started learning the art, my boy. Do not be too harsh with yourself,” Dumbledore said from behind his desk. “I took a long time learning Occlumency myself.”

Harry scoffed. “I bet you didn’t make the very mistake your teacher told you to avoid.” Visualising his mind as a real place.

“I did, actually - but because I, in a rather embarrassing bout of hubris, thought I knew better than a master of the art.” The Headmaster sighed with a regretful smile. “Surprising the experts at my O.W.L. exams was, in hindsight, not an altogether beneficial thing.”

Harry couldn’t imagine the Headmaster making such a mistake - not really. He had trouble enough imagining Dumbledore as a young man, much less a student like him. “But you didn’t have a mental link to the Dark Lord.”

“I did not have to worry about Voldemort, no. But I had, although later in my life, somewhat similar trouble.”

Harry frowned. What did the Headmaster… ah! “Grindelwald?”

Dumbledore nodded. “While we were not tied together by a scar, as you and Tom are, we had known each other before we finally met on the field of battle.” He snorted softly. “But enough about the follies of my youth. I think we’ve made some progress today.”

Harry shrugged. He would like to think so, but it didn’t feel as if he had really learned anything this evening.

“Patience, Harry. You will learn Occlumency in time.”

He scoffed. “I need to learn it before Voldemort comes after me.”

“You will.” Dumbledore sounded confident. Far more confident than Harry felt. But it was still reassuring to hear such words. “But before you go I’d like to take another look at your scar.”

“My scar?” Harry blinked. “Of course.” Maybe the Headmaster would find a way to sever the connection. He suppressed a shudder - thinking about how closely linked his and Tom’s minds were was revolting.

“Thank you.” Dumbledore drew his wand and stood up. “This might take a little while,” he added while he was walking around his desk.

Harry didn’t recognise any of the spells Dumbledore cast at his forehead. Too obscure, or too advanced, he guessed. Hermione would have loved to observe them, Harry thought, but she probably wouldn’t have recognised many of them either. Maybe he should have bought her a book of exotic charms for her birthday, instead of the Defence manual Mr Lupin had recommended. But his friend had said that she wasn’t doing that well in Defence Against the Dark Arts, hadn’t she? His scar suddenly itching interrupted his line of thought. He clenched his teeth.

Dumbledore must have noticed, since the sensation faded quickly. “Did that hurt?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. “No. It itched, but that was all.”

“Interesting.”

“What did you find out, sir?” Harry asked. If the Headmaster had discovered something new about his scar…

His hopes were dashed, though. “It is too soon to know.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “But definitely interesting. Promising too, I think.”

That sounded encouraging, Harry thought. If he could get rid of his scar… Of course, people said scars caused by dark curses couldn’t be removed - but they had also said that you couldn’t survive the Killing Curse. “It would be great if you could remove the scar,” he said.

“It would also deprive us of a possible way to find out about the Dark Lord’s plans,” Dumbledore pointed out. “As with most things in life, nothing is entirely positive or negative.”

Harry frowned at that.

Dumbledore sighed. “I have no intention of delaying any possible remedy to your condition, Harry. You have my word on that. To risk a child’s life for such a questionable advantage…” He shook his head. “I was merely trying to point out that your current situation also offers something beneficial to us.”

Harry nodded, if a little reluctantly. He wasn’t a child any more, after all. And knowing what Voldemort was doing would be a decisive advantage, wouldn’t it? Even if it was only limited to any rituals the Dark Lord might work, it would help. It might be worth the risk, he thought.

Since he was thoroughly sick of being unable to help others when needed.

*****

**London, Greenwich, September 29th, 1995**

Walking down the street towards the house of her tutor, Hermione Granger felt both guilty and annoyed at having to hide her breakthrough from him. Guilty because it felt wrong to keep such a thing a secret from the man who was teaching her so much. And annoyed because she wanted to impress him. He still didn’t think she was ready for a real heist!

Although the fact that she now had to keep secrets from her tutor was an annoyance in itself. She kept secrets from far too many people these days, Hermione realised. The person who knew the most about her true self was Mr Black. To think that Harry’s exasperating godfather knew her better than Harry himself!

But she also knew that there were reasons for the secrecy. Sensible reasons. That didn’t mean that she had to like them, of course.

She entered the flat, after checking the wards for signs of tampering, of course - Mr Fletcher had taught her that you should never apparate straight back to your home even if he hadn’t taught her Apparition itself yet. Her tutor greeted her. “Hello, dear.”

“Good afternoon.” He looked… not exactly cagey. Certainly not agitated. But he was grinning, not smiling.

“Did something happen?” she asked as she put down her books on the table.

“You might say so.” Definitely grinning.

“Something good?”

He slowly shrugged. “One might think so.”

“That doesn’t sound very reassuring. Or certain,” she said, looking at him.

“Mr Smith was hired to tutor Mademoiselle Jeanne Dubois, the ‘natural daughter’ of Elias Selwyn, lest she embarrass the family when she makes her debut at the next New Year’s Ball,” Mr Fletcher explained. “She’s French, you know.”

“Oh.” Hermione slowly drew a breath. “That will improve your cover, but it also means that you’ll have to actually tutor her.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “And I fear that I will have to combine your lessons on etiquette with hers, to save time.”

Oh. “That means I will have to attend them in disguise myself.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It’s not ideal - but we can consider it more training, I think. And it’ll improve your own cover.”

“Should I use Miss Merriweather then?” That role was supposed to be a temporary cover only, Hermione knew.

“I think that would be best. Since you’ve left a memorable impression in some circles, I’d rather not have people ask my new student about my old one, and make her wonder why she never met her.”

“Miss Merriweather could always return home,” Hermione said. She was pleased to hear she left an impression, though.

“She could. But she’s already established in Britain. I’d prefer to wait with introducing a new cover until I know Miss Dubois better, and can avoid possible trouble.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. That made sense - it would be easier to create a new cover once they had the measure of Miss Dubois and, at that point, Miss Dubois could be used to strengthen the new cover identity.

But this new development also meant that she would have to keep even more secrets, Hermione realised - she would have to play a role even when studying!

*****

**London, Greenwich, October 2nd, 1995**

“And this is Miss Merriweather, my first student,” Mr Fletcher said, motioning towards Hermione Granger. “She’s been a delight to teach, and she’ll be able to give you her own perspective about fitting in British society.”

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” Hermione Granger said with a smile.

“Good afternoon,” Miss Dubois responded, smiling as well.

The French witch had a slight accent, though not as noticeable as Hermione had expected. She was beautiful, if not in Delacour’s league, and had apparently just finished Beauxbatons this summer. And the robes she was wearing… “Are those the autumn line from Madam Malkin’s?” Hermione asked.

Miss Dubois nodded. “Yes. My father took me there as soon as I arrived. They are supposed to be the height of fashion,” she added, though Hermione thought she sounded less than convinced.

She snorted. “The height of fashion, even in Britain, is the latest robes from Paris, of course. But that would probably emphasise your origin, which your father might not want.” She was wearing British robes herself, though not from the same line.

Miss Dubois laughed. “He did talk a lot about all things British - and the unattached sons of his friends. I think I would have a better chance of attracting any of them with more fashionable robes, however.”

More revealing, in other words. Hermione Granger, staying in character, nodded. “Oh, yes!”

Mr Fletcher, also staying in character, shook his head. “A witch of good breeding dresses for the occasion. You wouldn’t wear duelling robes to a ball, and you would not wear ball robes for a tutoring session.”

“Unless it’s about how to behave at a British ball,” Hermione cut in with a grin, “or your tutor is a young and attractive wizard,” she added.

Mr Fletcher frowned at her, but Miss Dubois laughed.

*****

“So, what do you think?” Mr Fletcher asked once Miss Dubois - Jeanne, the French witch had asked Hermione to call her - had left.

“I like her,” she answered. “Friendly, witty, a sense of humour…” She shrugged. “I wonder if she’ll be happy in Wizarding Britain.” She looked at her tutor; Jeanne hadn’t mentioned why she was moving to Britain.

Mr Fletcher picked up on her unspoken question. “Selwyn lost his daughter in the last war. Collateral damage, as the muggles call it, in a battle in Diagon Alley,” he added before Hermione could ask on which side the witch had fought. “Her mum wouldn’t let Miss Dubois go to Britain for a variety of reasons, as far as I know. But the girl apparently preferred being a pureblood heir in Britain to a poor bastard witch in France, so once she finished her education, she went to her father.”

Hermione frowned. That sounded a little too calculating for the charming witch she had met. On the other hand, if she was planning to support her mother after she inherited, then that would be rather calculating as well. She sighed with sudden realisation. “She pretty much played me, didn’t she?”

Her tutor grinned. “And that is today’s lesson: Never assume that you’re the only one playing a role. Although,” he added, “she might genuinely like you anyway.”

“She might genuinely like Miss Merriweather,” Hermione corrected him. She didn’t think Jeanne would like her real, muggleborn self. Not with the reputation Hermione had acquired among the Old Families.

"Keep that in mind - you don’t want to grow too close to her; that tends to threaten your cover.”

She knew that already. It would have been nice to have a female friend, though. At least one who wasn’t busy snogging with her best male friend most of the time. She shook her head. “Speaking of dressing for the occasion,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about what to wear on a real heist.” He made a noncommittal noise; he still hadn’t told her when he would take her on a real heist. “I’m thinking of a catsuit.” Leather would be more durable than a turtleneck and trousers, and harder to get a grip on as well - while she didn’t expect many Aurors to grapple with her, conjured animals and even plants had to be taken into account. And it would be more stylish as well.

“A catsuit?” Judging by his tone he was aware of the term.

She nodded with a sly grin. “And a mask.” Something more stylish than a balaclava - Hermione wanted to look like a classy thief, not a bank robber. “Enchanted, of course.”

She already had a few ideas for spells she wanted to use.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 4th, 1995**

“Alright you lot!” Harry Potter heard Angelina yell as he flew another lap around the the pitch after having captured the last training snitch that had been released, “Gather round!”

He guided his broom down to the stands, where the other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were already assembled, and handed the snitch over to Ron, who put it into the box with the other balls. Ginny moved to hug him, but after Angelina glared at both of them, she just stood next to Harry.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Angelina started, “let’s go over the session.”

“Let’s not,” Ginny whispered.

“I know we have a few new players,” Angelina said, glancing at Ron and Ginny, “and our star Seeker doesn’t have the time to train as much as he should, but that was abysmal! We need to improve a lot to win the cup this year! So, we’ll be holding extra training sessions as soon as I can get the pitch reserved!”

Harry held up his hand, and she rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, Harry, I know you have all those ‘special lessons’ with Professor Lupin and the Headmaster. But we need to step up our training so we can flatten the other teams. Fortunately, you’re our Seeker, so you can train by yourself if you can’t attend all of the regular sessions. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Ollie, is that you?” Fred asked and squinted in an exaggerated manner at their team captain before Harry could pointed out that learning how to defend himself was more important - it wasn’t as if he could play Quidditch dead. “You look very different, but you sound the same. Transfiguration accident, or Polyjuice? I mean, we knew you were obsessed with Quidditch, but returning to Hogwarts in disguise to play for another year is perhaps a little excessive...”

“Very funny, Fred,” Angelina shot back.

“Thank you, thank you!” Fred replied, smiling widely and bowing.

Harry had to snort at the sight, but noticed that neither Ron nor Ginny were laughing.

*****

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked half an hour later when the three of them were on their way back to the Gryffindor tower ahead of the rest of the team, with Ginny leaning into his side as they walked.

“I’m wrong!” Ron spat. “If the team’s not doing well, then it’s my fault. I’m the only new player. Angelina just didn’t want to single me out.”

“At least you’re on the team!” Ginny scoffed. “I didn’t even make the cut.”

“You’re a reserve,” Harry pointed out. “The first since I joined the team. She wouldn’t have done that if you were not good enough. The other Chasers are just better.” He saw her scowling at him, and quickly added: “But they have more experience on the team - they’ve been playing together for years. Next year you’ll be the second most experienced Chaser on the team.”

Ginny snorted. “And I’ll be playing with another inexperienced Chaser.”

Harry pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “And you’ll be playing with me.”

“And if the Slytherins put a player into the infirmary, you’ll get to play,” Ron added. He still sounded rather down.

Harry released Ginny and addressed him: “Don’t take Angelina’s rant too seriously. She’s just trying to make us train harder. If she really thought you were a bad Keeper, she would have told you. Loudly.”

Ron sighed. “I just know I’ll make a mistake and cost us the game. First Percy, then me.”

“What about Percy?” Harry asked.

“Oh, you didn’t tell him?” Ron looked at Ginny.

“No. There was no time before training,” she answered.

“Tell me what?” Harry asked again.

“Percy’s in trouble at the Ministry. According to Dad, he’s being blamed for the accidental destruction of crucial documents.”

“Percy accidentally destroyed documents?” Harry shook his head. That didn’t sound like the most uptight Weasley he knew.

“Well, he says it wasn’t his fault, but everyone is blaming him,” Ron said. “Or so Dad told us in his letter.”

“I hope he can sort this out,” Harry said.

Ron nodded and Ginny made an agreeing noise.

They walked the rest of the way back to their dorms in silence.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 7th, 1995**

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on your inner animal. Focus on your soul. The soul shapes the body. Adapts it. Changes it. Form follows spirit.

Hermione Granger reached out to her inner animal again, trying to connect with it without having it take over. She needed to take it over instead. Force her body to conform to her spirit. Mind over matter, in a way. It should be easy, given that her mind was her greatest strength.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Force the body to adapt. Force form to follow spirit. Fur and tail, claws and fang. A lithe, lethal shape.

She suddenly felt as if a wave of warm water had swept over her, leaving her tingling and… changed! She opened her eyes with a gasp. Had she done it?

"Wow!” she heard the dog, Mr Black, say. “That’s the biggest cat I’ve ever seen! Weirdest looking, too.”

She looked at him, sitting behind the cage he had conjured around his desk ‘for my own safety’, then at herself. And gasped again. Her hands were covered in fur. Fur the colour of her hair.

And not just her hands. As she quickly found out, all of her skin was entirely covered in fur. But nothing else had changed. She hadn’t turned into a cat. She had just turned into a furry girl.

*****

“It’s an impressive first step,” Mr Black said, not bothering to hide his amusement as he ran his wand over her body. “I would have expected you to grow claws or fangs, first. James grew antlers - tiny ones.”

“And you?” Hermione asked, jerking and glaring at him when he poked her belly with the tip of his wand. “What was your first physical change?”

“Tongue,” he said, bending forward and cocking his head to look at her shoulder. At least she hoped it was her shoulder, and he wasn’t trying to look down her shirt.

“Really?” That sounded… dubious.

“Well, I think so. It certainly felt different. James blamed it on the hangover we had and said he didn’t see any difference.” She groaned at that. Couldn’t the man be serious, for once? “My nose was my first physical change,” he added after a snort.

“Ah.” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. “So, can you reverse this?” If he couldn’t, she’d have to go to St Mungo’s. And that would probably lead to another article in the Prophet - judging by all the information Skeeter had, she must have a network of informants covering all of Wizarding Britain.

“I think so.” He straightened and nodded.

“You think so?” She raised an eyebrow, or would have, had they not be replaced with fur.

“Well, if my Transfiguration skills are not up to the task, we can simply shave you. Those spells I know by heart!”

She growled at him - this was not the place or time for jokes.

“Oh. We might need to check your throat too. That sounded very animal-like.” He was grinning widely again.

Hermione gritted her teeth. No wonder her cat spirit wanted to maul the dog!

*****

Crookshanks was waiting for her when she got home, perched on the fence. He jumped off and landed with a thud on the pavement as soon as she got closer, then came over to her to sniff her legs - and her hand once she bent down to scratch his head.

“So, do I pass inspection?” she asked, smiling at her pet. He was rather jealous, Hermione had noticed, of other cats, and didn’t like their scent on her. And if any other cat dared to enter the yard… the first time that had happened, he had woken up the entire family.

Crookshanks sniffed, then studied her, then sniffed her leg again.

“What’s wrong?” He wasn’t hissing, so that was a good sign, but usually, he’d go on to the door, expecting her to follow and feed him first thing once inside. Oh. Of course! “That’s my fur you’re smelling,” she said. “Better get used to it.”

He miaowed then turned around and walked to the door, tail held high.

Hermione hoped that that was a good sign as well. She’d rather not have to explain to her parents why her cat was suddenly jealous of her. Not after she had to defend her wonderful pet against her parents’ unfair, judgmental comments. It wasn’t his fault that he looked like he did!

With her hair, Hermione could certainly sympathise.

And she had healed the small scratches Crookshanks had left on her dad’s leg after he had accidentally sat on him. And thanks to the Mending Charm, his habit of using her mum’s favorite armchair as a scratching post was no trouble either!

It wasn’t as if Crookshank damaged books, after all.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 15th, 1995**

It was quite unfair, Harry Potter thought as he tried to spot his opponent. Sirius was using Harry’s own cloak against him. And his godfather was having far too much fun in this training session - or ‘lesson in constant vigilance’. Harry still didn’t know exactly what was so funny about that.

Where was Sirius? It was hard enough to spot him in normal training sessions, when he was using conjuration to gain cover and concealment, but now… “Keep your eyes open!” he whispered.

“That won’t help much,” Ron, at his side, whispered back. We can’t _see_ him, remember?”

And Harry doubted that they could hear Sirius. If at least they could use the Human-presence-revealing Spell… “Watch the ground! He can’t fly and use the cloak!” He whispered.

“Good idea!” Ron agreed. “If the dust gets disturbed…”

“We need more dust,” Harry said through clenched teeth. A flick of his wand conjured motes of dust that floated in the air.

“Gotcha.” Ron added lights that made the motes sparkle slightly.

Now they had just to watch for disturbances in the air. You couldn’t move easily without at least displacing the air. Maybe if they added some colour effect to the dust… Something caught his attention. Dust moving in the air! “There!” Harry yelled, swishing his wand. “Stupefy!”

“Stupefy!” Ron’s Stunner was half a second behind Harry’s, and slightly offset. Both passed through the area without hitting anything. But Harry was already casting the next. If they cast enough spells they were bound to hit some…

He felt a spell hit him - from behind! - and everything went dark.

*****

Sirius’s smiling face was the first thing Harry saw when he regained consciousness. “Good idea with the dust, Harry. But you forgot something.”

“What?” Harry groaned and shook his head as he recovered fully from the Stunner with which Sirius had hit him. “How did you do that?”

“It was a diversion,” Ron answered. “He made the air move there, and once we started casting, we didn’t pay attention to our backs any more. Right?”

“Yes,” Sirius admitted. “I realised what you were doing, and so I created exactly what you were expecting. And you fell for it.”

“Hook, line and sinker.” Harry sighed.

“Don’t feel bad,” Sirius said. “You two did very well. You worked together better than some Auror teams I’ve seen in my time.” He frowned. “Granted, that was in the last months of the war, and they probably had less training than you two… Anyway, let’s do it again!”

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, then nodded. This time, they’d beat Sirius.

They didn’t. But it was close - at least in his opinion.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 17th, 1995**

Hermione Granger was about to sit down on her mat in Mr Black’s study when he spoke up. “Before we start with your next attempt to save the gold for a fur coat, I have an important task for you.”

“What do you need, sir?” She was curious about what he considered ‘an important task’. As her nominal employer, he usually let her sort and file his mail, so he didn’t have to read all of it, and check his bills. That she still attempted to keep his schedule was a testimony to her sense of duty - he certainly didn’t seem to care much about most of his appointments. Or he simply liked to rile her up by pretending not to care about his own affairs as much as she did.

He swished his wand, and a stack of parchment flew over to her. “I need you to check this for signs of forgery and tampering.”

She blinked. Why would… “You mean, you want my tutor to look it over.” She didn’t have any practical experience with forgery, after all. His grin told her she was correct. “I can ask him, but I can’t promise anything.” Mr Fletcher had made his opinion of Mr Black, and of such attempts to use him, clear, after all.

“I know. Which is why I expect you to ask very nicely. It concerns your other best friend’s family, after all.”

“Ron?” She connected the dots at once. “These are from Percy’s office?” She stared at the stack in a new light.

“Copies.”

“That might make spotting magical tampering difficult.” While the Doubling Charm could create perfectly identical copies, they started to degrade at once, even if the rate of degradation was usually far too slow to affect anyone using a copied item.

“A _very_ skilled wizard cast the charm.” Mr Black grinned. “Unless you take weeks to check the parchments, any irregularities you detect won’t be due to the spell.”

“Ah.” That meant Dumbledore was directly involved. And it explained how copies of such important and supposedly secret documents had appeared in Mr Black’s hand. “I’ll do what I can,” she said.

“Good! Now let’s start turning you into a furry little troublemaker again!”

The glare she sent him only made his grin grow wider. Sighing, she sat down on the mat and started to focus on the change, as she called it, again.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Have the form follow the spirit...

*****

She had a tail. A swishing, human-sized tail she didn’t seem to be able to control as she craned her neck to look at her backside. Mr Black coughed and she saw that he had conjured a large mirror. She ignored it, of course - she wanted to look at her tail, and not at her reflection!

She reached to her back and gripped her tail, trying to make sense of the confusing sensations that caused. “Weird. I can sense it, and sense through it, but I cannot control it,” she remarked.

“That’s a cat for you,” Mr Black said. “You should really use the mirror, though.” He was talking far too loudly too.

She huffed. If she wanted a mirror, she’d conjure one herself! “I’m fine,” she said, pulling the tip of her tail towards her face to study it.

“That won’t work with your ears, unless you manage to pull them off,” he said.

“My ears?” She turned her head to look at the mirror and froze at the sight. Her tail escaped her grip as her hands rose to the sides of her head, confirming what she saw in her reflection.

She had cat ears.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have cat claws, or she would have taught the snickering dog a lesson.

*****

**London, Greenwich, October 18th, 1995**

“So, Black wants me to check this for signs of forgery or tampering.” Mr Fletcher looked at the stack of parchment sitting on his desk as if it was the most offensive thing he had ever seen.

“Yes, sir,” Hermione Granger said, struggling not to bite her lower lip as she stood next to him - her tutor had told her a few times that such habits got thieves recognised, unless they used them consciously to enhance their cover.

He scoffed and sat down in his favorite armchair. “Figures. I’ve expected such a ‘request’ for some time. He hasn’t changed at all.”

Hermione’s eyes widened a little as she wondered if she would receive another tidbit of information about her tutor’s mysterious past. “I wouldn’t be able to tell,” she said carefully. “I’ve only known him since his exoneration.”

“But you know him quite well by now, don’t you? Or you think you do,” Mr Fletcher added with a snort.

She couldn’t deny that, so she inclined her head in agreement.

“He shared a secret with you, and you think he’s your best friend.” Mr Fletcher said, glancing at her. He hadn’t asked her to tell him what she was learning from Mr Black, not outright, but Hermione felt as if he expected her to share the information.

“No. I’m aware that he’s using me.” She wasn’t a naive young girl.

“And he is trying to use me as his personal thief. Too noble to do his own dirty work, is he?”

“It’s not for him,” Hermione said, choosing her words with care, “It’s for Mr Weasley and his son.”

“That’s the only reason I haven’t vanished the parchments. Arthur’s a good man.”

Which implied that Mr Black wasn’t, Hermione noted. And that Mr Fletcher knew Mr Weasley as well. Which meant that Mr Weasley had been a member of that mysterious ‘Order’ as well. And probably still was. “Yes, he is. Although he hasn’t shared any secrets with me,” she added.

Mr Fletcher chuckled. “He wouldn’t. He’s one of the most dependable men I know. Not as reckless as Black - and not as careless either.”

She couldn’t help herself. “That sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience.”

“That’s not my secret to share.” His smile was very thin.

Hermione knew what he meant. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. “That doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Au contraire,” he said, with a fake French accent, “as our dear Jeanne would say. It’s all connected. Although it might not be Black’s plan. He’s as subtle as a dragon come feeding time.”

“I think he changed after Azkaban,” she retorted - Mr Black could be subtle, in her opinion.

“Perhaps.” His tone told her that he didn’t think she was correct. “But I’ve already heard about this affair - Mr Smith’s relatives were delighted with the opportunity to wreck Arthur’s career. They were not as crass as to call him a ‘blood traitor’ in my presence, but their sentiments were clear.”

She almost gasped. “I didn’t think the Smiths were that bad.” Arrogant, yes, but such bigots as to resent another pureblood for his more liberal views?

“They weren’t - or hid it well. Things have been changing lately.” Mr Fletcher looked at the stack again. “This might be part of it.” He sighed. “You can tell your employer that I’ll be looking into it. For Arthur - not for him.”

She didn’t like the way Mr Fletcher stressed ‘employer’, as if she was more loyal to Mr Black than to him, but she nodded anyway. The most important thing was to help Ron’s family.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 20th, 1995**

Sitting in the Headmaster’s office, Harry once again imagined his mind as the centre of a wide, open area where nothing could approach without being seen. But that wasn’t true, was it? he suddenly thought. Training with Sirius had proved that you could approach unseen. And the Headmaster had snuck past his defences with Legilimency as well. So often, in fact, during their ‘lessons’ that Harry could no longer stand hearing the constant claims that few had Dumbledore’s skill and experience any more - as if Harry didn’t know that Voldemort certainly was among them.

But then, he and Ron had found a way to counter Sirius’s stealth attacks, hadn’t they? The key wasn’t to watch out for anything catching your attention, but to remain aware of everything. He couldn’t focus on an intrusion, he had to focus on himself. As if he was trying to spot Sirius’s - or Remus’s - next attack.

Because someone was trying to enter his mind, not sneaking up on something he guarded. He wasn’t standing in an open field - everything was him. He _was_ the field, in a way. Or his mind was.

He focused on that thought. Focused on his mind. Imagined it floating, isolated. No, not isolated - it was just that there was nothing else. No space for an intruder to wait and plan. There was just his mind, and a foreign influence.

He hadn’t closed his eyes, but he didn’t see the Headmaster’s any more. He didn’t see, he sensed. No - he simply was aware. He didn’t care how; that would only create a weakness anyway.

And for the first time since he had started training, he sensed Dumbledore without the Headmaster making it obvious.

*****

“Well done, Harry! You detected me - that is quite a feat.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dumbledore’s praise was genuine, Harry Potter thought - unlike the last few sessions. He smiled, proud of his success. “I finally managed to wrap my mind around this.”

“You managed to free your imagination from the physical limitations we so often place upon it.”

Of course, Dumbledore would realise what he had done. Harry nodded.

“That is the first step towards mastering Occlumency - truly mastering it,” Dumbledore went on. Harry blinked. What was… “Now we will focus on pushing intrusions out of your mind.”

Oh. Of course. Harry felt very stupid for assuming that he had actually accomplished a lot. Seeing an attack didn’t mean he could counter it - Sirius’s lessons had taught him that as well. He sighed. “I suppose we’ll start on that then?”

“Unless you are too tired to continue.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

Voldemort wouldn’t let him rest or prepare, after all.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 24th, 1995**

“Mr Smith has finished his examination of the documents you provided,” Hermione Granger announced as soon as Mr Black had closed the door to his study.

“Oh?” He cocked his head sideways in apparent surprise.

She sighed at his antics. “I did call ahead and say that I had urgent news.”

Mr Black shrugged. “That could have been about anything - boyfriends, rivals, robes. I don’t claim to understand the priorities young witches have these days.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I would never bother you about such trivial things.” She had far more important things to care about.

“It wouldn’t be a bother at all, believe me.” He grinned widely at her. “It would be good to have another point of view in addition to Harry’s.”

“Not everything is about Harry,” she said firmly. Not in the way Mr Black insinuated, at least.

His grin widened. “Of course not.”

Trying to make him understand that he was wrong would be pointless, and only encourage him, so she pulled the documents out of her pocket and unshrank them. “They were tampered with. Magically altered by a very skilled wizard,” she said as she put them on his desk. “Mr Smith didn’t recognise the caster, though.”

“You can call him Mr Fletcher, you know. I already know his real name,” Mr Black said as he sat down behind his desk.

That didn’t mean she’d say it, of course - the best way to keep a cover or a secret was to never let either slip, no matter how safe it seemed. “Percy’s signature was copied to the forms with a custom spell.”

He nodded. “As expected.” Leaning back, he sighed. “I wish your ‘tutor’ were here. While I do not doubt your talents, I would prefer to discuss details with him.”

“I can ask him to meet with you,” Hermione said. That seemed sensible to her, seeing that both men already knew each other. Far more sensible than using her as a go-between. “Unless you’re meeting him in the Order,” she added, as if it was an afterthought.

He laughed. “Nice try, Miss Merriweather.” He quickly stopped, though. “But I’ve learned, at great cost, that secrets shouldn’t be shared with anyone who doesn’t need to know them,” he added, looking at the wall behind her.

She shrugged. She knew that as well, but it irked her that she didn’t know about the past that her tutor and her employer shared. It made dealing with both more difficult, too. “So, will that be enough to save Mr Weasley’s career?”

“It’ll help,” Mr Black said in a rather non-committal tone. “We can’t exactly use them to prove Percy’s innocence, but we can use it to acquire some leverage.”

Hermione nodded - as she had learned to her own detriment, in Wizarding Britain, having leverage was better than having proof of your innocence.

Mr Black swept the documents in his own pocket with a swish of his wand and stood. “Now, let’s see what amusing mishap you’ll produce this evening,” he said with a wide grin. “Neither James nor I ever managed to accidentally vanish our clothes, after all.”

She glared at him, flush with both anger and embarrassment, at the reminder of _that_ particular incident. “That won’t happen again,” she said in a clipped tone, not bothering to point out that an animagus’s clothes had to vanish for the duration of their transformation, so that had been at least a partial success. Even if it had been very embarrassing.

At least Mr Black couldn’t tell Harry about it. That would have been horrible.

*****

**Hogwarts, November 20th, 1995**

“The coast is clear,” Harry Potter whispered, looking around the corner of the hallway leading to the Astronomy Tower.

“What?” Ginny asked in a whisper, right behind him.

“No one is around,” he explained. The prefect patrol was over, and the next wouldn’t come near this area for an hour - if they even bothered; some prefects were rather sloppy when it came to nightly patrols.

“Good. Let’s go then!” She pushed past him, then threw a glance over her shoulder at him. “Unless you’ve got cold feet.”

He chuckled - as if! - but he glanced at his map once more to check that no one was near them before he followed her. By the time he caught up to her she had already unlocked and opened the door to the tower.

“You’d think they’d make a little more of an effort to lock up the tower,” he whispered as he stepped on to the stairway.

She grinned. “Who said they actually try to stop anyone? I consider it more of a test - if you can get into the tower, you’re old enough for the tower. It’s a Hogwarts tradition, after all!”

Harry smiled widely - that was a tradition he wholeheartedly approved of. “Let’s go, then!”

“That’s my line!”

They reached the top faster than Harry had ever managed for an Astronomy lesson. It was the new moon, so only the stars provided light, but they hadn’t come here for the view.

“So…” Harry said, “we’re here.”

Ginny nodded. “Yes.” She was licking her lips, he could see that even in the dim light. Was she nervous? They had come up here to snog, after all - it had been her idea, too. Or should he say something more romantic? Use the cold as an excuse to embrace her - even though Warming Charms dealt with it?

He snorted. This wasn’t their first date. He reached out to her, pulling her into his arms. She made a throaty, almost moaning sound before their lips met, and then it was like in the broom cupboard two days ago. Better - it didn’t smell like cleaning supplies.

When they broke the kiss, her hands were inside his shirt, and his were under her sweater, on her back, and both were breathing heavily. Their eyes met, and then they kissed again, and their hands started to wander.

Then his scar erupted in pain, and he felt blood running down his face. Ginny’s shriek sounded weirdly muted, he thought as he fell to his knees. Then she wasn’t there anymore, and he was staring at a man - a dead man. Or dying. So much blood. But he sensed the connection. He wasn’t overwhelmed like last time.

“Harry! Merlin’s beard! You’re bleeding! We need to call a teacher!” He felt her hands grabbing his arm, trying to lift him. She almost broke his concentration.

Despite the pain, he raised his hand. “Stop, Ginny!” he pressed out through clenched teeth. “We’ll go to Dumbledore.” As soon as this was over and he could walk again.

And then he retched at what he saw.

*****

“You had another vision.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry Potter said as he pressed a handkerchief against his bleeding scar. “I wasn’t knocked unconscious this time, though. I didn’t fight it either.” He raised his wand. “I can copy the memory for you.”

“Very impressive,” Dumbledore said, “but please do not strain yourself overly.”

Harry would have shaken his head, but that would hurt too much, so he simply extracted the memory and let it float into the vial on Dumbledore’s desk. The effort made him feel light-headed, though, and he sagged in his seat, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Harry!” he heard Ginny exclaim.

“Do not worry, Miss Weasley. The wound looks far more serious than it is.” Dumbledore sighed.

“That wasn’t a pain curse,” Ginny said. “He didn’t hit his head this time. His scar just started bleeding. And you expected this.”

Harry didn’t know exactly if she was talking to him or the Headmaster, or both - but she sounded angry.

“The secrecy was - and still is - necessary,” Dumbledore said. “For Harry’s sake. His life depends on it.”

Ginny gasped. She looked pale, Harry though. She wasn’t the one bleeding, though. “I think I need to go to the Infirmary,” he said.

“Poppy has been informed,” Dumbledore explained. “I think we shall claim you two had an accident during a rendezvous… on top of the Astronomy Tower.”

Harry gasped, then groaned at the pain this caused.

“Did you spy on us?” Ginny asked. She was angry again, or still, he realised.

“It was simply an educated guess,” the Headmaster explained. “I was a student once myself. Of course you’ll have to serve detention for that as well.”

Ginny gasped again, but Harry couldn’t care less right then.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, November 20th, 1995**

Hermione Granger slowly and carefully crept forward. She couldn’t rush this - the roof she was on was slick with rain, and a slip could easily send her tumbling down two stories. Unless Mr Fletcher caught her. She buried that thought. This was her final test. She had to act as if she wasn’t aware of her tutor’s presence.

She reached the edge of the roof and peered down at the street below. At this time of the night, no shops or pubs were open - other than the Leaky Cauldron, which didn’t seem to ever close - and so this part of Diagon Alley was dead, but there were still Aurors patrolling. Aurors who would take exception to a black-clad figure on a roof.

Even if she wasn’t here to steal anything. This time. She just had to slip inside the wards and out again. She had done that before, and the wards on this building - which housed ‘Henry’s Hats’ - weren’t any stronger than those on the Allisters’ house.

Below her was the window she had chosen as her point of entry. As she had found out during her preparations it led to a work room - no one would be there now. A last check of the Alley… she froze. Someone - two people - were walking down the street. Aurors? She knew their schedule, and they shouldn’t be here.

For a moment, she was tempted to simply remain where she was. They couldn’t see her from below, even if she weren’t disillusioned. But she would be in range of a Human-presence-revealing spell. When on patrol, Aurors usually didn’t cast such spells without a reason - but they usually weren’t patrolling this part of the Alley at this time.

Silently cursing, she quickly climbed back to the ridge of the roof. She almost slipped in her haste, but managed to recover her footing, then pulled herself over the ridge and slid down the other side. She caught herself at the edge, then pressed herself against the tiles. Even if they cast the spell now, she wouldn’t be in their range. And if she were, the marker wouldn’t be high enough to be seen from the Alley side.

Or so she thought. She couldn’t see the Aurors any more, but a quickly and silently cast Supersensory Charm let her hear them. As far as she could tell from their muttered complaints, their schedule had been changed to free up other Aurors for an emergency.

She sighed with relief - they weren’t here for her - and waited until she couldn’t hear their steps any more before returning to the other side of the roof. She had a test to pass, after all.

*****

“Good thinkin’ there,” Mr Fletcher said an hour later, back in his flat. “Ya weren’t careless, trustin’ them to act as normal even though they had already changed their schedule.”

Hermione nodded. As if she would be careless, after all his lessons about caution!

“Ya went through the wards quickly and without trouble, too.”

“I had studied them beforehand.”

“That ya did. And ya cased the joint thoroughly, and made a clear getaway.” He smiled, though Hermione thought he looked a little sad. “I don’t like to admit it, but you’re ready to help with a real heist.”

“Yes!” Hermione smiled widely, despite the qualification about helping. She had passed her tutor’s final test!

“Don’t get cocky, though,” he added, shaking his head. “Especially since you haven’t learned Apparition yet.”

“I won’t,” she assured him. She had done it! She had passed!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 21st, 1995**

“What’ll it be this time? Furry forepaws? A tail and cat legs? A cat’s snout?”

Hermione Granger ignored Mr Black’s prattle. She was close to mastering the change. She knew it. She had managed pretty much every body part so far. Just not all together, nor in the right size.

She closed her eyes and tuned the dog out. She was a cat. A graceful, smart, elegant cat. A cat who prowled the night. Like she had done last night. She remembered climbing on the roof, peering down at the stupid humans below her, a shadow in the night, too smart and too quick for them to see much less catch. She was a cat who went wherever she pleased and did whatever she wanted.

She… she blinked. The room had changed. The red and gold banner behind the dog was now greenish and gold. And the other colours seemed to have faded somewhat… She shot up - and found herself jumping. Higher than she had expected - and she landed on four paws. Gasping, she checked her body. She was a cat! A beautiful brown-haired cat!

“You did it!”

That was the dog. She looked at him. He was moving around his desk. His big, sturdy desk. With a gleeful yell, she jumped on the desk, startling him as she sent the parchment there flying as she moved towards him. She jumped off the desk as he stepped back and landed on his chest, her claws finding purchase on his shirt.

He even tried to shake her off, the dolt! But she dug her claws in - into his skin too - and held fast.

Then there was no shirt any more. Nor any wizard. Just a big, black dog. For a moment, they stared at each other.

And then the chase was on.

*****

 


	12. Set-Up

**London, Ministry for Magic, November 21st, 1995**

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Cornfoot.” Auror Bertie Macmillan tried to sound as if he truly cared, even though he couldn’t really be bothered sympathising with the recently widowed witch sitting across from him and crying into her handkerchief. Scrimgeour would be on his case if there was another complaint about his ‘attitude’.

Mrs Cornfoot was frumpy, and had lost what appeal she once had - he remembered her being reasonably pretty at Hogwarts; she had been a year or two below him - in the last twenty or so years. No wonder her husband had gone looking for a good time in Knockturn Alley. He had found himself on the wrong end of a wand there, but such things happened.

True, the manner of the man’s death had been rather more brutal than usual - they had taken more than a day to identify the victim due to the corpse’s condition - but that was merely a detail. “But Knockturn Alley is a dangerous place for visitors. Your husband should have known better.”

“But he knew that! And he wouldn’t have gone to such a place anyway! Gregor wasn’t like that!”

He disagreed, but didn’t say so. In Mr Cornfoot’s place, Bertie certainly would have preferred the company you found in Knockturn Alley’s seedy pubs if he were saddled with a wife who was such a nag.

“He was a nature lover, Gregor was - we had a subscription to The Quibbler, you know! And he was so fond of looking for the rarest animals…” She broke down crying again.

“I’m certain he was,” Bertie said, trying to sound sincere. The Quibbler… what a rag. It made the Prophet look good.

“Can I see him? They said they still needed his body…” She looked at him through watery eyes.

He almost said that she could have a piece or two as there were enough to go around, but that was a joke better saved for the Corps’ break room. Civilians rarely appreciated such humour. “I don’t yet know when the examination of your husband’s body will be finished.”

“Who would do such a thing…” She sobbed. “To him, of all people! He never hurt a fly!”

The ideal victim, then. Bertie personally thought it was a hag attack. Or a vampire trying to disguise his crime as one - you couldn’t trust dark creatures. But that paranoid twit Brittlewinger suspected blood magic.

Bertie smiled with fake sympathy. “We’ll do our best to bring the murderer to justice, Mrs Cornfoot.” He wasn’t lying - Bones herself was keeping an eye on the investigation, which meant Scrimgeour was riding the Aurors even harder than usual. Even Yaxley had poked his wand in. Bertie simply didn’t think they would find anything. Vampires or hags, those kinds of creatures tended to disappear easily.

Well, he added with a glance at Macnair, who was apparently serving as an advisor for this investigation, maybe not that easily with the butcher on the case.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 21st, 1995**

The dog had tried his best, but ultimately, dogs were inferior to cats - they couldn’t climb. Hermione smirked at her nemesis from a safe perch on a shelf, far above his reach. Let the dog bark as much as he wanted - he was powerless!

Then the dog changed forms, and she hissed. That was cheating!

“I think that’s enough,” the dog said. “Not that I care, but Kreacher will have to work hard to repair everything that we wrecked.”

She hissed again - what did she care about a creature barely above a mouse?

“I don’t speak cat, but that didn’t sound like you agree with me,” the dog went on.

She sniffed in response. Was it her fault that the dog was too stupid to understand a civilised language? Then her eyes widened - the dog had just drawn a stick. And not the kind they liked to chase! She crouched, then jumped off the shelf just as the dog started to wave the stick around, landing on the nearby table. A swipe of her paw sent a vase tumbling - that should distract him - and she was off again, towards the doorway beckoning to her. Two yards, one yard… one yard… her paws had lost traction, she realised - she was floating!

And the dog was coming towards her. “I said enough, Miss Granger. Time to change back.”

She hissed at him, her tail standing up and her ears laying back. She didn’t want to change back! She was fine as she was!

He sighed. “Then you leave me no choice.” He ignored her challenge to fight fairly and walked over to one of the shelves he hadn’t toppled in his wild chase, making her float after him in the most undignified way possible. “Now where is it… there!”

He held up a book. “If you don’t change back I’ll burn this copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ from 1754!”

She gasped. How could he threaten that poor innocent book! The fiend! That was an irreplaceable copy! Then she blinked. Why did she care? She was a cat! No - she was a witch. An animagus. And Mr Black was threatening to burn a book!

“No!” she yelled, thrashing around. Where was her wand? There! A flick of her wrist had it in her hand, and she was about to cast when he cancelled his spell.

Unlike a cat, she didn’t land gracefully on the floor. Painfully was a more correct description.

“There you are, Miss Granger! I almost feared that something went wrong and you had lost your mind.”

“That’s no reason to threaten a book,” she retorted.

“Whatever works,” he shot back with one of his infuriating grins. “James was never this much trouble - then again, he was a stag, not a cat.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione Granger asked as she stood.

“We usually played outside.”

Looking at the thoroughly devastated interior of the living room - apparently, she had managed to get the door of the study open - there wasn’t much she could offer in her defence.

He sighed. “I think we need to talk about the mental effects of the change again.”

Hermione nodded. That sounded like a very good idea.

*****

While Mr Black was apparently unconcerned about the mess they had made, Hermione Granger cringed at the sight. They had left a trail of devastation leading from the study to the living room. Shelves had been toppled, shards from broken vases and knick-knacks covered the floor, a potted plant had been shredded…

“Almost looks like when my mother lost her temper after she heard that I was sorted into Gryffindor,” Mr Black remarked as they passed the toppled umbrella stand - a disgusting hollowed out troll leg. “No, wait,” he said, stopping suddenly.

Hermione froze and looked around, but she couldn’t spot any threats. Then she glanced at Mr Black and saw that his eyes had lost their focus.

“No, that was what I imagined it to look like when my uncle told me. He promised to give me a copy of his memory, but…” He sighed. “He died before he managed.”

Hermione made a non-committal noise - offering her condolences for a death more than twenty years past would have been weird, even if Mr Black seemed lost in his memories for a moment.

“Ah, well,” he said, straightening, “shouldn’t take Kreacher more than half the night to fix the place up.”

“I wasn’t aware that house-elves could use that sort of magic,” Hermione said. “Mending Charms,” she explained when she saw his puzzled look.

He laughed. “Oh, he can’t do those. I’ll decide in the morning what I’ll mend, and what I’ll get rid of. He’ll probably try to glue some of the stuff left by my mother together and keep it.” He must have caught her confusion - she had to work on her tells some more - since he added: “He worships my mother. He has a shrine to the old hag in his den. If he could do magic, he probably would try to raise her from the dead using some of the more vile rituals in our library.”

Hermione hoped that he was joking. “And I broke some of those things…” she muttered.

“Oh, dont worry. He’ll blame me, as usual. I think so at least.”

That wasn’t very reassuring. She’d have to watch her steps around the elf. Which would be good training, she tried to console herself.

They had reached the study, and she winced.

“Yes, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you used the opportunity to thoroughly express your - utterly wrong, of course - opinion of my taste in interior design.” Mr Black snorted.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I recall you causing most of the destruction,” she said curtly.

“Well, I was chasing you, so it’s your fault.”

“What?” She glared at him, but he just laughed and righted his chair with a flick of his wand. She grudgingly followed his example.

“Now,” he said, suddenly acting as if they were in class and he were the teacher, “what do you think happened?”

“I was overwhelmed by my inner animal following my first full transformation and instead of helping me, you decided to chase me as if you were a dog,” she primly answered. A massive dog who had done most of the damage, too.

“You’re correct - almost. You weren’t overwhelmed by your inner animal, but by the instincts of your form.” He leaned back. “When we change, those instincts allow us to move in our animal form as if we had been born like that. We don’t have to learn how to walk, run, climb - or fly - as an animal. Simplified, we know how to act as an animal without having to think about it.”

“It sounds like simply another name for the same effect.” She had been correct, then, and so had her books.

“In a way,” he admitted, grinning widely. “But the important point is that if we don’t think, we’ll act as an animal. A panicking animagus tends to act like a panicking animal.”

“I wasn’t panicking,” she retorted. The dog might have significantly out-massed her slender form, but she hadn’t been afraid of him. He was far too slow and clumsy to catch her.

“No? It certainly looked like that to me, chasing you,” he said, chuckling. She sniffed in response. “But you were surprised by the change, probably confused as well, and let your instincts take over.”

Which was generally a bad idea, as Hermione knew very well. “That doesn’t explain your reaction,” she said.

“I was just having fun chasing a pesky cat.” He chuckled, presumably at her expression. “Both cats and dogs are predators. We like to chase things.” She could imagine the dog chasing a car. “You’ll have to watch out for string and mice.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not joking - not entirely,” he added. “In our animal form, we’re always just one slip away from acting on our instincts. Let your thoughts wander, and you’ll find yourself eating a mouse.”

“Speaking from experience?” she asked, grinning when he coughed. Then she remembered under what circumstances he had probably eaten mice. “Sorry.”

“Huh?” He waved her apology away. “Anyway, you shouldn’t have too much trouble controlling yourself, normally.”

He made that sound as if it was a bad thing, Hermione thought. She nodded anyway - she wouldn’t let her animal instincts get the better of her. Not again, at least.

“Now, change again, and let’s see if you can keep your wits.”

She sniffed at him - of course she would! - and focused on her transformation again. This time, it didn’t take her more than a minute until she found herself sitting in a suddenly far too large chair. For a moment, she wanted to flee the dog’s presence - not that he could catch her, anyway - but she controlled herself. She wasn’t a cat, she was an animagus. A witch.

She looked at herself. She had brown semi-long fur, probably the same colour, or close, to her hair - cats saw colours differently. It looked like it had a slight green tone, so that would appear red to humans. Chestnut, maybe? She couldn’t make out what breed she was. Probably mixed, she thought. She a very long and slightly bushy tail. Very attractive. She raised a forepaw and unsheathed her claws, studying them. They didn’t need to be sharpened, not yet. She dug them into the seat anyway, to check how that felt.

A coughing noise from the dog interrupted her introspection. Her anger at the presumption was mollified, though, when she saw that he had conjured a large mirror for her, and she jumped off the seat to look at her reflection.

She was a fine cat. A very fine cat. Slender, with a thick, well-tended coat, long whiskers and pretty ears. Elegant and graceful, as she had known she would be. Perfect.

Then a far too large dog suddenly barked, far too close, and she was on top of the last shelf still standing in the room and hissing at the dog before she realised what had happened.

The dog changed into a sniggering wizard. “I think you need to work on not being startled so easily and losing control. But that shouldn’t take long. Not with my help.”

She wanted to scratch his nose again.

*****

**London, Merton, November 21st, 1995**

Sitting on her bed in her pyjamas, Hermione Granger stared at Crookshanks. Her cat hadn’t acted any differently towards her since she had returned home from Grimmauld Place. The tomcat was currently occupying her pillow and, by all appearances, enjoying a nap. She hadn’t really expected anything else, of course - animals couldn’t sense animagi, Mr Black had told her that - but Crookshanks was a half-Kneazle, and those were magical animals. And he was her familiar. Or should be - she hadn’t found a clear definition of what made an animal a familiar, other than their owner stating so.

She sighed. Her parents didn’t know what she had achieved - they couldn’t know, of course, for their and her safety - and she couldn’t tell anyone else either. Not Harry or Ron, nor Mr Fletcher. And now she couldn’t even share her exploits with her cat.

She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She could transform, of course. She had done it several times this evening, without any serious issue. And without taking Mr Black’s nose off. But he had warned her against changing without his supervision for another week or two. And he was the expert.

But she wanted to see Crookshanks’s reaction to her transformation. Would he be confused? Or take it in stride? Or, she thought, wincing, would he react as he had reacted to other cats intruding on his new territory?

Maybe changing without supervision really wasn’t a good idea…

She sighed again and grabbed her notebook. She should revise the theory of Apparition again - Mr Fletcher had said he’d start to teach her soon. And she suspected that even though he had pronounced her ready to help with a real heist, she wouldn’t get to do anything actually important or dangerous until she could apparate.

Unless she could demonstrate another way to escape from a sticky situation… She bit her lower lip. Mr Black expected her to keep his - and now her - secret. But Mr Fletcher was her tutor.

If only the two men would get along!

*****

**Hogsmeade, November 25th, 1995**

“Oh… these dress robes would be perfect! What do you think?” Ginny asked, holding up green dress robes with gold trim.

“I think they look great,” Harry Potter said. They did, too - but then, everything looked great on Ginny.

“They look a little too much like Slytherin’s colours to me,” Ron commented from the back of the shop.

“I wasn’t asking _you_ ,” Ginny snapped. “I’m not going to the New Year’s Ball with you! And this is not Slytherin green!”

“I said it wasn’t Slytherin’s colour - it’s just a little too…” Ron trailed off, apparently searching the right word.

“Too green?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. No!” Ron frowned at their friend. “You know what I mean!” he added when the two witches laughed.

Harry didn’t laugh - Ron deserved some support - but he smiled. Unlike Parvati, Ginny didn’t have a problem with his best friends. Well, she and Ron fought a little, but that was normal - they did that at The Burrow too. And Hermione liked Ginny.

“This is not some school event,” his girlfriend pointed out. “This is a real ball. People won’t think I’m wearing house colours.”

“I bet Malfoy will say something.” Ron frowned.

“He’ll say something no matter what I’m wearing,” Ginny retorted. “And I won’t let him and his friends influence what I’m wearing to the ball! I want this to be perfect!”

“Even Malfoy might manage to behave at the New Year’s Ball,” Hermione cut in. “Making a scene would reflect badly on his family, after all.”

“If he behaves then I’d check him for Compulsion Charms,” Ron muttered.

This time, Harry laughed with everyone else. The thought of Malfoy being magically forced to behave by his parents...

“It would be just another sign of their hypocrisy, of course,” Hermione said once they had stopped laughing. “They spread the worst rumours behind your back, and then act as if they are innocent in public.”

“Yeah,” Ron chimed in. “Dad said that Malfoy father’s now claiming that Dumbledore lied for Percy.”

“Is he still trying to get them fired?” Hermione asked. “I thought the Headmaster proved that the documents were faked.”

“I heard from Percy that there’s a rumor that Dumbledore copied the files, then altered them himself,” Ginny said.

Harry nodded. “Sirius told me the same. And Malfoy’s friends are acting as if they believe that, just to put pressure on Dumbledore.” He looked at Hermione. “Didn’t he tell you that as well?”

She frowned. “We don’t talk about the Wizengamot’s politics that often.”

“I thought you were his secretary,” Ron said.

“I only work part-time,” Hermione explained. “I’m still spending most of my time studying.” Of course she was, Harry thought. “And when I’m working for Sirius, I’m usually doing his correspondence, not rumour-mongering,” she added with a little sniff.

“You shouldn’t just study, though,” Ron said. “It’s not healthy.”

“Well, I’m not studying now, am I?” Hermione retorted.

But she probably wasn’t having much fun either, Harry suddenly thought - seeing Ginny pick her dress robes for the ball while she couldn’t attend. Well, Ron wasn’t invited either, but that was different. Balls were important for witches, for all witches, not just for the likes of Parvati, Ginny had taught him that. “I could ask Sirius if he could take you to the ball,” he said.

“What?” Hermione was staring at him. Ron and Ginny too, he realised.

“Well, he’s going alone anyway, and you missed the Yule Ball, and…” He shrugged.

“Do you realise that if I went to the ball with your godfather, the Prophet would claim that I was sleeping with him the very next day?”

“They did that already.” Harry remembered that article well.

“They speculated. But if I show up on his arm, people will actually believe it,” Hermione said.

“Well, they wouldn’t talk about me chasing Harry’s gold in that case,” Ginny joked.

Judging by her expression, Hermione apparently didn’t think that that was funny. “Not that I want to go to the ball anyway. And I don’t think that he would want to go with me. That would curb his flirting with all the young and impressionable witches.” Harry winced - she wasn’t wrong there. “No,” she continued in that prim voice of hers, “I’ll enjoy the New Year’s Eve in muggle London.”

With a book, Harry thought. He knew better than to say that, of course.

*****

**London, Merton, December 25th, 1995**

“Open it, Crookshanks!” Hermione Granger smiled as she held out a small package to her cat. “It’s your gift!”

“One of his gifts,” her father muttered.

She ignored him. This was Crookshanks’s first Christmas, at least the first with her family, so it was only right and proper that his gifts made up for the years he had missed. She watched expectantly as he sniffed the package. But instead of tearing it open with his claws - he had demonstrated his ability to do so several times with her mum’s shoe boxes - he miaowed and looked at her.

He probably feared he’d damage the contents, she thought. She petted him before opening the package herself and presented the bag of cat treats to him. As soon as he saw the bag, he ripped it open - he was such a smart cat!

“It was your idea, dear,” she heard her mum say.

Hermione turned her head while Crookshanks gorged himself. “What was his idea?”

“To get you a cat,” Mum replied.

“And it was the best idea you ever had!” Hermione nodded emphatically. Crookshanks wasn’t just the best cat a witch could have, but he had also been crucial in her learning how to become an animagus.

“I’m not quite so certain of that anymore,” her father said.

She frowned at him. “I repaired your armchair.” And his shoes. And even that ugly tie that should have been disposed of long ago.

“There’s also the matter of my cigars.”

“Smoking is bad for your health!” Crookshanks was obviously looking out for her dad.

Her mum snickered in agreement. And Crookshanks ripped open a package.

“Oh, Crookshanks! That was the wrong one! This is yours - that one is for Dad.” A quick Mending Charm later, she held the package out to her father with a smile. “He must have smelled the wool and thought it was for him!” she explained.

“Wool?”

“A sweater for your vacation in the Alps,” Hermione explained.

“I still think you should come with us,” he grumbled.

“I couldn’t leave Crookshanks alone for so long!” she exclaimed - they had gone over this already! “And Mr Black needs me over the holidays.” She ignored her father’s mumbled comment about what her employer needed.

“And you can meet your friends,” her mum said, smiling.

She nodded happily. She’d be able to see Harry each day - and Ron most days. And she’d be able to help with her first real heist, too.

This was going to be the best vacation ever.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 25th, 1995**

“And for you, Moony, new duellist robes!” Sirius said with a wide smile. “Now you can impress all those seventh years even more! Or ‘Tonks’.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “She’s not interested in a man my age, and I wouldn’t start anything with a student.”

“I note that you didn’t claim that there’s no interest from your students!”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“You’re an attractive man. A Hogwarts professor, the first Defence teacher to stay for more than a year - brave, skilled and respectable. Witches love such men! You just need to get out more. Maybe meet some former students of yours...”

“I can manage my social life just fine,” Remus shot back. “I’m not the one who needs a secretary to juggle several witches!”

“I would never have Miss Granger do that!”

“I note that you didn’t deny that you’re seeing several witches.”

While the two men bickered, Harry Potter poked his own package with his ‘training wand’. He couldn’t detect any spells on it, but that didn’t have to mean anything.

“Something thing wrong?” his godfather asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered, glancing at Sirius. The man was grinning, but that didn’t have to mean anything either. He might be waiting for whatever prank he had prepared to happen, or simply be amused at Harry’s ‘paranoia’.

“You wouldn’t really expect me to trap your presents, would you?” Sirius asked. “Certainly not after you eschewed your girlfriend’s offer to celebrate Christmas with her family in favour of celebrating with your family!”

Ginny had been disappointed at his refusal, Harry knew, but she had understood that he wanted to stay with his godfather and ‘honorary uncle’. And he could visit The Burrow tomorrow anyway. “After this year’s lessons with the two of you?” he snorted. “Remus didn’t tell me that he checked the packages this time.”

“Moony?” Sirius frowned. “Did you make my godson think that I would hex him on Christmas?”

“No, that was all your own doing,” Remus said with a smile. “I did nothing.”

“You did!” Sirius huffed. “Betrayed by my best friend!”

Harry opened the package with his wand. “Glasses?” he asked, pulling them out. “I already have a pair,” he added.

“Oh, those are special ones,” Sirius said gleefully. “Try them out!”

Harry pulled his own off and tried the new ones out. The room looked a little sharper, but that was all.

“Tap the frame with your wand!”

Harry did - and recoiled. The room had disappeared in a maze of colours and shades and wire-like frames that looked like… He closed his eyes. “What’s this?”

“I had them enchanted! Not as good as Moody’s eye, but with a little training you’ll be able to use them like Omnioculars. Zoom in, zoom out, and you can even see through walls! And through clothes!” Sirius added with a chuckle.

Harry didn’t know if this was the worst or best gift he had ever received.

*****

**London, Greenwich, December 27th, 1995**

“Alright. I told you that you’re ready to assist me on a real heist,” Mr Fletcher said as he finished his cup of tea.

Hermione Granger nodded. She had barely touched her own cup. Not just out of anticipation, though - her tutor still didn’t know about her being an animagus.

“Now, you’ve heard about the ‘blood murders’,” Mr Fletcher went on. “Your employer was a suspect, after all.”

“Yes.” And the Prophet had gone into details of the cases for weeks.

“An acquaintance of mine thinks that the murders are tied to the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore had told him, then, Hermione thought. “Yes.”

“Ya already knew that.” He set his cup down and stared across the table at her.

“It was an easy deduction.” Harry had told her, but that was another secret she couldn’t share.

He snorted. “Anyway. He’s been busy underminin’ the Ministry and the Wizengamot fer the last few months. Some of the less useless Old Families have opposed him, but not with much success.”

“They barely managed to save Mr Weasley’s career,” Hermione said.

“Yeah. And his son’s been transferred to a dead-end position. Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.” He shook his head.

“Wouldn’t that allow him to keep track of incidents that might otherwise be missed?” Hermione could imagine that that might be useful.

“Most of the incidents that committee has ta deal with are obvious screwups. And even late in the war, the Aurors weren’t as inept as to miss Death Eater attacks that needed muggle-worthy excuses.”

“Ah.” That made sense.

“Mind ya, if he’s not stupid, he can keep an eye on a number of people in the Ministry using the excuse of protecting the Statute of Secrecy, but for his career, anything tied ta muggles is poison.” Mr Fletcher shrugged. “But we’ve got bigger problems to worry ’bout than a Ministry career.”

Such as the Dark Lord’s plans. She nodded. “Are we going to break into the manor of one of the ‘former’ Death Eaters?”

“Eager, are ya?” He laughed. “We’ll do that, but not too soon. No, we’re starting with somethin’ a little easier.”

She didn’t frown. That would have made her appear immature and naive.

“I know where most of the manors of the Old Families are. Over the years, all of them threw a ball or a party - ya can’t really impress yar peers and those below ya without showin’ off, can ya?” She made an agreeing noise so he’d go on. “But those are the ‘ancestral mansions’. The heads of the families live there. Their heirs too, although not always. But the rest of the family members? They have their own homes. And they aren’t prone ta throwin’ parties fer everyone - but o’ course they’ll attend the parties in the manors.”

“You want me to find these homes,” Hermione said.

“Yes. At least those of the younger wizards. All you have to do is to slip ’em one of these.” He held up a small coin - a Knut.

Hermione Granger nodded. She gripped her own cup a little harder - she still had the urge to take notes of anything important, even though she didn’t need to. Not for such a simple task. Well, simple order. Achieving the actual task would be a little tricky. “Won’t they notice the spells on the coin?”

“There actually aren’t any spells on it. My acquaintance has the means to track these coins more discreetly.”

She wondered what kind of magic Dumbledore was using. Perhaps a variant of the Protean Charm? She had thought of such a thing as an anti-theft measure, but it should also serve to track something - but not without a spell on it.

“Now, remember to be cautious,” her tutor interrupted her thoughts. “Don’t get drawn into a spare bedroom; you’re not a courtesan.”

She nodded firmly. She had no intention of going that far. Flirting with the likes of Draco Malfoy would be bad enough.

“Check what you drink for potions. Don’t let them cast anything on you. And remember to focus your mind on your role. I doubt that there’ll be any Legilimens at the Smiths’ ball who’re skilled enough to actually read your mind, not without being obvious about it, and certainly not among your marks, but someone could be talented enough to pick up a stray thought.”

There was no danger of that, Hermione knew - as an animagus, she was safe from such attacks. Reasonably safe, at least. But he didn’t know that. So she nodded.

“But even a skilled Legilimens still needs eye contact to catch more than that. So, don’t get into any staring contests - especially not with older wizards or witches. Be coy, avoid their gaze demurely, as I taught you. I hope we’ll have enough time next year for you to learn the basics of Occlumency. I’m no master meself, although I know enough to get by, but I’m rubbish at Legilimency, so I can’t really teach ya Occlumency.”

“I suppose finding a trustworthy Legilimens won’t be easy,” she said. She should tell him not to bother, but that would be giving away Mr Black’s secret.

“No, it won’t,” he said. “They have to be willing and able to teach you, too, and have the time to spare.”

Which meant the Headmaster wouldn’t be available. Not for her. Not that she needed his lessons. She didn’t have a link to the Dark Lord in her forehead, and she was an animagus, and Dumbledore certainly had more important duties. Still…

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She could feel jealous and guilty later.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, December 28th, 1995**

“Hi, Harry!”

“Hi, Ginny!” Harry Potter smiled widely as Ginny jumped into his arms as soon as he had stepped - and without more than slightly stumbling this time! - out of the fireplace.

“Mate.” Ron nodded at him, getting up from the weathered couch in the living room.

“Hello, Harry.” Luna waved at him, but remained sitting on the couch. “Oh, you have new glasses!”

Ginny took a step back and inspected him. “Really? Oh, they look good on you.”

“Thanks. They were a gift from Sirius,” Harry said.

“You weren’t wearing them before today, though,” Ginny said. “Were you?”

“I had to get used to them first,” Harry said. “Didn’t want to crash my new broom due to new glasses.”

Ron looked puzzled. “Why would that matter?”

“Oh, are those enchanted glasses? Can you see Nargles?” Luna jumped up from her seat and stepped closer, peering at him. “They look ordinary, though.”

“They work like Omnioculars,” Harry explained. “I can zoom in and out.” He wasn’t lying. Not exactly - he was simply omitting a few details. Like that they allowed him to see through clothes. Not that he would use that function on his friends. Or on anyone. That wouldn’t be right.

“Really? How do you control them? I don’t see a dial,” Ron said.

“You run your finger or wand over the frame, like this.” Harry demonstrated. “That zooms in, and this zooms out.”

“Can I try them?” Ron asked.

“They are prescription glasses,” Harry answered. “Unless you’re as shortsighted as I am, you’ll only see a blur.”

“Can you zoom out so far that people start to shrink?” Luna wanted to know. “That would be funny.”

“No, that’s not possible.” It would be useful, though, Harry realised - if it could give him some sort of overview vision.

Luna was studying his glasses from so close that her hair fell into Ginny’s face when she cocked her head sideways. “They look like muggle glasses,” she stated after a moment. “Maybe you should mark them so you don’t mix them up.”

“That was the point - I can wear them in muggle London too,” Harry said.

“I can wear my Nargle-hunting glasses everywhere,” Luna said. “And they don’t look like muggle glasses.” She pulled a pair of glasses out of her pocket that even Elton John would refuse to wear.

Harry didn’t have the heart to tell the girl what the muggles probably thought when they saw her. Ginny and Ron seemed to share his sentiments - both nodded without comment.

“Enough about glasses! Let’s go flying before lunch!” Ron said.

“Yes.” That was one of the things Harry loved about The Burrow - you could fly whenever you wanted.

“The others are in Diagon Alley,” Ginny pointed out. “We will only be able to play a two versus two.” And whoever got paired up with Luna would be at a disadvantage - the witch wasn’t a bad flyer, not like Hermione, but she wasn’t as good as Ginny or Ron either.

“We can fly just for fun,” Harry said. “Or we can all chase a snitch.”

“I’m a Keeper, not a Seeker,” Ron said.

Ginny sniffed. “Are you afraid that you’ll be kicked from the team if you don’t use every training opportunity?”

“Don’t be jealous just because you’re a reserve,” Ron shot back.

“I’m not!” Ginny said, but her angry tone belied her claim.

“We can shoot some penalties later,” Harry said, trying to offer a compromise. He really just wanted to fly. With Ginny and his friends.

“That sounds fun!” Luna chimed in with a wide smile.

“Alright,” Ginny agreed.

*****

An hour later, they were taking a break from flying. They had chased five snitches - Harry Potter had caught four of them, and one had somehow found its way into Luna’s robes, counting as her catch - and had shot enough penalties at the hoops guarded by Ron to cover a full season’s worth of matches against Slytherin.

Sitting on his broom, near the pitch, Harry looked around. Ron and he were alone. Ginny and Luna had returned to the house already, to ‘freshen up’ before lunch. That would take a while. This was the perfect opportunity.

“Say,” he started, “you still haven’t found a witch you fancy, have you?”

“No.” Ron’s reply was rather curt, Harry thought.

“You’re not still hung up on Lavender, are you?” he asked.

“No.” Ron was now staring at him. “What’s this about?”

Harry sighed. He had to learn how to be more subtle. “I was wondering about Hermione. I think she’s a little lonely.”

“Mate, she visits you each day, and The Burrow almost as often,” Ron said. “Only Luna visits us more often, and she’s our neighbour.”

“I didn’t mean like that.” Harry pursed his lips. “Do you remember what she said about the New Year’s Ball?”

“You mean to your hare-brained idea of having Sirius take her to the ball?” Ron laughed.

“Yes.” Harry grit his teeth. This wasn’t funny. “Her parents are in France, skiing. She’ll be all alone on New Year’s Eve.”

Ron shook his head. “Mum asked her to celebrate with us, but she said that she already had plans. She’ll spend New Year’s Eve in muggle London.”

“With a book,” Harry muttered, “and her cat.”

“Well… you know how she is about books.” Ron chuckled.

He rolled his eyes. “She’s probably too proud to admit that she’s lonely.”

“Or she has her eyes on a muggle boy.”

“She said she was too busy for a relationship when I asked her,” Harry said.

“That’s probably true. She is working for Sirius, after all, and studying at the same time.”

Harry glared at Ron. Couldn’t he show some concern for their best friend? “You know, you’re looking for a girlfriend…”

“No.” Ron shook his head.

“What?”

“I’m not going to ask her out,” Ron said.

Harry didn’t bother denying that he had been about to suggest that. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because I don’t fancy her. And I’m not like Seamus.” Ron scoffed.

“Of course not!” Seamus had probably asked out every witch in their year. Even the Slytherins. But this wasn’t the same - Hermione was their friend.

“Besides she deserves better than a pity date. Or Seamus,” Ron stated.

Harry couldn’t argue with that. He sighed again. “Let’s head back. The girls should be finished freshening up by now.”

“First good idea you’ve had today!”

Harry glared at his friend, but Ron was already halfway to The Burrow.

*****

**Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1995**

“You must be Miss Merriweather!”

Hermione Granger’s polite and slightly vacant smile froze slightly as she faced a rather exuberant Mr Black. “Yes. You have me at a disadvantage, Mr…?” She managed not to hiss at the dog.

“Black. Sirius Black. You might have heard of me.” He flashed his teeth at her. “We missed each other last year, but you made an impression on my godson, and so I was determined to meet you myself.”

“I’m flattered,” she said, showing her own teeth. She was at the Smiths’ New Year’s Ball to prepare a heist, and Mr Black knew that - she had told him so herself! What was he thinking, accosting her like this?

“The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.” He gestured to the dance floor. “May I have the honour of a dance with you?”

She couldn’t refuse him. Miss Merriweather would jump at the chance to dance with a rich and reasonably attractive wizard, even if he was old. She wouldn’t know that he was a dog. “With pleasure, Mr Black,” she said with a too-sweet smile and accepted his extended arm.

“The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you,” he said as they stepped on the dance floor. A moment later, she noticed the music falling slightly - he must have cast a privacy spell.

“You are correct,” she said, “the pleasure’s all yours.”

“Ouch! That hurt almost as much as your claws.” His tone belied his words.

“Not even close,” she shot back. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing with a pretty witch who might be interested in my godson?” He didn’t bat an eye as they passed close to another couple - Jeanne and one of the Selwyns, Hermione noticed.

“Your real reason,” she clarified for the dog.

“I’m helping you, of course.”

She blinked. “Please explain your reasoning.”

He bared his teeth. “I have a certain reputation, as you are aware. Me trying to seduce you and failing - an act, of course - will make it easier for you to catch the interest of your jealous target.”

As much as she hated to admit it, that made some sense. “You could have mentioned that yesterday.”

He tilted his head. “Yes.”

She wanted to hex the man. Or claw the dog again. “You just thought of that excuse, didn’t you?”

“Would I do such a thing?”

“Yes,” she answered in a flat voice.

“That doesn’t change that I’m right, though.”

It didn’t. But it should, she thought with a frown.

“That’s a very natural-looking reaction. If I didn’t know better then I would believe you loathed my company.” He ignored her glare. “I’ll also have to ask your charming French friend for a dance, of course. Just to make it look natural. And to save her from that terrible bore she’s talking to right now.”

Hermione was glad she had learned to act so well. She could keep smiling even if she really didn’t want to.

*****

“Look at Sirius!” Harry Potter whispered as he danced with Ginny. “He’s doing it again!”

“Harry!” Ginny retorted, her slightly annoyed tone at odds with the smile on her face, “You already knew he would be flirting with all the pretty witches. He even told us so, before we headed here.”

“All the pretty witches but you,” Harry said. “But Miss Merriweather is half his age!”

“You know her, then?” Ginny asked a little too softly. He felt her tense in his arms, too.

“We met briefly at the last ball. She told me that she had just finished school.” He frowned. She hadn’t used those words, but she had looked young enough that he had wondered if she was still at school, so he was probably correct.

“She’s an adult then,” Ginny said. “Is there something wrong with your girlfriend being younger than you?” she added with a grin.

“Of course not!” Harry quickly said. “But she’s too young. If he was my age, she wouldn’t have been born yet.”

“They’re just dancing,” Ginny said. “That doesn’t mean anything at a ball.”

Harry hoped that she was correct - he would rather not have a step-godmother barely older than himself. Then he chastised himself for that thought. Sirius was more responsible than that.

“She doesn’t look as if she is taken with him,” Ginny commented when the music faded and he led her off the dance floor.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Indeed, Miss Merriweather was already walking away from his godfather. He frowned. That was unexpected. He’d have to ask Sirius if anything had happened. Not everyone appreciated his godfather’s wit.

“You don’t have to stare at her,” Ginny whispered, interrupting his thoughts.

“I wasn’t,” he defended himself. He hadn’t been. Not much. Just enough to spot where she was keeping her wand - up her long glove. The top part of her robes was too tight to hold it, and the robes were slit high enough on both sides that he would have spotted a thigh-holster. Unless she had slipped it into her stockings. He could check with his glasses, if he really wanted to know…

“You are still staring.” Ginny was gripping his arm quite tightly now.

“Only because _Flint_ is talking to her.” The former Quidditch captain of Slytherin house was a brute and a cheat.

“I’m certain that she is old enough to take care of herself,” Ginny said. “Let’s go get some air,” she added with a sly smile.

Harry knew what she meant. “Yes,” he said with a matching smile as he led her towards the side doors, “I have it on good authority that the winter garden here is both breathtakingly beautiful and private.”

*****

“Fascinating, Mr Flint,” Hermione Granger said with a fake smile. “I wasn’t aware Quidditch had such nuances - it wasn’t that popular in my former home.”

“Ah, yes. The New World is fond of Quodpot,” Flint said as he turned them around, “isn’t it?” For a man his size, he was surprisingly graceful on the dance floor, she had discovered.

“Yes. But I was never much interested in the sport. Playing with an explosive ball?” She made a face. “Quidditch looks much more sensible to me.”

“Yes, sensible.” He nodded. “Although it takes guts too - games can get rough.”

Hermione knew that well - she hadn’t forgotten how the Slytherins had played, and cheated. “That’s part of its appeal, isn’t it?” she lied.

He nodded again, and she felt his hand wander down her back. She wanted to hex him, or bury her claws in his skin, but that would have ruined her task. There were other ways to deal with this, though. She sighed. “I still can’t believe how forward Mr Black was! On the dance floor, even!”

His hand stopped its downward motion. “Oh, I believe it. He spent twelve years in prison, you know.”

“I heard, yes,” She nodded. “And he broke out to prove his innocence.”

“I would hardly call him innocent. My uncle was in his year at Hogwarts.” Flint scowled. “Black was always hexing others. Especially Slytherins. And the witches he strung along!”

“Oh!” She looked at him with wide eyes. “Really? I was aware that he is, ah, popular with some witches, but even in his youth?”

“Oh, yes. A rake and scoundrel, my mother called him.”

“A fitting description, I would say.” The music finally changed to a slower dance, and Hermione stepped into his arms, her own hand reaching around his waist, to his belt pocket. A deep breath ensured that his attention was focused on her chest as she slipped the prepared Knut into his pocket.

One more marked, she thought. Now she just had to endure his groping hands and leering gaze for another dance.

And then she would have to switch targets again. There were a number of suspected blood purists, after all.

*****

Harry Potter tried not to stare as Ginny fixed her robes. Even though he had been the one to rumple them. With her enthusiastic cooperation, of course. But he had to keep an eye out - it wouldn’t do to get caught in such a position. No matter that most of the younger guests would be doing the same here, or so he thought.

“Can you check if I missed a spot?” Ginny whispered.

He nodded and looked her over. Her robes looked fine. Her hair too. He nodded. “Looks good.”

“Good.” She grinned. “I’d rather not have everyone know what we did.”

Everyone would suspect, Harry thought, but that was different. “Let’s go back,” he said, offering her his arm.

She leaned into him as they walked through the garden towards the manor. Halfway there, she suddenly spoke up. “Did you go there with Parvati too, last year?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her, but she had an unreadable expression.

A few steps later, she spoke up again: “And was it…” she tailed off, and he saw that she was biting her lower lip. Like Hermione, when she wanted to know something, but didn’t want to ask.

“She complained about Miss Merriweather for most of the time,” Harry said.

“Oh. So you didn’t…”

“We didn’t.” If she was asking what he thought she was.

“Ah.”

Was that relief in her voice? He couldn’t tell. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

*****

“Hello, Mr Potter!”

Hermione Granger smiled at her friend while she looked him and Ginny over. The two had been taking a break from dancing in the winter garden for almost an hour, by her count, and she could imagine what they had done. Well, at least she knew that whatever they had done, Ginny had likely been as eager or more so than Harry.

“Hello, Miss Merriweather,” Harry answered. After a moment, he gestured to Ginny. “Ginny - Miss Merriweather. Miss Merriweather - Miss Weasley, my girlfriend.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled at the younger witch.

“Likewise.”

Ginny’s smile felt a little forced, Hermione thought. Had she been wrong about Harry? Or was the girl jealous like Parvati? “Are you enjoying the ball?” she asked. “I didn’t see you dancing for a while.”

“We took a stroll through the garden,” Harry said.

“Ah.” She couldn’t help herself, and winked at them. “You’re a lucky witch, Miss Weasley.”

“Ah…” Ginny was looking rather flustered at these implications.

“I would say that I’m a lucky wizard,” Harry spoke up. Ginny nodded.

“I would say so as well,” Hermione agreed. “Have you been together long?”

“Yes,” Ginny said quickly.

After a moment, Harry nodded in agreement.

“You’re not emulating your godfather then,” Hermione remarked with a glance at Mr Black, who was dancing - again! - with Jeanne. She thought she heard Harry groan briefly, and saw Ginny’s grip on his arm tighten. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Harry said. “Sirius is just enjoying life. Although he was innocent, he was imprisoned for twelve years, you know.” He said it almost as a challenge.

She smiled - her friend’s loyalty was one of his best traits. He would do anything for his family and friends. “I heard, yes. Quite a dramatic story. To think such a thing could happen to an innocent man...” She sighed.

“That wasn’t the only time the Wizengamot punished an innocent,” Harry said. “They’re remarkably corrupt.”

“Really?”

“A friend of mine was framed for theft and fined and expelled from Hogwarts.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Ginny cut in. “As long as you have the right kind of friends,” she added with a glance towards Flint.

Hermione acted as if she were puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“Harry’s godfather. Harry’s friend. My brother and father. Some people are going after everyone around Harry,” Ginny went on. “If you’re not willing to risk that, you shouldn’t be too friendly with him or us.”

That was a little skewed, Hermione thought. Not entirely untrue, though. “I see,” she said. “I think I’ll get some fresh air myself. With my friend,” she added with a smile.

Now both of them were blushing.

*****

“You scared her off, I think,” Harry Potter said as Miss Merriweather walked away.

“Good,” Ginny said. “She’d be an easy target, I mean. No family and few friends here to help her, if anyone framed her.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless she has friends here, and they sent her after you.”

Miss Merriweather, a spy for Voldemort? That sounded paranoid to Harry. She hadn’t really tried to seduce him, and that was what such spies would do, wasn’t it? He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

Ginny sniffed. “You can’t be too careful.”

That didn’t sound like her. “Really?”

“I mean with foreign witches. Like her.” Ginny frowned. “Or her friend.”

Sirius was aware of that kind of danger, Harry knew. Remus had gone on about it at length the other day. And his godfather knew better than to throw all caution in the wind for a pretty face. He blinked. “Let’s go talk to him.”

And perhaps he should check if Miss Merriweather’s friend was hiding anything dangerous under her robes. Or Miss Merriweather herself.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 1st, 1996**

Hermione Granger stretched after stepping out of Mr Fletcher’s fireplace. That had been an enjoyable, but also exhausting, evening. Productive, too.

“Glad that’s over,” her tutor grumbled behind her. “Did you manage to place all the coins?”

“Yes.” She wouldn’t have talked to Harry otherwise - she had her priorities straight. Unlike a certain dog.

“Just checking.” He sat down at the table in the living room. “Merlin’s beard, that crowd grows worse each year.”

“I wouldn’t know - it’s only the second ball I’ve attended,” Hermione said as she rotated her left shoulder.

He grumbled something she didn’t catch in response. “And Black was making a spectacle.”

“He claimed that this would help me with the bigots,” she said, sitting down herself.

“And? Did it?”

She sighed. “Yes. Flint and his friends were all eager to tell me what a scoundrel Mr Black is.” They weren’t entirely wrong, either.

Judging by her tutor’s scowl, he was as happy about Mr Black’s help as she was. “Done is done. I’ll inform my acquaintance that the coins have been distributed. We should hear back from them in a day or two.”

“Oh?” She perked up.

He grinned. “That was just the first step. Once we know where they live, we’ll go and bug ’em.”

Hermione smiled widely - the new year was starting on a high note.

*****

 


	13. Anticipation

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, January 1st, 1996**

“Daddy, I’m going over to the Weasleys!” Luna Lovegood yelled as she put on her shoes. They were brand-new, a Christmas gift from her father, and very pretty - pink, with butterfly-shaped bows on top and at the heel. She blinked - maybe she could have them enchanted, so she could fly? She’d have to look into that.

“Alright, dear. Keep an eye out for vampires, won’t you?” her father yelled back from his office.

Luna frowned. Vampires? She checked her watch, and then the sky outside. All was as it should be. “The sun is out, Daddy! Vampires are asleep right now.”

“In Britain, but not in Australia!”

That made sense, Luna thought. If an Australian vampire travelled to Britain, he would be awake. But how could he travel so quickly? Brooms were not fast enough. Even Thestrals couldn’t outrun the sun. Apparition over such a long distance was impossible, and apparating several times over a shorter distance would place the vampire into sunlight eventually. A phoenix might be able to cover the distance - their limits were unknown - but its flames would burn the vampire to ashes. Were there underground Floo networks for vampires? She wrote the idea down and then cocked her head sideways to look at the slip of parchment. No, even from another angle the idea didn’t change. That meant it was a good idea!

Nodding to herself, she turned on her new heels and climbed the stairs to her father’s office. “Daddy! Do you know if there is an underground Floo network for vampires?”

Her father, sitting at his desk, which was covered with all sorts of parchment, looked up. “No, I don’t… but that would explain how vampires can travel without the Aurors noticing!” He nodded and started to make notes. “Excellent idea, Luna!”

She smiled, happy to have been able to help her father with his work. “Why are you investigating vampires?”

He paused. “Do you remember the blood murders?”

She did, of course - a good reporter kept up with such news. “Oh! You think vampires are behind it?”

“It’s a possibility. Blood attracts them, after all.”

Luna nodded. “But the blood was spilled, not drunk.” Hadn’t vampires been taught not to waste food?

“Exactly! It looks like a blood magic ritual - but that’s what the murderer wants us to think!” Daddy waved his quill around. “I have it on good authority that the blood was under a spell, too, to look like it was fresh. That could be the work of a vampire, too - they know how to preserve their food.”

“But if it wasn’t blood magic, what was it?” Luna asked.

“That’s what I need to find out!” her father declared. “Although it might very well have been a blood magic ritual, too - vampires are experts on those as well. A triple-bluff! They assume that we assume that it wouldn’t be a vampire because of all the wasted blood, but it is a vampire!”

Luna briefly thought it over, then nodded. It would explain why the Aurors hadn’t caught the murderer yet, if they weren’t looking for vampires. But… “You have to be careful, Daddy. Vampires are dangerous. Murderers too.”

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll only talk to people I trust. Like a friend of mine, who’s an expert on blood magic.”

“Promise me?” she asked. He was sometimes a little too brave. Or reckless, she supposed. At least that was what Mrs Weasley claimed.

“I promise.” He nodded solemnly.

“Good.” She couldn’t lose her daddy. “I’m off to visit the Weasleys then.”

“Have fun, dear!” He said, turning back to his notes.

“I will!” she said as she stepped out.

And she would. Visiting the Weasleys was fun. The twins were always up to something, Mr Weasley had the most interesting muggle artefacts in his shed, Ginny was her best friend, Mrs Weasley cooked the most wonderful meals and was always asking how she was doing, and there was Ron.

She smiled widely as she grabbed a handful of Floo powder. As usual, her tummy felt tingly when she thought of him. He was all a witch could wish for in a boyfriend - brave, sufficiently handsome, passionate and pursuing his dream of becoming a professional Quidditch player no matter what anyone else said. And he laughed with her, and not at her. Not any more.

She hadn’t come as far with her boyfriend-to-be as Ginny had with Harry, but she was making progress. She was spending much more time with him these days than ever before, and usually doing things both of them enjoyed. Like flying. Or talking with their friends. A relationship needed that sort of solid base, Luna knew.

She stopped right before she threw the powder into the fire to check her appearance. Mummy had told her that the heart was all that counted, but she knew that appearances mattered too - wasn’t there a saying about wearing your heart on your sleeve? Her sky blue robes were impeccable, not a single one of the yellow suns on them had moved out of place. She was wearing her most precious earrings too, the dirigible plums left to her by her mum, and she had added another cork to her anti-Nargle necklace. Sooner or later, there would be enough to drive away the Nargles infesting Ron, and he’d realise that she fancied him. And that he fancied her. That was how it worked.

She threw the powder into the fireplace and stepped into the green flames.

“The Burrow!”

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, January 1st, 1996**

“And then she complained about Sirius dancing with her friend.” Ginny huffed. “Even though she had spent the whole evening flirting with every blood purist present!”

Ginny hadn’t taken well to Miss Merriweather, Harry Potter thought. And while it was nice that she defended his godfather so, he couldn’t help thinking that his girlfriend’s anger wasn’t really because the American witch had slighted Sirius.

“Really? Did she flirt with all of them at the same time?” Luna asked. “Otherwise I don’t see how she would have had the time, considering how many of them must have been present. Or… have the Americans managed to create a time machine using dark rituals and she fled with the only working version?” The witch gasped. “That would be a scoop for The Quibbler!”

“No, I don’t think she used a time machine. Ginny is simply exaggerating a little,” Harry said.

Ginny scoffed. “You were the one who was concerned about her when she was cozying up to Flint.”

“She wasn’t cozying up to him - he was panting after her,” Harry said. “As were most of his friends.”

Ginny sniffed. “And she didn’t seem to mind them - unlike when she danced with Sirius.”

“Well, he told me that he had been ‘a little too forward’,” Harry said. He hadn’t asked what exactly Sirius had done, but it couldn’t have been too bad, not in the middle of the dance floor.

“Sirius tried to seduce her?” Ron asked, blinking. “How old is she?”

“I think he was simply teasing her,” Harry defended his godfather, “and she misunderstood him. Probably because someone told her lies about Sirius.” Like Flint and his ilk.

Ginny rolled her eyes, but Luna nodded. “People like to tell such lies.” Then she blinked. “Or maybe she simply doesn’t like his music. Not everyone is a fan of The Hobgoblins. Or perhaps she is a fan of The Hobgoblins, and his continued refusal to reunite the band after he cleared his name made her mad.”

Ah, right, _that_ story. “Sirius isn’t actually Stubby Boardman,” Harry said. “They just resembled each other, and Boardman died around the time Sirius was imprisoned.”

Luna stared at him, then she nodded. “Of course, Harry.” She didn’t look nor sound as if she really believed him, though. “I understand.”

He was about to ask what she thought that she had understood when Ron glared at him and cut in: “So, Miss Merriweather didn’t mind the company of blood purists?”

“I don’t know if she cared about the whole issue,” Harry said. “She was nice to us, after all.”

“She was nice to _you_ ,” Ginny corrected him. “‘You’re a lucky witch, Miss Weasley’,” she imitated the slight accent of Miss Merriweather. “Hah! And she left us when I told her how dangerous it is around Harry. She’s just a gold-digger.”

“If she were a gold-digger, she wouldn’t have rebuffed Sirius,” Harry countered.

“Don’t defend her. You saw what she was wearing - she was looking for attention.” Ginny scoffed again.

Harry coughed. He had seen far more than that - Miss Merriweather’s robes hadn’t been protected against the spell on his glasses, and neither had those of her French friend. They hadn’t been hiding anything beneath their robes, either - he had peeped on them for no reason. But they could’ve been, he told himself.

“Must have been some robes, seeing as you’re blushing,” Ron said. “I guess we’ll have to buy the next Witch Weekly then?”

Ginny glared at Harry and her brother, but Luna nodded enthusiastically. “We can transfigure our own robes to look like theirs then!”

Harry blinked. “Can you do that?”

“Well, there’s a reason people buy robes and don’t simply transfigure their own,” Ron said. “It never looks as good as the original, unless you copy it. And you’d need the original for that.”

“You just need talent and imagination!” Luna said. “Mummy used to make me any dress I wanted!” She suddenly looked sad. “I’m not that good, yet.”

“Well, there’s also the problem that if you transfigure your own robes, someone else can dispel what you did. You’d be left on the dance floor in your old rags,” Ron went on.

“I’d die from embarrassment!” Ginny said.

“If they can cast a spell on your robes, then they could cast a curse on you, too,” Harry said. Who would let anyone they don’t know and trust cast anything on them?

“Well, the goblins’ Thief’s Downfall also dispels spells of all kinds,” Luna said. “The Ministry would have that as well, but they need their paper aeroplanes to function and they can’t fly through it either. Daddy said the Ministry almost broke down because of that in the war, when they used it against the Imperius Curse.”

Harry frowned. “People getting killed, cursed, or simply vanishing was probably the reason for the Ministry’s near-collapse.”

Luna shook her head. “No. The Ministry runs on paperwork. And water doesn’t do well with paper. Or the other way around.”

“Or a mixture of both,” Ron cut in. “They do take their paperwork very seriously, as we know.”

Thanks to Percy, Harry thought, as he nodded in agreement. Still, this Thief’s Downfall sounded promising. Maybe he should ask Sirius about installing one of them in Grimmauld Place...

“What did Sirius say?” Ginny asked after a moment.

“Huh?” Harry looked at her.

“About Miss Merriweather and Mademoiselle Dubois,” Ginny clarified.

Harry thought that repeating what Sirius had said about the American witch wouldn’t go over well with his girlfriend, so he said: “He thinks Miss Dubois is charming, actually, and is looking forward to meeting her again.”

“Oh.” Ginny blinked.

That summed up Harry’s reaction to that very well.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 1st, 1996**

The dog greeted Hermione Granger with his usual too-wide grin. “Hello, Miss Granger! I wasn’t certain whether you would be able to make it today.”

She frowned. “Why would you think that?” she asked rather curtly.

He shrugged. “You were very popular at the ball. And very busy. You might have been too tired to work.”

She scoffed at his implications. “Dealing with a few foolish and inexperienced purebloods isn’t very taxing, Mr Black.” Now if she had had to fool older blood purists…

“Oh, I see.”

She rolled his eyes at his exaggerated teasing. Couldn’t the man be serious for a change? “I see your mind is still in the gutter. I wasn’t talking about _that_.”

He laughed. “But you made a lot of young wizards think about it. Including, I believe, my godson.”

“I think Ginny was the cause for any such thoughts Harry may have had,” she responded. Harry might have stared at her - she had noticed him, later - but he had spent quite some time with Ginny in the winter garden. And Hermione knew what couples got up to there - almost every one of her marks had tried to lure her out there too.

He shrugged. “Your robes certainly had an effect on him.”

Hermione snorted. “That was their purpose.”

“To seduce Harry? Why, that’s quite an admission, Miss Granger! Or should that be confession?”

She glared at the dog. “You know very well what my task was at the ball.” If she had intended to seduce Harry, she certainly would have acted differently. But she hadn’t. He was with Ginny, after all.

“I do. I helped you, didn’t I?”

She briefly clenched her teeth before answering. “Yes, you did.” He beamed at her. “But next time, please inform us beforehand,” she added. “My tutor was quite put off by your surprise.” Mr Fletcher had used rather colourful names for Mr Black during their debriefing.

“Bah! If Mundungus can’t handle such surprises, he shouldn’t be doing this sort of work!” Mr Black waved her warning away. “Wouldn’t want him to get complacent, would we?”

“A mission is not the place to play such games, Mr Black,” she retorted.

“Games like flirting with Harry?”

“I was merely maintaining my cover,” she said. And she had accomplished her task already when she approached him and Ginny.

“Of course you were.” He snorted.

She narrowed her eyes at the dog. Not everyone was as promiscuous as he was. A little harmless flirting - if her talk with Harry could even be called that - wouldn’t threaten his relationship with Ginny. And if it did, then there were more serious problems present already. “And what about your attempted seduction of Jeanne?”

“Attempted?” His smile was so wide, it would have given away his animagus form to anyone who had seen the dog. “We’ll be dining together this Friday.”

She blinked. “Are you…” she caught herself in time. “Are you actually planning to enter into a relationship with her?”

He shrugged. “She’s a charming young witch who seems to find me attractive. And I’ve always had a weakness for French witches.”

“I would say you have always had a weakness for witches,” Hermione muttered. This was… not a good thing. If Jeanne and Mr Black did enter into a relationship, her cover as Miss Merriweather would be threatened. It might be necessary to send the witch ‘back home’. Miss Merriweather, that was. And there were other things to consider. She bit her lower lip, hesitating a moment, then sighed. She owed Mr Black. A lot. And he was Harry’s godfather - and, for all intents and purposes, only remaining family. Whatever happened to Mr Black would affect Harry as well. “She may be more attracted by your gold and status than your looks and charm.”

He shrugged again. “I am aware of that, of course. But she also might not be. Attracted more by my gold than by myself, that is.” He was faintly smiling now, and didn’t look at her. “And I’m a Gryffindor; I’m not afraid of taking a risk if the witch is worth it.” Suddenly, he was leering again. “And from what I could tell after our dances together, she is certainly worth it!”

Hermione hissed. He was such a dog!

*****

**Lincolnshire, North of Stamford, Britain, January 2nd, 1996**

Marcus Flint’s home looked rather shabby, Hermione Granger thought. A cottage, barely more than a refurbished barn. Old, but not old enough to be impressive. “He must have spent a lot on Extension Charms if he plans to take a witch home one day,” she muttered without taking down her Omnioculars.

“That goes without saying,” Mr Fletcher said. “But the kind of witches he wants to impress will love that it doesn’t look like a muggle home at all.”

Hermione wasn’t certain that Flint was that discerning when it came to witches. More like desperate. On the other hand, he had been rather interested in her cover’s family history. She lowered the Omnioculars. “I didn’t see any sign of spells or wards outside the house.” Old wards usually covered more than the building itself - Mr Fletcher said it dated back to the time when outhouses had to be covered as well - but modern wards were generally anchored to the walls themselves. “No changes in the growth of the plants, or dead vermin.” Of course, the wards could have been set so well that they didn’t leave such telltale signs, but… on the shabby home of a young wizard with rather modest means? That was very unlikely.

“Good. Let’s get closer and check if he’s home. Or if he’s left any surprises.”

Hermione nodded, her lips pressed together. Flint was a brute, but he was the second son of an Old Family, and he had finished Hogwarts with decent marks. He certainly knew some nasty curses if his semi-drunken boasts were to be believed.

After disillusioning themselves, and casting a Human-presence-revealing Spell each so they would know where each other was, they got up from behind the remnants of a stone fence and approached the cottage.

“Stay behind me,” Mr Fletcher whispered. “Safer.”

Hermione wanted to protest - but she had promised to obey his orders. And it _was_ safer, too. There was no point in both of them getting cursed by a trap. So she bit her lips and let him advance in front of her.

His marker stopped moving about ten yards from the cottage. Hermione stopped as well, crouching down even though she was disillusioned. She hadn’t seen any sign of a dog, and Flint hadn’t mentioned one either yesterday evening, but… dogs were stupid, and clumsy, and messy, but they had good noses, and could ruin a cat’s day if she wasn’t on her guard. Or a thief’s.

“Nothing but the wards.” Mr Fletcher scoffed. “And those are substandard too. Guess the Flints don’t care much about the spare.”

“Or he spent too much on the decor,” Hermione added. Like one of those stupid birds who grew bright plumage to attract females and so couldn’t hide from predators any more.

He chuckled. “Maybe. Makes it easier for us. I’ll place the bug, you keep an eye out.”

“Yes, sir.” She couldn’t keep her resentment at being stuck with a task even a dog could do entirely out of her voice, but he just laughed.

“A lookout’s job is very important. Until I’ve dealt with the wards I’m an easy target.”

She knew that. And yet, she wanted to do more. More than simply helping her tutor. She wanted to personally strike at those who had framed her, and their friends and allies. She stared at the cottage while Mr Fletcher started to work his way through the wards.

She knew that she was ready, too.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1996**

“Hi, Hermione!”

Harry Potter greeted his best female friend with his best smile as soon as she stepped into the entrance hall of his home. He hadn’t quite been waiting with bated breath at the door, but he had been keeping an eye on the entrance hall.

“Hello, Harry.” She looked puzzled for a moment, but when he spread his arms, she moved to hug him.

Tightly, as usual - for a girl who preferred reading to any kind of sport, she was rather strong, he thought. And even through the thick, slightly oversized, sweater she wore under her coat, he could feel her bust pressing into his chest too. He suddenly wondered how she would look in tighter clothes. Or dress robes. And he was very much aware that all he needed to do to check how she looked underneath her clothes was to tap his glasses in just the right way.

But he wouldn’t do that. She was his best friend, and there was no reason to check her for any poisons or hidden weapons. And it would be wrong, of course, to peep on anyone without a very good reason.

“I would have expected you to be at The Burrow at this time of the day,” she said as she released him. She wasn’t quite staring at him, but he knew that questioning expression.

He shrugged. “That’s something I wanted to talk about with you, actually.”

She narrowed her eyes now. “Is anything wrong? Did anything happen at the New Year’s Ball?”

He shook his head. “No, no.” He sighed. “Well, nothing happened, but… Let’s head to my room.”

“Alright. Let me just tell Mr Black that I’ll be late for work.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Harry said.

“He still needs to be informed - so he knows who’s to blame,” she added with a grin.

Harry snorted. “You really should call him Sirius.” When she frowned, he sighed. “I know, I know, he’s your employer and all that, but…” It felt weird to him that two of the people who were most important for him were so distant with each other.

“‘But’?” She stared at him.

“Nothing,” he said, sighing and shaking his head. Where this was concerned, she was more stubborn than a mule.

He followed her to Sirius’s study. “You’re already later than usual, though,” he remarked - he had expected her an hour ago.

“I had a late night,” she said as she knocked on the door.

“Oh? Did you meet someone in muggle London?”

She rolled her eyes at him in a very familiar manner. “There are plenty of things that keep you up at night other than that.”

“Other than dancing?” he asked with a grin. So, she hadn’t met anyone. He was both disappointed and relieved to hear that.

Her answer was cut off by Sirius’s voice. “Come in.”

She huffed. “I’m spending too much time with your godfather.”

He wanted to ask her what she meant, but she had already opened the door. “Hello, Mr Black. I wanted to inform you that I will be delayed a little - your godson requires my presence.”

“Oh?” Sirius grinned. “Is there something you want to tell me, Harry? Or don’t want to tell me, perhaps?”

Harry suddenly knew what Hermione had meant. “I just want to ask her for advice,” he clarified as Sirius theatrically sighed in mock-disappointment.

“You know that you can always come to me as well, don’t you?” Sirius asked, in a more serious manner.

“Yes. But I want to hear her opinion first.”

“A sensible stance,” Hermione chimed in with a fake smile.

His godfather pouted at her. “I’m very sensible. And I’m not as catty as some witches are.”

Hermione sniffed. “That’s because you’re usually too busy drooling.”

Harry sighed. “I wish you two would get along,” he muttered.

“We do get along,” Hermione said. Sirius nodded. Although Harry doubted their sincerity - the two were glaring at each other.

“If you’re looking for advice about a pet, remember that dogs are a man’s best friend for a reason. As a girl and a cat owner, Miss Granger is too biased to be a reliable source of advice in that regard,” Sirius said.

“Dogs are smelly, clumsy and messy, and they need a lot of training. Cats are far superior pets,” Hermione shot back.

“I’m not looking for a pet,” Harry said - why would Sirius bring that up, anyway? - “I already have Hedwig.” And she was the best owl a wizard could want. Far more useful and smarter than any cat or dog, too.

“She’s a post owl,” Hermione said, as if that was a bad thing. Harry had to agree with Sirius there - she was hopelessly biased in favour of cats.

He certainly couldn’t think of any other reason why she would have gotten that furry monster as a pet.

*****

“I see that you still haven’t managed to convince Kreacher to tidy up your room properly,” Hermione Granger said, looking pointedly around Harry’s room. It wasn’t dirty, or messy, just… not as organised as it could be. And should be. On the other hand, a thief would have a harder time finding anything in the room, and it would be more difficult to put everything back as it had been - that point was moot, though, if Harry couldn’t remember where everything had been. And judging by the way he winced at her words, he probably couldn’t.

“I know.” He shrugged. “But if I tell him to clean up he keeps moving my stuff around so I can’t find anything any more. And he is so old and set in his ways, even Sirius has given up trying to make him change.”

He had left unsaid that Kreacher didn’t like the fact that Harry was a half-blood. Hermione was well-aware of that - as a muggleborn, he disliked her presence even more. She sighed. “That was actually supposed to be a subtle reminder that you should clean up your room a little more often,” she said, frowning at Harry.

“But I did!” he protested. “Just this morning! I cast so many cleaning charms, everything is sparkling clean!”

“And it still looks like you experimented with miniature whirlwind spells,” she retorted. There were even books on the floor!

“Well, spells which can sort stuff are more complicated. And Sirius says they never really work right.” Harry shrugged with a grin. “As long as I know where everything is, I’m fine.”

She shook her head, both amused and slightly annoyed at his attitude. Sitting down on his bed - which was kept clear of scrolls, toys and books - she asked: “So, what did you want to talk about?”

He sighed and sat down next to her. She started to lean into him and barely caught herself before she rested her cheek on his shoulder. She quickly glanced at him, but he didn’t seem to have noticed her - cat-related, she was certain - lapse.

“It’s Ginny.”

“What about her?” What had she done? Hermione wondered. Or… what had Harry done?

“Well, it’s about Merriweather.”

Oh? “That American witch you met at the ball last year?”

“I met her again at this year’s ball.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head to the side. This was interesting.

“Or rather, me and Ginny met her.” He sighed again.

“And what happened?” She didn’t think she had done or said anything remarkable to either of them. Just a little bit of harmless flirting. Merely being polite, really.

“Ginny seems to have taken a dislike to the witch,” Harry said. “I don’t know why, exactly. I mean, she’s attractive - Merriweather, I mean - but Ginny’s my girlfriend. I wouldn’t cheat on her.”

Hermione nodded. She was both happy and a little bit disappointed at hearing that. Of course Harry wasn’t the kind of boy to cheat on anyone. “Well, is Miss Merriweather beautiful?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Well, I guess she is. Ginny said it was mostly the robes she wore - tight and revealing.”

She frowned. “That sounds like an excuse.”

“Well, she looks good without the robes too. I think,” Harry said. He was blushing slightly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You think?”

He coughed. “Well, her dress didn’t leave that much to the imagination.”

She hadn’t been dressed that indecently! A little provocatively, at most - no worse than some of the other witches there. “I see you’ve become an expert on the female body, then, to be able to tell that much about a witch from her dress,” she said, in a slightly testy tone.

“Well, it’s not as if the robes were hiding that much. The only place she could have hidden anything was between her legs.”

“Or in an enchanted holster or pocket,” she replied.

“That too,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t change the fact that her robes didn’t conceal that much.”

“And you stared,” she stated, feeling both oddly proud and affronted at the same time.

“To check if she had anything dangerous hidden.” He was looking at her mulishly.

“Not just that, I think, unless you also stared at wizards in that way,” she said, shaking her head. “In any case, it’s no wonder Ginny felt jealous.” This was probably Mr Black’s influence.

“She was feeling jealous before I stared,” Harry said. “She even scared the witch off with tales of how dangerous being my friend was, with Voldemort and Malfoy both after me.”

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong,” Hermione said. When she saw how he hunched over, she quickly added: “But everyone close to you already knows that. And most of us would be in danger anyway. The Weasleys are famous ‘blood traitors’ and I’m an ‘uppity mudblood’. And Mr Black and Mr Lupin already fought the Death Eaters in the last war.” She gave him her best stern expression, the one which almost managed to persuade Mr Black to behave. “So don’t be stupid and try to break up with Ginny for her own safety, or something silly like that.”

“I won’t,” he said.

She wasn’t quite certain whether she could believe him - Harry sometimes had rather silly notions. She patted him on the shoulder anyway. “So, just apologise to Ginny. And don’t stare as openly next time.”

He sighed, but nodded. She wasn’t entirely certain how to take that.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 5th, 1996**

“How do I look?”

“I’m officially your secretary, not your stylist.” Hermione Granger didn’t bother to look up from the report she was reading. As with most of the Black family businesses’ books, the ledgers tried to hide more than they revealed.

“Part of your duties is to ensure that I’m prepared for my appointments and meetings,” Mr Black shot back.

“Meetings, not rendezvous,” she retorted. “Besides, don’t you trust your tailor? You certainly pay her enough.”

“She certainly wouldn’t tell me that the robes she made to order for me don’t look good on me.”

She snorted. “You insisted on their design and now you’re doubting your ‘impeccable sense of style’?” The dog growled at that. She smirked.

“I just want a second opinion. That it’s the opinion of my date’s best friend doesn’t hurt, of course.”

“I’m not Jeanne’s best friend. Miss Merriweather is _a_ friend of hers,” she corrected him.

“Details, details!” He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “Besides, you’re not frumpy, proper Miss Granger either.”

This time she looked at him. “What do you mean?” He didn’t look half-bad, to quote the vernacular of which Jeanne had recently grown fond.

“This is a role you’re playing, same as Miss Merriweather. You’re neither a flirty but naive American nor a smart but homely secretary.” He sounded more serious than usual.

“I’m certainly doing the work of a secretary,” she responded, “but I do have to admit that working for you might not be seen as a smart decision.” With a sniff, she added: “And different clothes don’t change who I am.” She wasn’t homely!

He laughed. “No, they don’t. But they hide who you are. And they make you look homely.”

That was kind of the point, she thought. The dog was wrong anyway - she didn’t look homely; she just didn’t look as pretty as Miss Merriweather. But this was touching topics she didn’t want to discuss with Mr Black. “Are you certain that you want to ask me for advice about your love life? I already told you that dating Jeanne is a bad idea.”

“No, you told me that if Jeanne were to start frequenting my home, it would endanger your disguise.” He scoffed. “Which is a silly notion. If Harry hasn’t realised that you are Miss Merriweather, then Jeanne won’t realise it either.”

“Harry doesn’t really know Miss Merriweather. We’ve only met twice. Jeanne has spent a lot more time with me. And, unlike Harry, she won’t be easily fooled by some cleavage and a little flirting.” Not to mention that Jeanne might have had some training in that art herself - but so far that was just a suspicion without any proof.

He shrugged and ran his wand over his robes, adding a red-and-gold trim to them. “As long as you keep hiding behind those atrocious clothes and that abrasive attitude, she’ll never connect you to her stylish and charming friend.”

She rolled her eyes at him. She wasn’t abrasive; she simply didn’t stay quiet when the dog needed a scolding. And her clothes were, if not the most stylish, certainly not atrocious. They were practical and comfortable.

“Besides,” he went on, “as my secretary, you can’t keep dressing like this. What will my esteemed peers think of me when they see you?”

“That I’m your secretary and not your escort?” There was no reason for her to meet his acquaintances. Not as Hermione, at least.

“Oh, catty!” He grinned. “Speaking of, are you planning to meet Harry as a cat?”

“What?” She stared at him. “No. That would make using the form on a heist dangerous.” Unless she managed to mask her cat form, too. Maybe a potion to change the colour of her fur? She couldn’t exactly cast spells as a cat, after all.

He frowned. “You’re planning to use this for your missions?”

“As a last resort.” She frowned at him. “It would make planning and doing a heist much easier if I could tell Mr Fletcher about it.” And he would let her do more, she was certain.

“I don’t trust him,” he said in a flat voice.

“Why not? He’s in the Order as well, isn’t he?” she asked.

He scowled. “He left the Order in the last war.”

She hadn’t known that. “But he rejoined,” she retorted.

“Dumbledore probably made him. And he might leave again when things get tough.” He smiled thinly. “You’re different, though. You’ll be sticking it out to the end. And you’ll do anything for Harry.”

Of course she would - Harry was her best friend! Before she could say that, though, Sirius continued: “Even if Harry still hasn’t realised that under those hideous muggle clothes, you’re a pretty girl who likes to flirt with him.”

“That was an act. The flirting,” she clarified.

“It was a very convincing act, though,” he said with one of his insufferable grins.

“I had a good teacher,” she retorted.

She was certain that he didn’t believe her, but he let the matter drop in favour of asking her opinion on the restaurant he had picked for the evening - despite her having told him three times already that she had never eaten there.

He was such an annoying dog!

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 6th, 1995**

Destination, Determination and Deliberation.

Hermione Granger repeated the words as if they were a mantra. In a way, they were - she had to be determined to reach her destination, but with deliberation. Otherwise she would either fail to travel, or leave parts of herself behind. Again.

She looked at the spot two yards away on the bare floor of Mr Fletcher’s living room. Her tutor had removed his carpet for this lesson, ‘to make finding splinched body parts easier’. She clenched her teeth - she wouldn’t fail. Not today. She wouldn’t splinch herself. This was a standard lesson for sixth year students, like silent casting, which she had learned months ago. She had studied and prepared for this. She could do this. She would do this.

She focused on the spot. On her destination. She wanted to be there. She needed to be there. In that exact spot. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes, and willed herself to apparate.

“You look like you have a stomach ache.”

She glared at her chuckling tutor. “Such disruptions are not helping.”

“On a heist, you’ll have to be able apparate in any situation, even in the middle of running from Aurors. If you can’t do it with just me distracting you…”

She pressed her lips together. He had told her that before. “It would be easier to learn this uninterrupted, and then learn how to do it under stress.”

“You’re the one who wants to rush things.”

She glared at him. She wanted to finally go on real heists. And as more than a lookout. But that didn’t mean she wanted to rush this. Sometimes her tutor was almost as aggravating as Mr Black. At least she could swat the dog’s nose if he was too annoying.

Sighing, she stared at the spot on the floor again. She could do this. She would do this. Apparition needed you to fill your entire body down to the last cell with the want, the need to displace yourself. And she knew her body better than anyone else her age - she was an animagus. Just as she had learned to change her entire body, she would learn to move her entire body with magic.

She wanted to be there. She needed to be there.

And she was there. Panting, shaking, and feeling as if she had been squeezed through a pipe too narrow for her body, but she was standing. And she didn’t feel as if anything was missing. No pain. No blood. No… left sleeve.

At least she hadn’t splinched her body. Just her robes. She flashed a smile at Mr Fletcher and summoned her missing sleeve to reattach it.

“Leaving without the goods or your clothes isn’t exactly the hallmark of a good thief,” Mr Fletcher said. But he was smiling in that rueful manner of his which, as she had learned, meant that he knew she would beat his challenge soon.

And she did.

*****

“I know you don’t think I’m ready,” Hermione Granger said as she floated the table back to its usual place on the replaced rug.

“I think you’re ready. I said so, didn’t I?” Mr Fletcher waved his wand, and the shelves slid along the wall.

“You don’t like it, though.” She rearranged the chairs.

“Of course not!” He turned to look at her. “This is dangerous work. The Dark Lord’s back, and we’ll be dealing with Death Eaters. Dark wizards. That’s not the same as fleecing a few rich idiots.”

She shrugged. “You already knew that he was back when you accepted me as your student.” He glared at her, but didn’t contradict her. “And you need my help. Two people are safer than one alone.” Once more he didn’t contradict her. “And we would be even safer if you and Mr Black trusted each other enough to work together.” She could show him her cat form then.

“We’re working for the same side,” he said, sitting down in his armchair.

“But you don’t work together. That’s making everything more dangerous than it needs to be. He already knows about us, so there’s no secret to protect.”

“Other than what he is teaching you,” he shot back. “His secrets.”

“Which you would be privy to if you two would get along.” She tried not to let her frustration show. They had talked about this before, after all.

“Me and Black?” He scoffed. “He’s too reckless. And he doesn’t care about anyone but his friends. As long as we win, and his friends - and he hasn’t many of them - survive, he’ll be perfectly happy.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” she asked. When she saw his face, she quickly added: “I mean, was he like that in the last war? He has changed.” You couldn’t spend twelve years in Azkaban without changing. She was certain.

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “Changed? He? He acts the same as before. Too damn reckless and arrogant.”

Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong there, Hermione thought. The dog was very often very annoying. But he was also - from what she could tell and from what Harry had told her - a good godfather.

Mr Fletcher summoned the Daily Prophet and started to peruse the sports section. Which meant this conversation was over.

For now.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 7th, 1995**

“Morning Sirius. Did you have a...” Harry Potter trailed off when he saw that his godfather wasn’t alone in their kitchen. “Good morning, Miss Dubois.” Apparently, Sirius’s date last night had gone well.

“Good morning.” Miss Dubois smiled at him. She was wearing dress robes, he noticed. And her hair was styled. Sirius, though, looked slightly rumpled, and was wearing his house robes. She had to be skilled at styling charms, Harry thought.

“Harry - this is Jeanne. Jeanne - Harry.”

“We met at the ball,” Jeanne said.

Harry nodded. Sirius had been there, too.

“Yes. But not as my girlfriend and my godson.”

Girlfriend? Harry blinked. That was rather… quick. Hasty. But, judging by the way the witch smiled and leaned into his godfather’s side, not inaccurate. He nodded and sat down in his usual spot.

“We clicked, you would say,” Sirius said with a grin.

“Is that what you call it?” Harry said, grinning when Sirius cleared his throat. Miss Dubois laughed, though. And it didn’t sound forced or fake, either.

“Yeah, well… we had a wonderful evening,” Sirius said, recovering quickly. “And a wonderful night.”

Miss Dubois nodded. “Oh, yes.” She even sighed.

“I don’t need any details,” Harry said quickly, his grin slipping a little.

“Are you certain?” Sirius asked with a broad grin. “You might want to take notes for your own dates.”

“Yes, I’m certain,” Harry said while Miss Dubois laughed again.

If she found his godfather as funny as Sirius thought he was, then it was no wonder that he considered her his girlfriend after one date, Harry thought.

The rest of breakfast was filled with flirting and more hints of what they had done last night. And jokes. Harry fled the kitchen when Miss Dubois slid into Sirius’s lap, but he didn’t think they noticed.

Sirius seemed to have it bad, Harry thought. To react like this, after a single date… Harry would have to talk to Hermione about this. Hear her opinion. Then he realised that she hadn’t met the witch yet. And she ‘had plans’ for the weekend, so she wouldn’t be visiting anyway. And tomorrow Harry would travel back to Hogwarts.

He sighed. He could talk to Ginny, who had met the witch, but his girlfriend might be biased because Miss Dubois was a friend of Miss Merriweather’s. And Remus was already back at Hogwarts, catching up on his work after his ‘errand’ for the Order.

“Master’s found a pureblood witch. Soon he’ll have a proper heir.”

Harry looked down at Kreacher, whose wrinkled face was warped in a parody of a smile.

“He won’t kick me out,” Harry shot back. “You’ll still have to deal with me.”

The elf scoffed. “Taking care of a pureblood baby is more important than dealing with a half-blood guest.” With a dismissive sniff, he vanished through one of the half-sized hidden doors which led to the servants’ passages.

Harry glared at the door, then shook his head. He was better than that. If Sirius had found a witch who loved him, then that was a good thing. His godfather deserved such happiness.

But if she broke his heart… Harry pressed his lips together. She might be a gold-digger. Or worse. But how could he find out if that was the case?

*****

**Berkshire, Reading, Britain, January 7th, 1996**

“At least it’s not a cottage or barn,” Hermione Granger muttered, standing disillusioned next to the chimney and staring down at the old house across the street. The building was old, though - and only had two floors.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Mr Fletcher asked.

She shook her head. “No.” She could do this. The building was old, but the owners had been killed in the last war, and the wards had been broken. The Ministry had seized the house, but apparently hadn’t found any heirs, and so it had been sold - for a pittance, as the records she had found showed - to Maximilian Rowle, one of Flint’s friends.

“Don’t get cocky, lass,” Mr Fletcher warned her.

“I won’t,” she said. Even if this would be easy. The new wards were weak - she had checked beforehand, of course. Rowle wouldn’t be at home anyway - the Harpies were playing Puddlemere tonight and he was a hardcore fan of the team - he had bored her almost to tears about them at the ball.

He snorted, but didn’t say anything else. “I’m going in,” she announced. “Keep an eye out for trouble!” she added with an invisible smirk as she slid down to the edge of the roof, one hand on the thin rope she had tied to the chimney.

A few seconds later, she was on the ground and vanished the rope with a flick of her wand. No traces would be left. She sprinted across the street and crouched down in the side alley next to Rowle’s house, where the entrance to the old coal cellar was.

Slipping through the wards was the work of half an hour - she had examined them beforehand and came prepared. Picking the lock on the shutter didn’t take her more than a few minutes, even without magic. Older definitely wasn’t better when it came to locks.

She conjured a plank and used it to float down into the cellar without getting coal dust and dirt all over herself. More dirt than coal dust - the house hadn’t been heated with coal in decades, and Rowle used spells to heat his home.

His likely stolen home, Hermione reminded herself as she vanished the plank and sneaked over to the door. That one wasn’t even locked. Sloppy. She shook her head as she went up the stairs, patting the enchanted pocket in which she carried the ‘bug’ she had to place, an enchanted disc the size of a fingernail.

She pressed her ear to the door upstairs and froze - she heard voices. Excited voices. At least two people. But the game… Then she heard the faint roaring of a crowd and realised that Rowle was listening to the wireless.

And the git had told her - Miss Merriweather - that he never missed any of his team’s games! She clenched her teeth. She should head back. Tell Mr Fletcher. Or place the bug at the door here. The spells would still work, mostly.

But she wanted to do a perfect job, not just a decent job. And for that she had to place the bug in the living room - the centre of the house. Where Rowle and at least one of his friends were listening to the wireless.

If this were a muggle home, they would be glued to the telly. But with the wireless, they wouldn’t be as distracted. But she was disillusioned. And they would have drunk a few beers already. And they wouldn’t expect a thief to sneak into the room. Not with such sloppy security on the house itself. Or would that be despite?

With a grin she pushed the door open, then sneaked into the hallway. She stuck to the wall as she made her way to the living room, then peered inside. Rowle was there, and another wizard - Peter Smith. Another of the crowd of bigots she had met at the ball. They were listening to the game with rapt attention and she saw several empty beer bottles on the floor. As expected.

She was tempted to sneak right behind the couch on which they were sitting, and place the disc there, but that wouldn’t have been ideal. Instead, she stuck it to the lower edge of the door to the living room. The gap between it and the threshold was large enough so it wouldn’t be ripped off, and they’d never spot it there.

She bit her lower lip. She should leave now. She had accomplished her task. But… she looked around. She was a thief, not a spy. With a grin, she sneaked into the kitchen. As expected, there was a cup filled Knuts, next to a window with an owl perch.

Two minutes later and one Knut richer, Hermione was back outside.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 9th, 1996**

“Good evening, Harry. Did you have a nice Christmas?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry Potter said, sitting down in his usual chair in front of the Headmaster’s desk. “But I’m also glad to be back at Hogwarts.” He wasn’t lying - Miss Dubois had spent another night at Grimmauld Place, and Sirius’s attempt to make him like her had grated on his nerves. It wasn’t that he disliked her; he simply didn’t know her well enough yet to decide.

“Ah.” Dumbledore nodded slowly, but did not elaborate. “I trust you kept up your training.”

“Yes. All of it.” Occlumency and Defence.

“Good. As much as I would wish it otherwise, the Dark Lord is growing in power. Many are doing his bidding, knowingly or otherwise.”

“What exactly is he doing?” Harry asked.

“He’s spreading his influence in the Ministry, placing and promoting his own followers and allies, and trying to oust ours.”

“Like Percy.”

“Exactly.”

“And how long will that continue? And what can done about it?” Voldemort couldn’t take over the Ministry like that, could he? He hadn’t managed to in the last war.

“Measures are being taken to curb his influence and deal with his followers. My friends and I have to act with caution, though, so he remains unaware of what we know.”

Harry tapped his scar. “I assume you mean this.”

“Not just that. Given his arrogance, he is likely to assume that his deception worked and that we do not know that he has regained a body. I have taken steps to reinforce that assumption.”

“You don’t know, though.”

“Nothing is ever certain,” Dumbledore said with a wry smile. “Not even death, or so it seems.”

“That still leaves taxes,” Harry quipped, and the Headmaster chuckled.

“The Death Eaters haven’t killed anyone, have they?” Harry asked after a brief pause. “I mean, apart from the sacrifices we already know about.”

“Not to my knowledge, but I cannot claim to be omniscient.”

Harry nodded. At least that meant that no Order members had died.

“Which brings me to the reason I called you to my office so soon after your arrival,” Dumbledore continued. “I would like to take another look at your scar, and Lily’s protection.”

“Go ahead,” Harry said. “Have you found out anything yet?”

“Nothing concrete, alas. Lily’s notes were destroyed in the attack on your home. Filius donated the memories of his talk with her about her plans, but they didn’t go into any details.” He sighed. “On the other hand, they provided me with several promising leads to pursue.”

“Do you think you can reverse-engineer the spell she used?”

“I do think that I am not overly optimistic or arrogant to presume so. Lily was a brilliant witch, but I am not exactly a slouch at magic myself.” He grinned. “And as with many things, knowing that something is possible is often the most important step when innovating.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. He would have preferred to hear about concrete progress, but as long as the Headmaster remained optimistic he wouldn’t lose hope.

“Now let’s test your Occlumency,” Dumbledore said, raising his wand.

Harry took a deep breath and steeled himself. This would hurt.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 16th, 1996**

“Alright. Our acquaintance has informed me that thanks to our efforts, we have identified a suspected high-ranking Death Eater,” Mr Fletcher said, dropping a picture on the table in his living room. “Corban Yaxley. He’s got a cushy position in the DMLE, and he’s been recruiting and promoting a bunch of young wizards lately - the same kind of wizards we bugged.” His voice grew cold. “The kind of wizards likely to don masks and go slaughtering muggleborns.”

Hermione Granger couldn’t help glancing at her own mask, resting on the table in front of her. It was a rush job - she had transfigured the tinted faceplate of a motorcycle helmet so it covered her entire face. Together with the blonde wig it should make identifying her impossible, even if her Disillusionment Charm should fail. And as another precaution she was wearing enough makeup beneath it to act as another disguise. Just in case the spells she had found didn’t block whatever charm had been cast on Moody’s eye. Not that she expected that Auror to bother them when they were working for the Order. But others could have similar spells.

Mr Fletcher cleared his throat. “Now we’re supposed to bug his place too.”

“Do we know where he lives?”

“His home address is on file with the Ministry,” he said. “He might have moved out, but… I don’t think so. It looks like he was already a Death Eater in the last war, and since he escaped suspicion then, I doubt that he’ll be expecting any trouble now.”

She nodded. That made sense - and sounded encouraging as well.

“But he’s bound to have better protection than the kids whose homes we’ve broken into so far. Much better protection.”

That didn’t sound too promising. On the other hand, this was an important mission. They were going after a high-ranking, experienced Death Eater, not some boys fresh out of Hogwarts.

Exactly what she had wanted for so long. It had taken years, but now her revenge would finally begin!

*****

 


	14. Opening Act

**Wigtownshire, Sorbie, Britain, January 16th, 1996**

Lovegood was early, Elias thought when he heard the knock at the door. As an expert on magical creatures - albeit self-styled - the editor of The Quibbler should have known better than to arrive just as the sun had gone down. Perhaps Hogwarts shouldn’t just teach the students not to tickle dragons, but also not to rouse vampires.

He deliberately took his time answering the door. He wasn’t beholden to Lovegood; this was just a favour for a friend. A very big favour, Elias thought, if his visitor was as rude during the interview as his early arrival seemed to indicate.

When he saw that it wasn’t Lovegood who was standing in front of his door, but an unknown wizard, he instantly aimed his wand at the man. “Who are you?”

“Mr Elias Fawley?” the man calmly asked, as if he wasn’t staring down Elias’s wand. Elias tensed even more - there were few reasons for such a lack of reaction, and all of them were worrying. And he also heard the soft humming of a privacy spell.

“Elias,” he corrected the man. “I have no family any more.” Not since he had been turned into a vampire. He chastised himself - he shouldn’t have answered the man when he himself hadn’t been given a name.

“Ah, yes. The Fawleys didn’t show a lot of tolerance or understanding for your condition, did they?” The man smiled. “So very short-sighted of them.”

Elias had made his peace with being disowned long ago - at the graves of his parents. But that was neither here nor there. “Who are you?” he asked again, aiming his wand right at the man’s face. He smelled like a human, but slightly different. And Elias could hear his heart beat, so he wasn’t a vampire.

“A scholar.” The man smiled again, as if they were having a pleasant discussion over tea.

Elias started to feel slightly worried - very few men would try to play such games with him. Who was this annoying visitor? He should simply send the man away. Close the door in his face. His wards would protect him. But if Lovegood arrived while the man was loitering outside… Sanguine would blame Elias if anything happened to Lovegood when visiting his home. “What do you want?”

“I’m interested in a few controversial subjects, in which you are an expert, or so I was told.”

“By whom?” he snapped. He had dabbled in many questionable things in his youth, and in even more after his change, but that was in the past.

The man shook his head. “I promised not to reveal their names. Just as I will not reveal your name, should you be able to help my research.”

He hadn’t stopped smiling. Elias wanted to curse him, just to wipe the smile off the stranger’s face. “I can’t help you. I’m no scholar. You have been misinformed.”

“Weren’t you once called the Red Wizard in certain circles?”

If he had still needed to breathe, Elias would have gasped right then. Everyone who had known him by that name was dead. Everyone but for… “Gabriel.”

The man nodded.

Gabriel would have killed anyone asking after that time of their existences. But he hadn’t killed the man in front of Elias.

Or, Elias thought with growing fear, Gabriel had tried and failed to kill him. “What do you want?”

“I would rather discuss this like civilised men, not out in the street. It is a very delicate subject, isn’t it?”

“I would rather not discuss this at all,” Elias retorted. “I assume we will have to compromise.” He wouldn’t let the man enter his home and abandon the protection of his wards.

“As you wish.” The man sounded disappointed, but still kept smiling. “I want the Book of Blood.”

“That’s a myth,” Elias lied reflexively. “Like the Deathly Hallows.”

“Not exactly.” The man lowered his voice. “Gabriel told me.”

Gabriel had told? Elias froze. “Possession of that work is a death sentence.”

“I don’t care about the petty laws of the Ministry. Or the ICW.”

The stranger was a madman. But if he had made Gabriel talk… “I don’t have it.”

“Not any more.”

Gabriel had talked. Elias took a step back. “It was destroyed.”

The man took a step forward, shaking his head. “I know your type, Mr Fawley. No matter how much you wish to turn over a new leaf, you’d never destroy knowledge.” He took another step. “What did you do with it?”

Elias trembled. He couldn’t tell the man. He had to flee. His wards would hold long enough to… He gaped. The man had crossed the wardline.

The man’s smile widened, showing pearly white teeth. Something flickered and Elias saw his wand on the ground.

Still held by his hand.

“I am quite familiar with how much damage an undead body can sustain, Mr Fawley,” the man said. “You will tell me all I want to know.”

His assailant hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time, Elias realised, a moment before he was struck by another spell.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 16th, 1996**

“Yaxley lives in Hogsmeade. The blighter bought the building during the last war, when the heirs of the previous owners, who were killed in the war, left Britain,” Mr Fletcher explained.

“That sounds suspicious,” Hermione Granger remarked. First Rowle, now Yaxley - it looked as if Death Eaters didn’t just survive the war unscathed, but actually profited from the carnage.

Her tutor shrugged. “Mighta been - but a lot of people fled the country back then, and we don’t know how much Yaxley paid fer the house.” He pulled a small object out of his pouch and put it on the table.

It was a miniature building, Hermione saw. Very detailed. But tiny. How could they…

He tapped it with his wand, and it grew until it took over most of the table. Another tap, and the walls grew transparent. Her eyes widened. “Did you make this? Have you already broken into the building?”

He shook his head. “No. Yaxley didn’t exactly throw balls, but a wizard in his position, with a home in Hogsmeade, had to entertain people - and if he wanted to avoid being suspected as a Death Eater, he also had to entertain ‘blood traitors’.”

“Someone else did this, then.” A member of the Order? She frowned. “They would know what we’re planning.”

“They gave the order. Although I don’t know if they created this based on a personal visit, or from someone else’s memories.”

“Ah.” So, it was Dumbledore’s work. Of course, she should have expected that - this was a very impressive piece of magic, after all. She nodded and then leaned forward to study the building.

“As you can see, it’s an old house - Yaxley wanted a respectable residence. In a few generations, people will have forgotten that he bought and didn’t inherit it.” He snorted. “But the wards are new.”

“Like Rowle’s.”

“Yes. But he’ll have paid much more for his. And probably added a few spells of his own. Don’t underestimate them.” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“I won’t,” she said.

“Not that you’ll have to break through them yourself; you’re not yet ready for that kind of job.”

She wanted to disagree, but he was correct that she lacked experience with the stronger - and older - wards. So she nodded. She intended to correct that soon, though.

“And he picked old-style wards - they cover the garden in the back too.” The tip of his wand traced the model, and a red line marked the wardline. Before she could ask, he continued: “I already scoped out the area. Can’t trust someone else, much less their memories, when it comes to such things. Always observe and examine them yourself - do a proper casing before the job.”

That made sense. Of course, in theory, that could be done on a heist as well - examine the wards, then break through them - but, as her tutor had said, people were prone to rush things if they had to do them all in the same night. And that got thieves caught or killed.

“Does he own any pets?”

“No sign of one, but that doesn’t mean much.” He nodded. “We’ll use potions to mask our scent anyway.” He tapped the model and the different rooms started to glow. “Unlike the homes we bugged before, this house is larger, and was a family home for centuries. There’s bound to be spells inside to give everyone privacy. Which means we need to bug every room.”

That would take a lot of time. “Do we go in during the day, when he’s at work?”

“I would prefer to - but he occasionally eats lunch at home. And a wizard who’s alert and awake is harder to deal with than one asleep in bed.” He grinned and held up a small vial. “This’ll make him sleep through a Quidditch match. We’ll put him out, and then we’ll have the whole night to bug his place. And if he notices us before we put him out, we’ll stun and obliviate him. Won’t have to replace his memories either - we can just wipe them and he’ll assume he slept through the night.”

“Unless he notices the after-effects of the potion, or the spell,” she pointed out.

“Should haven’t any. And if he does he’ll probably assume he didn’t sleep well.”

She nodded. And made a mental note to acquire some of that potion as well. “Do we use the same bugs as before?”

“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes slightly at her. “Now, don’t think this will be as easy as the other jobs. These old homes have lots of spells and quirks. Some even have ghosts.”

“Or ghouls,” she added, remembering The Burrow’s ‘house ghoul’.

“Yes. Don’t assume that once we’re through the wards we’re done. Yaxley won’t have trapped every room with curses fit for an Egyptian tomb, but he’ll have a few surprises - even a spell meant to keep the kids out of your wine cabinet can ruin your day.”

She hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as Grimmauld Place had been, before Mr Black had hired Curse-Breakers to fix it. The stories Harry and his godfather had told her...

She really hoped that Yaxley was more sensible than Mr Black’s family. Although that wouldn’t take much.

*****

**Hogsmeade, January 16th, 1996**

“Auror patrol just passed the street. We’re clear for the next two hours.”

Mr Fletcher’s voice sounded slightly off, Hermione Granger noticed - the enchantment on the earring she wore might not have been done that well, she thought. Or something was interfering with it - Hogsmeade was the only purely magical village in Britain, and some of the buildings were older than the manors of the Old Families; there were many, many spells layered over the houses here. On the other hand, she hadn’t heard of any trouble with wireless reception in the village, so it probably wasn’t the environment. She would have do a better job when she added such an enchantment to her mask.

She shook her head and focused on the task at hand. As long as she could clearly understand her tutor it would do. She tapped her earring, brushing the blonde strands of her wig back in the process. “I’m heading to the fence,” she whispered as she guided her broom forward.

It was a clear night, but a windy one - as she flew closer to the ground, snow thrown up from the roofs and trees lining her approach was blown up, covering her from masked face to booted toe. If it wasn’t dark, someone could have spotted the distortion this created in the air, rendering her Disillusionment Charm less effective.

She stopped a few yards above the ground, hovering behind an old, thick oak tree, and conjured a floating, nearly transparent platform right next to Yaxley’s fence. Then she cleaned the snow off herself. Her suit - a stylish but sturdy leather catsuit, bought in a muggle shop using a fake identity - was charmed against the cold, but the snow would melt once they entered the house, and that could leave traces of their intrusion.

She tried to spot Mr Fletcher, but the thief must have avoided the snow clouds - she only detected him when her Human-presence-revealing Spell showed his marker approaching her position.

“Good work,” she heard his whispered voice through her earring, then saw the platform dip slightly as his disillusioned form dismounted his broom and stepped on to it. “I’ll start on the wards. Keep an eye out.”

“Yes, sir.”

That sounded easier than it was - she had to keep the platform floating, and watch not just Yaxley’s house, but the neighbouring houses as well - especially the one right behind them, to which the garden they were in belonged. The village looked dead so close to midnight, and it was unlikely that any wizard would be walking around in the snow, but unlikely didn’t mean impossible. And the Aurors might have started to vary their patrol schedules, too.

But despite her worries nothing happened while Mr Fletcher worked his - their - way through the wards, and, after an hour and five minutes - she had checked her watch regularly - she heard her tutor sigh. “Alright, that’s done. The blighter had some tricky spells layered in his wards.”

She touched her earring, activating the enchantment. “Lethal ones?”

“No. Just tricky. Lots of detection spells. A few linked to Alarm Charms outside the house, too. Woulda started a hell of a racket had I botched it.”

But he hadn’t. She flew closer to the platform - there was no need any longer to maintain some distance so she wouldn’t be caught in the backlash should he make a mistake - and stared at the spot where the invisible wardline was. She couldn’t see any sign of it until she cast a detection spell - another enchantment she needed on her mask.

The wards glowed in her enhanced sight, but she could see the ripples that formed a rift right next to the platform. Large enough to fly through on her broom.

“I’ll go first,” Mr Fletcher whispered.

As he passed through the wards on his broom, she bit her lower lip and didn’t point out that that had been the plan, and that he didn’t need to remind her - she was more mature than that. She thought it, though.

Then it was her turn. She thought she felt a tickling sensation on her skin when she passed through the wards, but that might have just been her imagination - it was hard to focus on that sensation with her detection spell almost blinding her.

But she was through and floating in Yaxley’s backyard. A flick of her wand made the platform disappear, leaving the snow below untouched.

“Alright. Check the back windows on the second floor for spells. I’ll take the ground and first floor.”

She nodded, even if he couldn’t see it, and flew up to the second floor. It didn’t take her long to verify that all the windows were protected by spells - advanced alarm and locking charms. Even the attic window was thus protected. Someone had been very thorough.

But then, if Yaxley had been a Death Eater in the last war, he would have known from personal experience how vulnerable sloppy defences rendered a house. He might even have been among the group who massacred the original owners of this building, she thought while clenching her teeth. “All second floor windows, as well as the attic window, are protected.”

“Same here. We’ll go through the first floor window then.”

High enough to avoid most of the snow blown up by the wind, and low enough to easily jump out if they had to.

“Watch my back while I work,” she heard him, then saw his marker float closer to the house.

That had been the plan as well, but Hermione still clenched her teeth. She could have done this, at least. Almost as fast as Mr Fletcher, too. If she could never get actual experience in the field she would never get good enough for him to trust her.

But she did what she was ordered to and once again played lookout for the five minutes it took him to open the window without alerting the neighbourhood.

“Done. Let’s go in.”

She saw his marker disappear through the window, then followed. As soon as she was inside, she vanished the snow on herself. Maybe that was another enchantment for her suit?

“Alright,” Mr Fletcher whispered. “He’s sleeping in the room next to us; I saw his bed through the window. Drop the Disillusionment Charm so we don’t trip over each other while sneaking up on him.”

She obeyed, even though she didn’t like how vulnerable being visible made her feel. Normal leather wouldn’t do much against curses. But at least she was wearing something more solid - and more stylish - than the dark grey balaclava, turtleneck and trousers Mr Fletcher was sporting.

A cat burglar had to have a certain style, in her opinion. Which was why her mask had stylised whiskers painted on it. That a good cat burglar wouldn’t ever be seen didn’t matter in the slightest.

Mr Fletcher was already checking the door as she looked around. The room looked like a guest room - slightly impersonal and not often used. It might have been a child’s room before Yaxley bought the house, she realised with a sick feeling.

Then Mr Fletcher opened the door, and she focused on the job at hand again. Wooden floor in the hallway. Old boards - the kind that looked like they would creak at the slightest touch. A spell took care of that, though.

The door to Yaxley’s bedroom didn’t stop her tutor for long, although he had to deal with a spell there, and Hermione held her breath when he pushed it open.

There was Yaxley, deep asleep. He was alone, sprawled out on top of his bed sheets - and nude. She blinked. The house was heated with magic, but still…

Hermione bit her lower lip behind her mask as Mr Fletcher sneaked over to the bed and pulled out the vial he had shown her earlier. There were half a dozen plants in the room - and as far as she could tell, they were all tropical plants. She lifted her mask a little and tested the air. Hot and humid.

Why would Yaxley want to sleep like this? Even the natives in the tropics generally preferred cooler temperatures. He either must really love his plants, or…

“Done. He won’t wake up until the morning, even if we yelled directly into his ear,” Mr Fletcher announced. “What’s wrong?”

“I think he has an exotic familiar,” Hermione said, looking around. “Probably venomous, too.”

She really wished she had been able to attend Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts. She had no practical experience with such pets. Or threats.

Mr Fletcher’s curse perfectly fit the situation, but wasn’t very helpful.

“What do we do?” she asked in a whisper. Even though Mr Fletcher had ensured that Yaxley would not be waking up for hours, his pet - and she was now certain he had one - might hear them.

“It might be smart enough to understand what we’re doing if it observes us. We’ll need to find it and stun it,” her tutor said. “Preferably without being seen.”

He didn’t seem concerned with the threat the animal posed to them, Hermione noticed, only with the danger to the mission. That was encouraging. A little, at least. “Disillusionment Charm?” she asked.

He slowly nodded. “Yes. I don’t like it and we can’t count on the thing being fooled by it, but it’ll help.” He was whispering and looking at the floor, now. “I don’t suppose that Black taught you a spell to detect animals?”

She shook her head.

“Alright. Here’s what we’ll do: We’ll go room by room. I’ll use a Supersensory Charm in each room, to find the thing, You’ll have to stand still and not make any noise for that.”

“I’ll hold my breath.”

He nodded. “Good. Once we have a room done, we close the door. Keep in mind which doors were open, too - we’ll have to leave them as we found them once we’re done.”

She nodded. That shouldn’t be too hard - there couldn’t be more than a dozen rooms. And she hadn’t seen any signs of Extension Charms being used.

“We’ll start here,” he whispered and raised his wand.

Hermione held her breath and kept an eye out while he searched the room. It took longer than she thought, and she took a few hasty breaths before he finished. “Nothing’s here. I placed the bug inside the frame of his bed. Even a pet shouldn’t detect it there.”

Another complication, Hermione noted. They cast Disillusionment Charms and left the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Yaxley must not have wanted his pet to enter while he slept, she thought. But then, why did he keep the air so humid in his bedroom? Maybe he was used to it now?

The hallway had too many plants, too, she noticed. A small animal - like a snake - could easily hide here. It might even travel the entire length of the corridor without being spotted by anyone.

She bit her lower lip. They had to search the hallway before going further, but they couldn’t close all the doors without first checking them for alarm charms. They would have to search the hallway each time they finished with a room. Hermione was suddenly worried that they might run out of time.

“Hold your breath!” Mr Fletcher said.

She did, tensing, as he cast his charm again. There were too many open doors here, she thought. Too many plants. Some ivy-like plant even covered parts of the ceiling, Hermione noticed, looking up.

“Watch out!”

She whirled around at her tutor’s warning, just in time to catch his Banishment Charm on her chest. The spell threw her back, down the hallway, robbing her of breath for a moment. She rolled once and rose in a crouch, her wand moving, but she couldn’t see anything - but from where Mr Fletcher’s marker was floating, Stunners flew at the floor - and the spells were closing in on her.

Whatever he was casting at was moving towards her! She flicked her wand and conjured a thick glass panel in front of her. Before she could anchor it with a Sticking Charm, something invisible hit it and it started to fall down.

But it had slowed her attacker down, giving her time to conjure another and stick it in place. Not a moment too soon, since the thing hit it with enough force to cause cracks to appear just as she finished. She needed to learn how to conjure reinforced glass, she realised. Or find a way to reinforce the glass once conjured. Something better than the Unbreakable Charm.

A Mending Charm fixed the glass. Why wasn’t Mr Fletcher casting? She didn’t see any Stunners any more. Her eyes widened when she realised that if he missed then his Stunner would shatter the glass. The glass cracked again, and she had to repair it. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up.

What was Mr Fletcher doing? She glanced at his marker. Still no spells flying at the invisible thing. But then a green transparent mass suddenly covered the hallway from wall to wall, and halfway up her glass panel. And something in the midst of the mass was moving - violently. She could see the outline of a slender form thrashing wildly, captured in a giant mass of…

“Glue?” she blurted out, then bit her lower lip when she heard Mr Fletcher groan - his charm must still be active, and her exclamation would have sounded as if she had yelled into his ears.

She held her tongue while the glue surrounding the captured creature started to peel back, followed by a Stunner hitting it. In front of Hermione’s eyes, a black snake slowly faded into view.

She saw Mr Fletcher appearing as well, with his eyes closed as he sighed in apparent relief. “That was torture. Did anyone ever tell you that you breathe too loudly?”

She gasped, and he smirked. “Just kidding. Now let’s see what I caught.”

“Vanishing Viper,” she said at once. “The only known snake of that size that can disillusion itself and can detect invisible creatures. It needs to, since it hunts Demiguises. It’s highly venomous, too,” she added as she dispelled her own Disillusionment Charm.

“I’ll take your word fer it,” he said, before vanishing both glue and glass.

Hermione stared at the thing, crouching down to observe it closely. It was almost pitch-black, but the tip of its scales were red-tinted. About two yards long, and very strong - she didn’t think a normal snake that size would have been able to crack the glass. It certainly wouldn’t have kept trying after the first time. Snakes weren’t the smartest of creatures, but even they knew better than that. Which meant this snake had known what it was doing. “We’ll need to obliviate it, I think,” she said.

“Yeah. That wasn’t a normal animal.” He sighed again. “Obliviating animals is tricky, but we don’t have a choice. The Dark Lord can talk to snakes. If he’s placed this snake here as a spy, he just needs to ask it to learn about us.”

Hermione hadn’t considered that a Parselmouth would use snakes as spies like that, but it should have been obvious. “Tricky?” She frowned.

He shrugged, then rolled his right shoulder. “They don’t think exactly as we do. The spell should work, but it’s tricky.”

She pressed her lips together. That didn’t sound encouraging. On the other hand, even if the creature ended up missing more than a few hours of memories Yaxley might not notice.

“Well, we’ve lost enough time. Let’s get on with this job!” Mr Fletcher said, pointing his wand at the viper. “Obliviate.”

*****

Despite Mr Fletcher’s statement they moved slowly - there could be more than one snake, after all, even though that was very unlikely - having more than one familiar was unheard of, and Hermione doubted that Yaxley would have let a normal Vanishing Viper roam around his house. And she didn’t think that the Dark Lord would have placed more than one snake as a spy in a Death Eater’s home - a snake familiar wasn’t unheard of, but if a wizard suddenly started keeping several snakes as pets then that would attract attention - Voldemort’s affinity with snakes was known, after all.

But she still worried until they found the snake’s habitat in the second room down the hallway. It was a veritable jungle - but at the door there was a solid gold water bowl, with a name engraved on it: ‘Victoria’. Any wizard who’d do this for a pet wouldn’t make two pets share, she thought.

Placing the bugs took a little more time than planned, too, to account for a snake’s senses, but they managed to finish all the floors in two hours.

All the floors above ground, to be precise, Hermione corrected herself as she stared at the door leading to the cellar.

*****

“There are some are solid protections on this door,” Mr Fletcher commented as he got to work on it, “but nothing lethal. Probably doesn’t want to end up with a dead guest who just wanted a peek at his wine cellar.”

“That would be hard to explain to his coworkers.” Hermione tried not to let her tension show in her voice. Good thieves were unflappable. She couldn’t help biting her lower lip, though, as she kept glancing around every few seconds to check for threats, as a good thief should. A locked cellar in a Death Eater’s home was not a good sign. She thought of cells - of dungeons, even. Or a laboratory where forbidden experiments were conducted. Or a chamber for rituals - sacrificial rituals.

“Done,” Mr Fletcher said, straightening. “But there could be traps on the stairs. Follow in my steps.”

Hermione didn’t think that anyone, even a Death Eater, would be so crazy as to trap their own stairs. All it would take was one slip - of the mind, or the feet - and they would be struck themselves. On the other hand, what she had seen at, and told about, Grimmauld Place...

She took a deep breath and followed her tutor down the stairs, gripping her wand tightly as she stepped gingerly on the old stones which formed a straight stairway. Another door awaited them at the foot of the stairs. That one looked even older than the house - wood so dark, it looked almost black, held together with massive iron bars. Probably cold iron, she thought - back in medieval times, wizards had used that a lot, before advances in Arithmancy had proved that it offered no special advantage over steel when it came to resisting magic. Although some scholars claimed that it was the advances in metallurgy at the time which were responsible for creating a steel that was as resistant as cold iron.

She shook her head at her stray thoughts - this wasn’t the time to indulge in academic speculation! Mr Fletcher was checking for traps, and, judging by his frown, something was wrong.

“No spells on this door. And I can’t spot any traps either.”

Which didn’t mean that there weren’t any, Hermione knew - her tutor had taught her that lesson well. She was already moving back up the stairs when Mr Fletcher conjured a large dog before joining her.

“Protego,” she whispered - she could have cast the spell silently, but it would have been weaker, and she didn’t want to take that risk.

Mr Fletcher cast his charm silently, then flicked his wand and opened the door from a distance. Then the dumb dog trotted through the doorway without getting cursed or crushed.

“It looks safe,” she remarked.

“I’ll go first,” her tutor said. “Stay back.”

She clenched her teeth to stop herself blurting out a childish protest. It was the right decision. She couldn’t help him if she fell victim to a curse herself. But it still felt as if she wasn’t pulling her weight. As if he was protecting her.

She held her breath, her wand aimed at him when he stepped through the doorway, ready to summon his clothes, and with them, him, as soon as something happend. Nothing did, though.

“Clear,” she heard him through her earring.

She descended, taking care to use the same steps as before, and joined him in the cellar. Which looked remarkably ordinary, if too small for all the stuff in it. Not even magical - but for some of the wine bottles in the racks.

“It looks like he really didn’t want others to steal his wine,” Mr Fletcher remarked. But he was studying her, she noticed, and not the room.

“Do you suspect that there’s a secret room?” she asked, already studying the room.

“Aye.” He nodded. “The room’s a little small for a house this size. And that shelf there looks a little too tidy.” He pointed at an old shelf full of knick-knacks and rubbish. “Not overloaded, like the others.”

“And no Extension Charm,” she added.

He nodded again. “Would mess up the spells concealing the entrance.” He jabbed his wand at the shelf, but staying clear of it. “There’s the cursed trap we’ve been looking for!” he said with evident glee. “That’ll take awhile to deal with.” He turned to her. “Go check on the snake and Yaxley. He might wake up if I botch things up here.”

She bit down on her retort once again - if he botched this up, the curse would go off. He didn’t want her there while he worked. But, again, it made sense.

She didn’t like it, though.

*****

“All done here. Come back down.”

Hermione checked her watch when she - finally - heard Mr Fletcher call her. It had taken him half an hour to deal with the cursed shelf. But, as she noticed when she re-entered the cellar, he hadn’t moved it yet. She glanced at him, and caught him grinning.

“Wouldn’t want ta deprive ya of the big reveal.” Then he grew serious. “But be aware: We might find somethin’ really nasty. Nightmarish. I’ve broken into enough Death Eater houses to know.”

She met his eyes and nodded. She wouldn’t shy away, no matter what they found.

He held her gaze, then sighed and turned to the shelf. A flick of his wand later, it swung open, and Hermione gasped.

The room behind it was smaller than the cellar, but as packed. Only instead of wine bottles and old furniture and rubbish, there were potion vials, brooms and bags - and a coat stand from which hung black robes and a white mask.

A Death Eater mask.

“He’s been stockpiling potions and other supplies,” she said, forcing herself to take her eyes off the Death Eater regalia. “Can we sabotage them?”

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “We could - but it would risk giving away that we were here.”

And that would defeat the whole purpose of the job. She slowly nodded. She didn’t like it, but she understood.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 17th, 1996**

Hermione Granger hadn’t realised how tired she was - how exhausting the heist, her first real heist, had been - until she and her tutor finally returned to his flat in London and she could stop looking around for ambushes and pursuit. Adrenalin had kept her going through the entire heist, and through the four stops on the way back to throw off anyone who might be following them.

Now she just wanted to collapse in a bed. Or an armchair. Even the floor had started to look inviting, if she was honest. Cocking her head sideways, she stared at a spot she knew would be sunny and warm in a few hours, once the sun was up. And if she laid her coat down, she would have a cozy spot indeed.

“Here.” Mr Fletcher interrupted her thoughts of taking a short nap by handing her a vial.

“Pepper-Up Potion?” she asked. The colour matched. The smell as well, she noted after uncorking it.

“Yes. I don’t like using it during a heist, but it’ll keep you going a little longer, so we can go over the job while the memory’s still fresh. One sip will be enough, you can keep the rest.” He took a sip from his own vial and shuddered. “Decades of time, and they’ve never fixed the taste.”

Hermione followed his example, gasping when she suddenly felt wide-awake, then winced herself - the aftertaste was truly awful. “I heard that that was by design. So people are less likely to abuse it.”

“Sounds like a story made up after the fact,” he said, shrugging. “Now let’s get started. I ain’t getting any younger, and I need my sleep.” He sat down at the table and flicked his wand, setting up water to boil for tea.

She nodded and sat down herself. She almost pulled out her notepad before she remembered that this wasn’t an exercise or a test. No proof, no traces was the rule. Instead, she pulled out the Knut she had nicked from Yaxley and glanced at it. It was a shiny new one. Maybe she should make a bracelet out of all the coins she had taken. If she transfigured them no one would ever know. And even if they did… Knuts weren’t exactly unique.

It didn’t seem as if her tutor had noticed her near-lapse. “Now… the job went well. We slipped through the wards and security as planned. The snake was a surprise, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Good job on realising that there was a pet, by the way.”

He smiled at her, and she beamed. She had been useful and not just some assistant, hadn’t she?

“Apart from the snake - a Vanishing Viper you called it?”

Hermione nodded. “It matches what I’ve read about them. I haven’t seen one before today, though, so I can’t be certain until I’ve checked a few more books.” If only there were a magical zoo.

“Suit yourself. Anyway, apart from the snake, was there anything else that you noticed?”

She frowned and narrowed her eyes, trying to remember anything out of the ordinary - for a heist. “No,” she finally said.

“Me neither. Even the potions he had hidden seemed to be standard ones.” He shrugged. “Wish we coulda bugged them, but vials get handled - they’d have noticed them, and the jig woulda been up.”

She bit her lower lip, then cleared her throat. She didn’t know if she should ask… but she wanted to know.

“Out with it,” he said.

“Will the Order kill him?” He was a Death Eater, and he was doing the Dark Lord’s bidding - preparing for war, even. Taking him out would be the logical course of action.

“We won’t kill him. We’re thieves, not assassins.” He stared at her.

“I know. But I don’t presume that the Order will let him continue working for the Dark Lord.” Left alone, Yaxley would murder people. And help others murder people. She rolled the Knut between her fingers.

“No, they won’t. It’s a war, after all. But they’ll want to know who his contacts are, before they do anything.”

“So, we’re helping to kill him.” Had helped - their work was done. She looked at him.

“We weren’t sent there to kill him, or prepare his assassination. We were simply sent to bug ’im.” He met her eyes, but she thought he didn’t like it either.

“So we’re thieves and spies.”

“A good thief is a good spy.” He pointed at her. “Though a good spy generally wears something a little less eye-catching.”

“Muggle television would disagree,” she shot back with a grin. “Besides, it’s part of my cover. If anyone spots us, they’ll remember a sexy thief in a catsuit, with long, straight blonde hair. Nothing like me.”

“If Moody spots you he’ll notice the wig.”

“I’ll have to use Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion then, and dyes.” And maybe a self-tanning lotion.

“That’ll be expensive. You’ll have to steal more than a Knut per heist to cover the cost of the potion.”

So he had noticed. She grinned and nodded anyway. She was planning to steal a lot more.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 23rd, 1996**

“Harry, look! Daddy’s uncovered a conspiracy!”

Harry Potter turned his head when he heard Luna call out, and found himself staring at the cover of The Quibbler from a distance of about an inch. He pulled back a little until he could read the title, bumping into Ginny who was sitting next to him at the Gryffindor table.

“‘Vampire Hunt! Blood Magic Conspiracy!’?” he asked the blonde witch.

She nodded several times. “Yes! Someone’s hunting vampires - several prominent members of the vampire community have disappeared during the last few weeks.”

“There’s a vampire community?” Harry hadn’t been aware of that.

“Of course there is!” Luna said. “It’s an underground network. The sun is deadly to them, after all.”

“Ah.” He glanced at Ron, but his friend was simply nodding while finishing his breakfast.

“Most dark creatures band together,” Ginny added. “Werewolves form packs too.” She had shifted on the bench and was now leaning into his back, her chin resting on his shoulder as she looked at the magazine.

“But vampires are very territorial, so they can’t live together like werewolves. Hence they form a network, not a pack. They mostly communicate through specially-trained bats,” Luna explained.

“Why don’t they use owls?” Harry asked. He felt a little distracted with Ginny’s chest pressing into his back.

“They use owls to send letters to wizards, but bats to other vampires. It’s tradition,” Luna answered. “Daddy wrote an article about it two years ago - he noticed a trained bat posing as a pet when he was interviewing a vampire.” She smiled. “He’s a very good investigative journalist.”

“Who’s hunting vampires?” Ron asked.

Luna leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Daddy doesn’t know yet. But it has to be a well-organised group of hunters - even old, powerful vampires are disappearing.”

“Disappearing?” Harry whispered, then bit his lip - this was what privacy spells were for!

“They are either hiding - or dead. Well - un-undead.” Luna wrinkled her forehead and blinked. “They’re technically dead already, after all.”

A well-organised group of hunters… Harry tried not to wince when he had a thought. “What’s the blood magic connection?”

“Vampires are masters of blood magic!” Luna declared. “The article explains that as well,” she added, opening the magazine and pointing at a paragraph with bright red letters. “You wouldn’t have to ask this many questions if you had a subscription to The Quibbler.”

She was looking at him with hopeful eyes. Harry could take a hint. “How much for a subscription?”

Luna beamed at him.

*****

“So, do you think this is his work?” Ron asked half an hour later, pointing at the magazine on Harry’s bed.

Harry Potter checked if his privacy spell was working before answering. “It might very well be Voldemort’s work - if Mr Lovegood’s theory is true.” There weren’t many facts in the article, though. Not many relevant ones, at least - in Harry’s opinion.

Ron nodded. “Gonna tell Dumbledore?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t had any, you know?” Ron tapped on his forehead.

Harry shook his head. “No.” Which had him both worried and relieved at the same time.

“I would prefer it if it was a conspiracy by vampire hunters, as Mr Lovegood claims,” Ron said. “But The Quibbler doesn’t have a good track record when it comes to their theories.”

“Luna believes them, though,” Harry said. And she was in Ravenclaw. And rather smart, too, as far as he could tell.

Ron shrugged. “He’s her father,” he said, as if that would explain it. Harry didn’t really understand that - he certainly had quickly learned that Sirius’s stories couldn’t always be trusted. And not just because his godfather’s memory was still affected by his time in Azkaban. “And she lost her mother when she was nine years old.”

That, Harry could understand.

*****

“Good evening, Headmaster,” Harry Potter said when he entered Dumbledore’s office later that evening.

“Good evening, Harry. Have a seat.” Dumbledore gestured to what had become Harry’s usual chair. “You wanted to speak to me.”

“Yes, sir. I was wondering if you’re aware of The Quibbler’s latest article?” Harry said as he pulled the magazine in question from one of the pockets of his robes.

“The blood magic conspiracy? Yes, I am, actually.” Dumbledore slowly nodded. “I take it that you harbour the same suspicion, then?”

“If you mean that I think this could be Voldemort’s work, then yes,” Harry said.

“I did mean that, indeed.” Dumbledore sighed. “I fear that while Xenophilius is incorrect with regard to the culprits, his theory that this is related to blood magic is on the mark.”

“It’s Voldemort, then,” Harry said.

“That is the most likely explanation.” The Headmaster inclined his head. “It certainly is not a possibility that we should easily dismiss.”

“I haven’t had any visions, though,” Harry pointed out.

“That doesn’t have to mean anything. Voldemort might simply be still in the process of preparing another ritual.”

“Can we stop him? I mean, can you and the Order stop him?” Harry corrected himself.

Dumbledore smiled. “Please do not feel as if you are not doing your part in the struggle just because you’re not crossing wands with Death Eaters. As a wise soul has said once, battles are won with spells, but wars are won with planning.” He sighed. “It is, as most such sayings, not entirely or not always correct, but it is true enough. You are crucial in this conflict. Your connection to Voldemort, your blood protection - you are the only one, ever, to have survived his Killing Curse.”

“And I might survive his next one as well,” Harry said.

“But you also might fall to someone else’s wand without even meeting Voldemort. We do not know the exact power and nature of your mother’s protection. Not yet.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “There are many willing to raise their wands against him, but only you carry the key to his defeat.”

Harry sighed. “So I can’t risk myself. I understand.” He did. Wanting to fight Voldemort was childish and stupid, he knew that. But he hated that he was staying safe behind the wards of Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place while others risked their lives.

Dumbledore chuckled, but he sounded sad rather than amused in Harry’s opinion. “And I understand how much you resent that.” The Headmaster sighed. “I feel the same whenever I send friends out on dangerous tasks while I remain at Hogwarts. I am not being boastful when I say that there are very few who are as accomplished at magic, and at fighting, as I am. I could do just about any task that needs to be done better than most. And yet, I cannot do everything myself. If I neglected my other duties in order to spare my friends the risk of fighting, I would do much more damage to our cause.”

“I see.” Harry hadn’t thought of that.

“Since you are here already, shall we use the opportunity to do some further research and training?”

“Yes, sir.” It would be painful, but it would make feel him better. Less useless, at least, Harry thought.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 24th, 1996**

“Good evening, Miss Granger.”

Hermione Granger looked up from the latest report the manager of the Black plantations in the Congo had sent and smiled politely at Jeanne - no, at Miss Dubois; she couldn’t afford to think of the witch as a friend when she wasn’t Miss Merriweather. “Good evening, Miss Dubois. Are you looking for Mr Black?”

“No, I just wanted to say hello. I rarely see you, even though you are Sirius’s secretary.” Miss Dubois smiled at her like Jeanne smiled at Miss Merriweather.

Hermione’s own smile didn’t change. “That’s because I am usually buried in work. Mr Black receives a lot of correspondence that I have to peruse and sort before he deigns to look at it. Here!” She held up the report she had received. “A detailed tally of the expenses of the plantations in the Congo that the Black family acquired in the aftermath of the Intervention in 1873.” She frowned - Magical History tended to gloss over the ICW’s ‘Great Punishing Expedition’ that had wiped out most of the native wizards south of the Sahara Desert when they had started to use magic to fight against the muggle colonial powers. But this wasn’t the time to discuss those atrocities. “In order to check the numbers, I have to read up on the last few years’ reports, or I might miss someone skimming or padding their expenses. Then I have to check the profits, which involves checking the customs duties and the wages, which fluctuate wildly for no apparent reason I can find. It is fascinating, but also quite time-consuming, although I have become somewhat proficient in these matters as a result. Here!” She held up another sheet of parchment. “Aren’t those columns just a little too neat?”

Miss Dubois’s smile had slipped slightly. Hermione wouldn’t have noticed, had she not known Jeanne so well. “Indeed, very fascinating. But I see that you are very busy, and I would feel very guilty were I to keep you from your work any longer.”

Hermione nodded, already looking at the sheet again. Even though as Miss Merriweather she wore tinted contacts, a wig, far more makeup than usual and had her voice changed, Miss Dubois might find her a little too familiar should they talk for too long.

But so far the French witch had been scared off by Hermione’s enthusiastic discussion of the most boring details of Mr Black’s businesses each time she had tried to get friendly with her boyfriend’s secretary. Hermione could only hope that this would keep working a little longer.

*****

**London, Merton, January 25th, 1996**

Hermione Granger sat down on her bed and petted Crookshanks, who was taking a nap there. “Crookshanks?”

The cat made a noise that was half a growl and half a yawn, but didn’t open his eyes.

“I know you’re awake,” she said. “I have to show you something important.”

That caught his attention and he turned on his back to to look at her - and present his belly to be rubbed. She indulged him, of course. He deserved it - he was the best cat a witch could wish to have. And she had the time to spare, too - her parents were at work and wouldn’t return until the evening, and she wasn’t expected at Mr Fletcher’s place until noon.

“I know you’ve been wondering about the cat you’ve smelled on me,” she began, noticing how his eyes narrowed. And closed. “I think it’s time for you and her to meet. No, really,” she added when he didn’t react. “You see, she’s got a secret.”

She stopped petting him and scooted back a foot from him, which prompted Crookshanks to sit up and stare at her. “Watch!” she said, then focused on changing.

Crookshanks was far bigger than she had expected, Hermione thought when she saw the tomcat for the first time as a cat. Not as massive as the stupid dog and far smarter and more graceful, of course. But he was huge.

And he was hissing at her. And growling. She hissed back - this was her room! Her bed! She wouldn’t let anyone else claim it!

He pounced on her, claws out, and she barely managed to dodge by jumping off the bed. He was after her a second later, though she was quicker, and by the time he hit the carpet, she was already halfway to the chair. Another jump and she was on top of its backrest, hissing at him.

Then she blinked. What was she doing? Crookshanks was her pet, not a rival cat. She jumped off the chair, gracefully landing on the floor, and changed back to her human form.

And almost toppled over when her adorable tomcat slammed into her legs. “Crookshanks! It’s me!” she explained while he looked around wildly, probably looking for the cat he had just tried to attack - he must be terribly confused.

She held out her hand, and he spent half a minute smelling it. “See? It’s me. But I’m also a cat. See!” She changed into a cat again.

A few more transformations later, Crookshanks had learned that this particular and beautiful cat wasn’t a rival, but his owner in another form.

And Hermione had learned that transforming in the middle of a scuffle could lead to nasty claw marks on tender body parts when a heavy tomcat found himself suddenly clinging to a standing human instead of a cat on the ground.

Well, it wasn't really his fault - she should have anticipated that.

*****

**Hogsmeade, January 28th, 1996**

“What a beautiful evening! Look at the lake!”

Harry Potter nodded in agreement with his girlfriend. The sky was clear and it was less than a week from the full moon - the moonlight made the snow-covered forests and fields, and even the Black Lake, look very impressive. And romantic, he supposed.

“Walking back instead of taking the carriage was a great idea!” Ginny said, leaning into him as they walked. “Just the two of us…”

“And Remus, who is following us,” Harry whispered. He’d rather not have his girlfriend test how good her Warming Charms were when they had a bodyguard watching them. Harry didn’t think ‘just act as if I weren’t there’ covered that sort of thing.

“Drat. I forgot about him.” Ginny sighed, and rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s still romantic.”

“Yes.”

“We could take a stroll on the shore at Hogwarts tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes.” That would be inside the castle’s wards, which meant they wouldn’t have a bodyguard with them. “If the weather’s still fine,” Harry added - you couldn’t count on that.

“Do you mean that the Boy-Who-Lived’s spells can’t stand up to a snowstorm?” Ginny asked with a teasing smile.

He snorted. “Of course they would - but if you want to play around in water, we should go sneak into the Prefects’ bathroom, instead of melting the snow outside.”

That had her blushing. Then she snorted and squeezed his arm. “This time you double-check if anyone else is using it!”

“I did!” he protested. “I didn’t know someone else had the same idea! And we made it out just…” He trailed off when he heard footsteps coming closer from behind.

“Harry!” Remus appeared, pulling off Harry’s Invisibility Cloak and startling Ginny, who apparently hadn’t noticed him approach. “We’re being followed. I’ll take us away!”

Remus grabbed his and Ginny’s hands, then cursed. “They’ve blocked Apparition! Use the Cloak and get away!”

“But what about…” Harry started to say, then saw a flash at the edge of the woods near them. “Watch out!” he yelled, tackling Ginny to the ground. A moment later a tree behind them exploded. Blasting Curse, he noted, drawing his wand and casting a Shield Charm. “Take my Cloak, Ginny!” he yelled.

“Not without you!” she yelled back. She had cast a shield of her own, he noted, but hers didn’t look as strong as his.

“Get her to Hogwarts!” Remus shouted. “I’ll cover you!”

Harry saw him cast several spells at their attacker’s location as he pulled his broom from his pocket and unshrank it. Once they were in the air they were safe - they were too close to Hogwarts for anyone to stop them. Unless… He looked up and his eyes widened.

A man was floating above them. A man with red eyes and pale skin, Harry noticed. And the man grinned widely as his wand moved to point straight at them.

*****

 


	15. First Blood

**London, Diagon Alley, January 28th, 1996**

Horace Slughorn tensed when he heard the charm on his fireplace go off, alerting him that a visitor desired entry. “Yes?”

“Horace? May I come through?”

That was Albus. Right on time. “Of course, Albus,” he said, with far more warmth than he felt.

A moment later, Albus stepped into his living room. “Good evening, Horace! You are looking well.”

Horace inclined his head. “Thank you. You haven’t changed either.” Which was, unfortunately, true - Albus looked like he was as fit and healthy as ever. For a wizard his age.

“Oh, I am not getting any younger - but then, that is true for all of us.” Albus smiled at him.

Horace gestured at the couch. “Let’s sit down. Our old bones deserve some comfort.”

“Whisky?” he asked once he and his guest had taken their seats.

“Thank you,” replied Albus. “You always had the most discerning taste for drinks.”

Horace summoned his second-best bottle - Albus didn’t deserve his best, not after he had forced him into retirement - and two glasses. He pretended not to notice how Albus subtly checked his glass for any potions or poisons before taking a sip. The man did have enemies, after all, even if it was a slight against him as the host.

“Cheers!”

He smiled genuinely when he felt the whisky burn in his throat. “Ogden's Special Selection,” he said. “Only one hundred bottles were made.” Ten of them were a gift to him, for introducing Zacharia’s future daughter-in-law to the brewer’s son and heir.

Albus nodded in appreciation. “A fine brand.”

Horace took a few more sips, then put his glass down on his antique side table - bought in Magical Constantinople during his last trip to the Ottoman Empire, but originally from Italy - and leaned forward. “So, why are you paying me a visit? Did Snape finally cross a line you can’t ignore, and you need a Potions Master who doesn’t hate his students?”

Albus frowned for a moment before his face settled once again into a polite smile. “His manners have improved as he has matured.”

Horace chuckled. “And yet you had to dress him down after he let his bigots run rampant during the Granger affair.”

Albus’s smile didn’t waver. “An unfortunate lapse in judgement.”

“His or yours?” Horace pushed. It wasn’t as if he had anything to lose - he was already cut off from recruiting more gifted students for his Slug Club. His network would grow old with him, wither and die, and it was all Albus’s fault.

“Still holding a grudge, Horace?” Albus asked instead of answering.

“You force me into retirement because a few of my acquaintances joined the Dark Lord during the war without me realising it, and then you recruit an actual Death Eater as my replacement, and you think I would just forget it?” He scoffed. “You’re a hypocrite, Albus.”

“I had my reasons. And while I cannot claim that I treated you entirely fairly, I stand by my decision.” Albus inclined his head in that patronising manner of his that Horace hated.

“The man is a gifted potioneer, but a miserable excuse for a human being, with all the charm of a basilisk. People like him should never be teachers.” He snorted. “And while I don’t like him, I know him well enough to know that he never wanted to be a teacher in the first place, so this wasn’t a reward for whatever he did for you during the war. You simply wanted him where you could keep him under control.”

“As I said, I had my reasons.” Albus smiled again. “As I have a reason to visit you.”

“Ah.” Horace matched the man’s smile. “What do you want from me, Albus?” He grinned. “And why do you think I will help you?”

“Let me answer your second question first,” Albus said. “In private, of course.” He cast a privacy charm and lowered his voice. “Because your greatest mistake was not killed in 1981. He is back.”

Horace froze. That couldn’t be true. He had heard rumours, of course - but they had been just that, rumours. He shook his head. “But… that’s impossible.”

“You are well aware that evading death, at least for a time, isn’t impossible for a dedicated dark wizard, are you not?”

Horace pressed his lips together. His studies had been entirely theoretical; he had never actually done anything. And no one but Riddle and himself knew about that fateful talk they had had, decades ago. “If that were true then the wizards of ancient Egypt would still be around. No matter what he might have done to anchor himself to life, there are ways around it.”

“In theory,” Albus said, with a faint smile. “Unless you are aware of one that was put into practice?”

He took a deep breath. He didn’t know what _she_ might have told Albus. “I do not know of any such attempt.” She had been looking into many applications of her idea, after all.

Albus’s smile didn’t waver as he leaned forward. “But you suspect, do you not? You talked a lot with Lily prior to that fateful day.”

Albus knew! Or he knew enough to suspect. Horace felt as if someone had turned his spine to ice.

“Tell me what you discussed with Lily, Horace, and I will protect you from Riddle.” Albus was staring at him with an expression few ever saw on the man’s face. And even fewer lived to tell of it.

Horace gulped. “I do not know if she actually did anything - we were just discussing theory.”

“I already know that Lily used questionable means to create the ritual that defeated Voldemort. And I do not care, Horace. We’re at war. And this could be the key to winning it before it devastates our country again while we have yet to recover from the last war. If you value your life you will tell me what you and Lily discussed before Tom grows too powerful to be stopped.”

Horace didn’t know if Albus meant that Riddle would kill him if he refused - or that Albus would. He started talking.

*****

**Hogsmeade, January 28th, 1996**

Harry Potter threw himself over Ginny an instant before the attacker sent their spell at him. He saw a green flash, then the ground next to him blew up. His Shield Charm weathered the pelting fragments of frozen earth and stones though he felt Ginny’s shield shatter underneath him. But they were now in the middle of a cloud of snow and steam that had been thrown up by the explosion, and so had a few seconds of concealment.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her up as he stood himself, then summoned his broom - only to notice when he tried to mount it that it had been broken by the blast. Cursing, he let it drop, then froze - his father’s Cloak! “Accio Invisibility Cloak!” he whispered and felt the fabric land in his hand. He pulled Ginny closer and covered both of them with the Cloak, hoping it hadn’t been damaged as well.

He had been just in time - the cloud of steam and snow settled, revealing their position. He heard Ginny hiss - in pain or anger, he couldn’t tell - but his attention was on the floating wizard.

The man was weaving back and forth, avoiding, with seemingly effortless grace, the barrage of curses Remus was sending against him. Harry saw several curses splash against the man’s shield without any effect. He raised his own wand to join Remus’s attack, then hesitated. Remus had told him to get Ginny to Hogwarts. If he attacked the floating, no, flying wizard he would endanger her.

Clenching his teeth and hating himself, he whispered: “Let’s move while he’s distracted!” They were a few hundred yards, at most, from the wardline. They could do this.

But two people moving under a cloak meant for one wasn’t as easy as Harry remembered from his first and second year. Especially over a snowy path. They hadn’t covered more than twenty yards when Ginny stumbled. He caught her with his left hand before she fell, but she cried out in pain. “Ginny!” he gasped when he realised that she was hurt.

She cursed and straightened, then started hobbling forward. Harry was about to swoop her up and carry her - or try to - when Remus’s yell made him whip his head round.

“Harry! Watch out!”

Harry saw the man flying towards them, wand moving. How had he… their tracks! They were leaving tracks in the snow, even on the path!

Harry put himself in front of Ginny as he jabbed his wand at the ground between them and their attacker.

“Bombarda!”

The earth and snow of the field next to the path blew up in a much bigger explosion than the first, right in the path of the flying wizard. Harry saw another green spell - the Killing Curse? - speed out of the cloud and hit the ground ten yards to his right in another explosion.

He was already ducking, slipping out from under his Cloak. “Stay hidden!” he yelled at Ginny, then threw himself forward and to the right. He rolled over his shoulder, as Sirius had drilled into him, and came up leading with his wand just as the man cleared the cloud.

Harry flicked his wand and sent a Cutting Curse at him, trying to anticipate his enemy’s movement. The wizard must have spotted him, though, since he was already changing course by the time Harry finished his spell, and his curse missed by yards.

The man turned towards him, grinning widely, even laughing, but before he could send another curse at Harry, a volley of spells from Remus hit his shield, shattering it. The wizard howled as another spell cut into him, then swooped around to face Remus.

For a moment, Harry felt elation fill him. They had the wizard in a crossfire. He might be able to fly better than most Seekers, but he couldn’t evade all of their curses; not while he was trying to fight them.

Then he glanced at Remus and noticed that the werewolf was staggering, blood covering his robes. His entire face seemed to be bleeding! And yet, Remus was still casting, snarling as he moved towards their foe, spells flying without pause from his wand.

Harry clenched his teeth and kept casting himself. They had to defeat this wizard before Remus collapsed. He was losing far too much blood as it was, Harry thought, and hoped his teacher had taken a Blood-Replenishing Potion.

Then spells flew at the wizard from a third direction. Reinforcements! No, Harry saw, it was Ginny. The witch had thrown off the Cloak and was casting, even while holding her side with her left hand. He cursed, but focused on fighting - he couldn’t do anything for her or Remus while the flying wizard was trying to kill them.

No, he was trying to kill him, Harry realised when the wizard stopped jinking and sent a blood-red curse at him, ignoring the many spells flying towards him.

Harry had been moving and casting, as he had trained to with Sirius, but he couldn’t move as fast or as far in the deep snow, and the man had aimed well. The curse hit Harry’s Shield Charm, shattering it, and then Harry felt as if every part of his body was being ripped apart.

He collapsed, his scream drowned in the blood gushing from his mouth. He caught a glimpse of the man being struck by several spells, spinning around and falling, before the blood dripping from his eyes blinded him. He heard Remus and Ginny cry out, but their yells were dampened, as if his ears had been plugged.

He pointed his wand at his own face, trying to yell ‘Episkey’ through his mouth full of blood. He tried to move, to stand up, to grab a potion from his enchanted pocket, but he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t breathe, was choking on blood, and it hurt so much to move...

When everything went dark and he stopped feeling anything he was relieved.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 29th, 1996**

When Harry Potter opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a blurry ceiling that looked familiar. And the smell… he was in the Hogwarts infirmary. He hadn’t died, then. And he wasn’t hurting any more, either.

“Harry!”

He turned his head at the yell and winced. He corrected himself - he wasn’t hurting as much as before he had lost consciousness, but moving was still painful. “Sirius?” he managed to say. His godfather sounded rather upset.

“I was so worried. We were so worried.”

“What happened?” Harry said, then coughed - his throat felt raw. And his chest hurt when he coughed.

“You got cursed,” Sirius said tersely.

“I know that.” Harry squinted. “Where are my glasses?”

“Oh! Here!” Sirius held them out to him.

Harry sighed as the world came into focus again. And he winced when he saw just how terrible his godfather looked: rumpled robes, pale face, hair messier than Harry’s, bags under his eyes.

“I know that I was cursed,” he said. “It hurt too much to miss that.” He tried to smile at his feeble joke, but Sirius didn’t look amused or relieved. “I bled all over myself.” He blinked. “Remus got cursed as well, didn’t he?”

Sirius nodded.

Harry stiffened and looked at the curtains providing him with a little privacy. “He is alright, isn’t he? And Ginny?”

Sirius hesitated for a moment, and Harry gasped. His godfather quickly held up his hand. “Ginny wasn’t hurt. Not seriously - she’s already out of the infirmary. Remus is alive. Pomfrey and Dumbledore managed to stop the bleeding.”

“But?” Harry pressed. If all were well, Sirius wouldn’t be so… serious. And he hadn’t hugged him..

His godfather took a deep breath, then sighed through clenched teeth.

This looked worse and worse, Harry thought. He reached out and grabbed Sirius’s hand, trying not to wince at the pain this caused. “Please, I want to know.”

“The bleeding was stopped. But they couldn’t end the curse.”

Harry looked at his chest. No blood. He touched his face, his ears. No blood. He even licked his lips. “I’m not bleeding,” he said.

“Yes. Remus managed to get a Blood-Replenishing Potion into you in time to save your life, then flew you both to the infirmary before he collapsed. Pomfrey kept pouring potions into you two to keep you alive while Dumbledore and Snape worked on a counter to the curse. They didn’t quite manage that, but they’ve found potions that will hold the curse at bay until a more permanent cure is found.”

“Potions?” Harry asked, more to keep from thinking about the fact that he was still cursed, could still bleed to death in pain like… He clenched his teeth.

“I’m no alchemist, but it’s apparently a mix of Blood-Replenishing and Clotting Potions which  Dumbledore and Snape created. You and Remus will need to drink one vial per day until Dumbledore finds a counter-curse. But Pomfrey said you should heal up just fine from the damage the curse did.”

That… well, it still sounded very bad, but not as bad as Harry had feared. But to owe his life to a potion… He shook his head. “Does that mean that I owe Snape my life?”

“No!” Sirius blurted. “It was Dumbledore’s work. He’s the alchemist. Snape just helped.”

Owing anything to Snape was still bad enough, Harry thought. The bastard would lord it over him and complain about it at the same time. “Did we get the wizard who attacked us?” he asked. He had seen him fall. At least he thought so.

“You did.” Sirius nodded. “Cursed him good, too - he won’t attack anyone else.”

He had killed someone, then. Or helped kill someone. Harry briefly remembered the attack at the Cup, when Sirius had killed that witch. He closed his eyes. “Who was it?”

“We’re not certain, yet,” Sirius said. “But it was a vampire.”

“A vampire?” Harry blinked, despite the slight pain that caused him. Why would a vampire attack him? “Was he a Death Eater?”

“There was no mark on his arm.” Sirius shrugged. “But Remus said that he wanted to kill you, and only you - badly enough to let himself get killed just to hit you.”

Harry drew a breath through clenched teeth as he remembered the battle. “Do you think he was forced?” Like the witch who had attacked him.

“Perhaps,” Sirius said. “The Aurors are still investigating.” He was sneering slightly - he didn’t expect much from them, Harry knew.

He nodded. “So.” He looked at his godfather. “When can I leave this place?”

For the first time since Harry had woken up, Sirius laughed. Somehow, Harry didn’t think that was a good sign.

*****

“It was a very near thing, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “If Remus hadn’t carried enough Blood-Replenishing potions, if Poppy had been a minute or two later…” He sighed.

The Headmaster looked tired, too, Harry Potter noticed. “I see.” Sirius hadn’t told him that. But he didn’t doubt it - he had thought he was dead, for a moment at least. “I owe you my life.”

“I only did what anyone would have done in my place.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “And I did not do anything alone. Remus, Poppy, Severus, Miss Weasley - everyone helped. And I would wager that you saved both Miss Weasley and Remus in that fight, too.”

Harry knew that few would have been able to do what Dumbledore had done, but he was too tired to argue. And there were more important matters to discuss. “Was it blood magic, sir?”

Dumbledore slowly nodded. “Yes. I first thought that it was simply a dark curse that affected your blood, like the Blood-Boiling Curse. But it’s blood magic.” He must have noticed Harry’s reaction since he smiled reassuringly. “That is not necessarily a bad thing, Harry. For while finding a counter-curse will require quite a lot of effort, the curse’s effects can be dealt with more easily.”

Harry wasn’t certain that having to drink a potion each day or else bleed to death was that easy, but compared to other curses it was probably not as bad as it could have been. “Do you think Voldemort will try to kill me again?”

“He certainly wants you dead, but I am not certain that your death was the real goal of this attack. Oh,” Dumbledore said before Harry could protest, “he would certainly be pleased had you been killed, no doubt about that. But I do not think that he expected it. I would even go as far as to say that he probably didn’t even expect to come so close. I will certainly have to go over our security to avoid a repeat of this.” He leaned back in the armchair he had conjured next to Harry’s bed after Sirius had left to check on Remus. “But I think he did this in an attempt at misdirection - he hopes to lure both the Ministry and myself on to a false trail by framing the vampires for the attack.”

“Wasn’t he attacking them? Or was he recruiting them?” Harry asked, freezing for a moment. If Voldemort had all those missing vampires among his ranks...

“Vampires as a rule do not make good followers - they are loners by nature, and chafe at following anyone’s orders. Even the Dark Lord would have to resort to the Dark Arts to keep them under control. But if the vampires blame the Ministry or myself for the attacks on them, then they might strike at us in turn. Some of them even might ally themselves with him - not knowing that, by doing so, they expose themselves to the wizard responsible for the very attacks that drove them into hiding.”

“But… if we tell them that the vampire had been under the Imperius Curse…” Harry started.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I don’t think that he used that particular curse to drive the vampire to attack you.”

“What can we do, then?” They couldn’t let Voldemort get away away with this!

“I will do my best to keep the Ministry and the Prophet from overreacting. That should lessen the impact of this attack.”

“Better silence Skeeter then,” Harry muttered.

“I believe Rita will see reason if I explain the situation to her.”

“What?” Harry stared at the old man.

“Oh, I do not intend to tell her about the Dark Lord’s involvement. Just about the consequences she might suffer, should she plan to blame all vampires for the deeds of one.”

Dumbledore hadn’t lost his smile, but it didn’t look very friendly right then, Harry thought.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 30th, 1996**

“And what did you after you were hit with that curse, Mr Potter?” Auror Dawlish leaned forward in his chair.

“I passed out, as I told you already.” Harry Potter didn’t bother to hide how he annoyed he was; both with the questioning and the Auror. He didn’t like repeating himself - nor remembering that fight. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Dawlish frowned. “If you want us to catch the ones responsible for this attack you need to cooperate with us.”

“Did you catch whoever was behind the attack at the World Cup?” Harry asked. “Or behind the attack on me at Hogwarts?”

The man’s frown deepened. “Those incidents are still under investigation.”

And would remain so for the foreseeable future, Harry thought. He wasn’t being fair - the Aurors didn’t know that Voldemort was back and behind those incidents - but he doubted that the same people who had prosecuted both Sirius and Hermione despite them being innocent would achieve anything even if they had that knowledge. Sirius had been rather vocal about their incompetence and corruption, and Hermione’s opinion was not any better, although she had worded it more politely.

And he was rather annoyed that his first visitors after Pomfrey had cleared him - apparently, Sirius and Dumbledore didn’t count - were Dawlish and his partner instead of Harry’s friends. He took a deep breath, half-expecting to cough up blood again, and said: “I’ve told you everything I know. Asking me again and again will not help my memory.”

“Witnesses usually know more than they think,” Dawlish replied. “Repeated questioning can jog their memory.”

Harry shrugged. “Not in my case, then. Did you find out the name of the vampire?”

“Who told you that it was a vampire?” Dawlish asked with narrowed eyes.

“Dumbledore did,” Harry said. “Shouldn’t he have done that?” he asked as innocently as he could. Let Dawlish try bothering the Headmaster - and Chief Warlock!

“Such information is very useful to check testimonies,” Dawlish’s partner - Avery, Harry remembered - added. “You wouldn’t believe what people make up to feel important.”

He was correct - Harry didn’t believe that. He shrugged. “I don’t want to feel important. I just want these attacks stopped.”

Dawlish and his partner exchanged a glance. “Do you know anyone who might want to see you dead?” Dawlish asked.

Harry shrugged again. “Apart from the Death Eaters and their children? Malfoy tried to poison me in our second year.” Had poisoned him, even. “And they framed my best friend,” he added with bared teeth.

Avery scowled, but Dawlish didn’t react to that dig. “Speaking of Miss Granger,” the Auror asked, “what’s your relationship with her?”

“She’s my best friend. My best female friend,” Harry said. “Why are you asking about her?”

Dawlish ignored his question. “She’s your godfather’s secretary, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Harry glared at him.

“And she handles most of his correspondence, doesn’t she?”

Harry frowned. How did the man know that? He tried not to show his reaction and shrugged. “I don’t care much about paperwork.”

“You should,” Dawlish said.

“I still don’t understand what you think she has to do with this attack.” Although Harry had a suspicion. A nasty one. ”Do you think Hermione is behind this attack? Are you crazy?”

Dawlish glared right back at him. “She’s a convicted criminal. A thief. And she’s handling the affairs of one of the richest men in Britain. She’s in a perfect position to steal from you and your godfather. And given Black’s well-known issues with his memory…”

“He’s getting better!” Harry interjected. Sirius wasn’t nearly as bad as he had been two years ago.

“...the only one able to uncover her crime would be you,” Dawlish continued, seemingly unfazed. “People have killed for far less.”

“You’re crazy! She’s my best friend. Sirius paid her debts. She would never do anything like that!” Harry scoffed, then rubbed his chest when he felt a twinge.

Dawlish once again ignored him. “And recently, Mr Black’s been seen with a new girlfriend. Miss Granger might have feared for her position.”

“Do you honestly believe that Hermione is behind this attack? That she somehow forced a vampire to attack me?” The man was crazy, Harry thought. Utterly bonkers, as Ron would say.

“She might be a simple accomplice, and not the driving power behind this,” Dawlish said. “She wouldn’t be the first teenage criminal to be recruited by a more experienced dark wizard after their expulsion from Hogwarts.”

“Get out!” Harry snarled. “I’m not going to sit here and let you slander my best friend!”

“This is an interrogation, Mr Potter,” Dawlish started to say, “You cannot…”

Harry cut him off by drawing his wand and casting a privacy spell on himself, then pulled on the rope next to his bed to summon Pomfrey.

He was through listening to this paranoid bigot.

*****

Harry Potter was still upset an hour later, when he finally was allowed to receive real visitors. “And then the stupid idiot accused Hermione of wanting to kill me so she could steal from Sirius!” he snarled through clenched teeth.

“That’s bonkers!” Ron shook his head. “Hermione wouldn’t steal anything, least of all from you or Sirius! The git is probably a Death Eater trying to frame her.”

Ginny, who was sitting on Harry’s bed with her hand in his, nodded. “Yes. It’s probably Malfoy’s work. Dad and Percy said he’s bribing people left and right in the Ministry.”

“Fudge first among them,” Harry muttered, remembering Sirius’s comments about the Minister. He hoped Dumbledore would be able to counter Malfoy’s efforts. If the Aurors framed Hermione…

“I doubt that,” Luna said, pausing in her efforts to stick a bunch of weird knick-knacks she called a ‘dreamcatcher’ to the ceiling above Harry’s bed while balancing on its frame. “Fudge wants you to think he’s Malfoy’s stooge so people won’t suspect him. He’s probably the head of the Rotfang Conspiracy.”

“The what?” Harry asked.

“A secret organisation within the Ministry. They use Dark Magic and enchanted sweets in their attempts to bring down the Ministry. Why do you think the Headmaster is such an aficionado of sweets of all kinds? He had to become an expert to foil them!” Luna nodded emphatically at her own words, and Harry feared for a moment that she’d lose her balance and fall - right on his head.

“Ah.” Harry glanced at Ginny, who was subtly shaking her head. Better not pursue that topic, then. “In any case,” he continued, “it’s clear that the Aurors are useless. At least the ones assigned to this case,” he amended, thinking of Tonks.

“We’re not relying on them anyway,” Ginny said. “Professor Lupin saved us, not any of the Aurors.” She sniffed, but Harry saw that she was holding her side with her free hand. He gently squeezed her hand.

“We can’t rely entirely on the teachers either.” He bit his lower lip - he had almost mentioned the Order in front of Luna.

“We certainly can’t rely on Snape!” Ron said.

Harry coughed. “Speaking of Snape…”

“What about him?” Ron frowned at Harry.

He winced. “He helped save my life.”

“WHAT?” “What?” “Really?”

Harry sighed. He had expected that reaction.

*****

**Hogsmeade, January 30th, 1996**

She was finally allowed to visit Harry, and that dumb dog hadn’t told her at once! Hermione Granger was fuming when she stepped out of the fireplace in the Hog’s Head Inn, barely remembering to greet the innkeeper - he wasn’t at fault, after all - before rushing out, mounting her broom and flying towards Hogwarts.

She should have sneaked into the school instead of waiting until she was told that Harry was fit to receive visitors! She didn’t think that the wards would keep her out, expulsion or not. And even if they did she could sneak inside as a cat. And Pomfrey’s spells wouldn’t stop her. Next time, she promised herself, she wouldn’t wait.

She guided her broom down when she reached Hogwarts’ wardline. Just in case - she didn’t fancy splattering herself against the ward like a bug against a windshield. When she saw the red-robed figure in the snow, she pulled up, though. An Auror, here?

Her eyes widened. They must be investigating the incident, which meant that it had taken place here! She wanted to investigate the place herself, but with the Auror down there… She hadn’t done anything wrong, but it was never a good idea to attract the Aurors’ attention. Especially not as a - falsely or not - convicted thief.

But they didn’t seem to have spotted her, so she flew over the lake to approach Hogwarts from the other side. She landed and walked towards, then through, the wardline. The Headmaster didn’t want to bar her entry. Or, she thought with a snort, it was Hogwarts’ doing - Dumbledore certainly had talked about the school as if it had a will of its own. At least she could imagine him using that as an excuse.

But she pushed those fanciful thoughts away when she reached the castle proper. Harry was there, languishing in the infirmary! Or, she added to herself with a scowl, trying to sneak out despite being hurt.

Not on her watch, though!

She disillusioned herself and took a route through the castle that avoided the commonly used corridors - even though, at this time of the day, the students would be in their afternoon classes - and reached the infirmary a few minutes later. She almost went through the spells on the door - which were even  worse than she had feared; didn’t they care about Harry’s security? - before forcing herself to knock and wait for someone to open it.

It was the dog who opened the door to the infirmary. “Ah, Hermione. Come in.”

“Mr Black.” She glared at him, but he ignored it. He wouldn’t ignore her claws, but she couldn’t change here.

And, she realised, Mr Black didn’t look well. He was smiling, but it wasn’t genuine - she could tell. “How is he?” she asked in a whisper.

“Fine,” he answered. “According to him.”

She sighed. “And how is he really?”

He told her, and she had to press her hands against her mouth to avoid crying out in horror.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 30th, 1996**

“Hello, Harry.”

“Hermione!” Harry Potter smiled at his friend, then noticed that she was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and biting her lower lip. She was upset. He craned his neck to look behind his friend. There was Sirius. “You told her,” Harry said.

“Yes.” Sirius nodded. “I didn’t want her mad at me for both forgetting to call her at once and not telling her how you’re really doing,” he added with a forced grin.

Harry sighed. “I’ll live.”

“As long as you take a potion each day.” Hermione moved to his bed and looked at him. He saw her hand twitch, as if she wanted to draw her wand.

“Go ahead and check my health,” he said with a chuckle.

She drew her wand faster than Sirius in a duel, Harry noticed. She also cast a few spells he hadn’t seen before. Her tutor must have been better than he had thought. “So, what’s the verdict, Doctor Granger?”

She glared at him instead of laughing. “You’re still sore, but I couldn’t spot any permanent damage to your body. Which doesn’t mean that there isn’t - I’m no Healer.”

Harry shrugged and carefully didn’t react to the slight jolt of pain that that caused. “Pomfrey and the Healer she called didn’t find anything either.” He smiled. “So, do I get a hug?”

She embraced him, but not as hard as usual, or so he thought.

“I’m not going to break.”

Hermione snorted at that. “You’d say that even if you were,” she said, then released him and sat down on the chair next to his bed while Sirius remained standing at its foot.

“What happened?” she asked.

Harry took a deep breath. He didn’t really want to tell his story yet again, but Hermione was his best friend - his best female friend. “Well, Ginny and I were walking back from Hogsmeade in the evening, along the shores of the Black Lake…”

*****

“...and I woke up in the infirmary here, and have been prodded and interrogated ever since.”

Hermione Granger flushed with embarrassment - she had just done the same. Both the prodding and the interrogating. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Don’t be. At least you mean well,” Harry said. “Unlike the damn Aurors! They suspect you!”

“What?” She stared at him.

He nodded. “Yes. One of them, Dawlish was his name, thinks you’re stealing from Sirius and me, and wanted to kill me so I wouldn’t discover it.”

“That… that…” she clenched her teeth. It was one thing to be thought a thief - she had become a thief, after all, even though she had been framed first - but a murderer? Dawlish was either an incredibly stupid bigot, or paid by Malfoy. Probably both, she thought.

“Well, I told him off,” Harry said. “Stupid git.”

She nodded, even though she doubted that Dawlish would change his views. “So, Dumbledore stopped the bleeding,” she said to change the topic - they shouldn’t talk about her troubles when Harry had almost died! And she already knew that, given the slightest opportunity, Mr Black would make a lewd remark about her role as his secretary, which she could do without.

“With Snape’s assistance.” Harry laughed. “He must have hated helping me!”

“Oh, yes,” Mr Black agreed.

She didn’t comment on that. She didn’t like Snape - she still remembered how he had let his students sneer at her when she had left Hogwarts - but if he had helped save Harry’s life he couldn’t be entirely bad. There were more important things to worry about, anyway, other than a bad teacher. “What’s being done about the curse?” She was proud that she could talk about this with a steady voice. If she had such a curse on her, one missed potion away from a brutal, painful death… she shuddered.

“Dumbledore’s working on it,” Harry said. “But it’s blood magic; he has to do some research.”

“Blood magic?” She glanced at Mr Black. There hadn’t been many books covering that subject in his library. But she remembered a few. And why she had looked them up - the ritual murders last year. “It was Voldemort then. He tried to have you killed.” She was certain of it.

Harry nodded. “It might have just been a distraction, but he certainly wouldn’t have minded if the vampire had been successful.”

She clenched her teeth. First the incident with his scar, and now this. Voldemort had to be stopped at any cost before he murdered Harry. If he wasn’t even safe at Hogwarts… She drew a hissing breath. He _wasn’t_ safe - one sabotaged potion would be enough. “Do the other students know about the curse not having been dealt with?”

Harry shrugged - he was certainly not taking this seriously enough, Hermione thought - and said: “Dumbledore said they’ll keep it a secret. I haven’t told anyone but you, Ginny, Ron and Luna.”

“Luna?” She stared at him. She liked the girl, but if ‘flighty’ fit any witch, then it was Luna. The Ravenclaw was not only lost in her own world half the time, but seemed to actively try and double that time.

“She’s a good friend,” he said, frowning at her. “Ginny’s first and best friend, actually. She spent almost every day with us at The Burrow over the holidays.”

That didn’t make her a trustworthy person, Hermione thought. Even if she intended to keep the secret, there were ways to get around that, and she doubted that Luna knew how to protect herself. “But if people know that she’s so close to you, they might go after her.”

She saw him wince, and felt guilty. But it was for his own good. Then he put on a mulish expression. “I think they’d rather go after Pomfrey who does know for sure what happened instead of a student who only might know about it. Besides, Dumbledore knows about this.”

She opened her mouth to retort that that didn’t change anything, and that Luna was both in danger, and a danger to Harry, but caught herself in time. Harry had narrowly escaped being killed. He was suffering from a deadly curse only held at bay by potions, and had spent the last two days in the infirmary. What kind of friend was she, berating him for a mistake he made under those conditions?

A really bad one, she answered herself.

So she nodded and tried to smile. “Alright.” She sighed. “I’m sorry for acting like this. I’m just so worried for you.”

Harry smiled, if a little weakly. He probably knew he had made a mistake, too. “It’s OK.”

It wasn’t. But they could pretend that it was. For a while at least.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 30th, 1996**

“Good evening, Miss Granger. Please have a seat.”

“Good evening, Headmaster.” Hermione Granger nodded rather curtly, then forced herself to relax. Dumbledore wasn’t her enemy. He had saved Harry’s life. She sat down with her back straight and met his eyes.

He raised an eyebrow at the sight, then briefly chuckled. “You have changed a lot since you had to leave this school.”

“I was a lot younger then,” she pointed out.

“Ah, one of the follies of old age - what is a long time for youth feels like but a moment for one as aged as me.” He folded his hands with his elbows on the desk. “I am glad you asked to talk to me; it saves me a trip to your home.”

“Oh?” She didn’t blink, but she couldn’t hide her surprise.

“Indeed. The attack on Harry, which almost succeeded but for his and his friends’ skill and a not inconsiderable amount of luck, has left me in a situation where I need your help. Yours and Mundungus’s.”

She understood what he meant almost immediately. “For Harry’s cure.”

He nodded. “As you may already know, blood magic is highly illegal. But unlike other questionable magic, where it is its use that is illegal, stiff penalties are imposed upon those caught merely possessing information about blood magic. This means that those who do have tomes covering that subject are loathe to tell anyone about them, much less loan them.”

“You want us to steal such books.”

He inclined his head. “And find them in the first place.”

She bit her lower lip. Of course she’d do it - she’d do anything to save Harry - but _could_ she do it? “Finding them will be difficult.” She was confident that Mr Fletcher and she could break into any house they needed to, but how were they supposed to find out who owned such books? Break into every pureblood manor in Britain? That would be satisfying, but hardly practicable. “Unless you know where they might be found.”

“I have my suspicions - often well-founded - but a certain amount of guesswork and luck will be needed, as with most ventures in this conflict.”

They had their work cut out for them, then. She nodded, her lips pressed together. For Harry.

“I will, of course, talk to Mundungus as well,” Dumbledore said.

“If he refuses, I’ll do it myself,” she said at once. She didn’t think Mr Fletcher would refuse, though - this was important, after all. More important than bugging the homes of some thugs.

“I know, Miss Granger. And so does Mundungus, I believe. Your loyalty to your friends does you credit.”

“Thank you, sir.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of friends…”

“Yes?” He tipped his head slightly to the side.

“Harry told Ron, Ginny and Luna about his curse.” She didn’t frown as she said this.

“I am aware of that.”

“While I do not doubt their loyalty and bravery, I think this knowledge endangers them.” She stared at him. “The Death Eaters or their children at Hogwarts might go after them to find out what happened.”

He nodded. “Steps have been taken to prevent that.” He smiled. “Such measures would have to be implemented even if Harry hadn’t told them; our enemies wouldn’t know that, after all. And all of his friends are already in danger just because they are close to him.”

She knew that very well. “Shouldn’t they be taught Occlumency as well?”

He sighed. “Legilimency is not as common as you might fear; few are proficient in its use, and fewer still are able to use it reliably without being obvious. And those who do usually have alternatives at hand when faced with someone trained in Occlumency.”

Like torture. Hermione shuddered. “It wouldn’t hurt, though, would it?”

“It might, actually - learning Occlumency is not like learning a spell. There’s a reason few master it.” He smiled. “Although I have noticed that you haven’t asked for that training yourself, so I assume you have taken a different way to safeguard your mind against intrusion.”

She clenched her teeth. To make such an obvious mistake grated. Then she sighed, nodding. “Yes.”

He smiled as if he had already known long ago. Which, she had to admit, he probably had. At least she could trust him not to betray her secret.

He needed his thieves, after all. And so did Harry.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 2nd, 1996**

“Cheers!” Harry Potter said with as much sarcasm as he could and raised the vial in a mocking toast to Remus, who returned the gesture with a sickly grin.

Harry grimaced and held his breath as he moved the vial to his lips. The potion that kept his curse in check smelled horrible and tasted worse. He swallowed the entire contents of the vial in one go. It didn’t make it taste any less horrible, but it was over more quickly.

Taking deep breaths through his mouth, he reached for the cola Sirius had provided. A few mouthfuls took care of the horrible aftertaste, and he started breathing normally again. “I’m convinced this is Snape’s doing,” he muttered, “he must have chosen the taste to hurt me.”

Remus laughed at that, then started to cough, covering his mouth with his hand. He stopped after a few seconds, but Harry thought that he caught a glimpse of red on the man’s fingers before Remus wiped his hand on a handkerchief.

He didn’t say anything, though. Remus had been cursed earlier than Harry, and the curse had done more damage to his body before it had been stopped. And it had all been because of Harry. If not for him there wouldn’t have been an attack, and Remus wouldn’t have lost so much time saving him.

“I’m alright,” Remus said. He must have noticed Harry’s reaction. “I’m just taking a little longer to recover completely.”

Harry nodded, trying not to let his doubts show. You didn’t completely recover from dark curses - he had been taught that by Remus himself. “Thank you.” He didn’t have to say what for.

Remus nodded. “Any time, Harry.”

He wasn’t lying, Harry knew. He didn’t want to dwell on that, though. He took a deep sigh and kept his tone light for his next words. “Well, they’re finally releasing us from this place, so I guess we’re in no danger of dying any time soon. Though we might wish we were, if they don’t improve the taste of this potion.”

“Sirius offered to fill in as Defence teacher for me,” Remus said, matching his tone. “I would have gone back to teaching even if I were dying, to spare my students _that_.”

They laughed, briefly, at their own jokes, even if they weren’t really funny. But it helped dealing with the fact that they were now dependent on a potion. Although, Harry thought, then felt ashamed for it, Remus was used to depending on a potion already, wasn’t he?

*****

**Hogwarts, February 3rd, 1996**

Harry Potter had barely closed the door to the unused classroom behind them when Ginny jumped him and hugged him harder than Hermione usually did. Since he didn’t collapse, Harry guessed that that meant he really had recovered much better than Remus. He rubbed her back but avoided touching her side, where she had been cut by a rock shard.

He heard her snort, then she pulled back and frowned at him. “I’m not the one who got cursed,” she said, a little testily, he thought.

“I know, it’s just…” He shrugged. He had seen her bleed. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt either,” she shot back.

“I’ll do my best to avoid it,” he said, “but Voldemort has it in for me.”

“Well, he can’t get you at Hogwarts.” She stepped back to sit down on the teacher’s desk and let her legs dangle.

“I can’t hide here forever.” He tapped his scar. “I’m the Boy-Who-Lived, after all.” And the scar tied him to the Dark Lord.

“Not forever, but the next year or two.” She threw her hair back. “And Dumbledore might get him in the meantime.”

“He didn’t get him in the last war.”

Ginny stared at him. “You sound as if you plan to fight him.”

“I’m not. But I’m preparing. Just in case.” He wasn’t really planning. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to risk himself. And Dumbledore was still trying to find out what exactly Harry’s mum had done to protect him and defeat Voldemort. But with the curse on Harry, the Headmaster wouldn’t be able to focus on that - finding a cure was more important. And they knew that his mother’s protection wouldn’t last past his seventeenth birthday - he would have to fight Voldemort before it ended. “I’ll train harder, too.” He had to. He couldn’t let anyone else get hurt because of him.

“You’re already spending half your evenings with Sirius or Dumbledore,” Ginny said.

He nodded. It was needed, after all.

“And there’s Quidditch,” she added.

“I can drop that if it gets too much,” Harry said. He would hate it, but defeating Voldemort - and surviving the fight - took priority.

“You can’t just train all the time. You need to relax too,” she said.

“I’ve got you for that,” he said, grinning. He stepped up to her and leaned forward.

She slowly leaned back, not breaking eye contact. He pressed on until he was on top of her, then kissed her.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 4th, 1996**

Sitting in Mr Black’s study, waiting, Hermione Granger rolled her eyes. Mr Black was late. He should have been here already - he knew she had arrived. But the dog was late. She wouldn’t mind if he was visiting Harry, who needed his godfather more than ever now, but according to Kreacher, Mr Black was ‘entertaining’ his guest. Which meant Jeanne. How could he think that dallying - or whatever it was that he was doing - with his French girlfriend was more important than meeting with her? They had important things to discuss!

She noticed the door opening and quickly picked up the parchment in front of her - it might be Jeanne, after all, who would expect a very busy and very focused secretary. Not an impatient thief.

Mr Black peeked in, then pulled back. “Ah, she’s here already! I’m sorry, chérie, but apparently I have important business matters to discuss,” she heard him say. To Jeanne, judging by the sounds of kissing that followed. And went on.

She was clenching her teeth and glaring at the dog when he finally entered and closed the door behind him. And he had the gall to smile at her!

“So, what do you need to talk about?” he asked, sitting down on his new swivel chair. If he started to spin around on it she’d hex him. Or claw him. This was serious.

She glanced at the door to check that it was closed.

“Jeanne won’t hear a word,” he assured her. “And she’s off to Diagon Alley anyway.”

She nodded curtly. He hadn’t lost all sense over the witch, then. She raised her chin and met his eyes. “I need to tell Mr Fletcher about our secret.”

His wide and slightly mocking smile disappeared. “We’ve gone over this before,” he said. “I don’t trust him.”

“Dumbledore trusts him. I trust him,” she retorted, then bit her lower lip. She couldn’t rehash arguments that had failed to convince him in the past. “But that’s not the point. The situation has changed. This isn’t about spying on Death Eaters any more. This is about finding a cure for Harry.” He drew a hissing breath through clenched teeth. She went on: “Dumbledore needs information about blood magic. That means we’ll have to break into the lairs of vampires. And manors of Old Families hiding such magic. Both are extremely dangerous. If Mr Fletcher doesn’t know what I can do, he will not be able to make the best plans.”

He glared at her. “But you know what you can do. And you’re a good planner.”

She refrained from nodding, even though she was - briefly - pleased at the recognition. “I lack his experience.” And he wouldn’t follow a plan of hers, not when she couldn’t tell him what exactly she was planning. “You have to trust your partner in such matters.” And she had been hiding this far too long from her tutor already.

“I don’t trust him,” he spat.

“Would you rather risk your secret or Harry’s cure?” She kept looking directly into his eyes until he scowled and looked away.

“That’s unfair.”

“So?” She didn’t care how fair it was if it was about saving Harry.

He closed his eyes and seemed to slide down a few inches in his seat. After a few moments, he sighed. “Alright.” Then he sat up and smiled at her - rather evilly, she noticed. “But I’ll tell him myself.”

He was planning something, Hermione knew him well enough to tell. But as long as she could finally show Mr Fletcher what she could do, she wouldn’t complain.

“Good.”

*****

“Get offa me, you mangy cur!”

“Woof!”

“Stop lickin’ my face! I’ll curse you… give me back my wand!”

Hermione Granger closed her eyes and sighed. She really should have known better than to to think Mr Black would be able to show off his animagus form without acting like the stupid dog he was.

“Hermione! Get him off me!” Mr Fletcher yelled from where the dog had pinned him to the floor - next to the vase that had been broken during the tussle.

She hesitated a moment, then changed herself.

Time to teach the dog some manners with her claws. Again.

*****

 


	16. A Bloody Business

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, Britain, February 6th, 1996**

“I grow tired of your excuses, Lucius.”

Lucius Malfoy fought not to tremble as his guest sighed and shook his head. He hadn’t raised his voice, but that didn’t mean anything; Lucius knew just how suddenly the Dark Lord could inflict his cruelties.

The far too young-looking man - Lucius didn’t know how that had been achieved, but it had to be the result of the darkest magic - shifted on his seat in Lucius’s study and frowned at him. “If not for your intervention, Pettigrew - a loyal, if craven, follower - would be in Azkaban, ready to be freed together with the other faithful.”

“Milord, he was beyond help. If I hadn’t spoken up, then Black would have,” Lucius said in as steady a voice as he could manage. “Black would never have let him live. I chose to have Pettigrew’s death serve a purpose, at least, by improving my standing in the Wizengamot, where I can do your work.”

The Dark Lord scoffed. “So you claimed before. And yet, for all your vaunted standing and influence, the Ministry is still not mine.”

“Milord, such things cannot be rushed, or your enemies will notice what I’m doing, and prepare to counter me.”

He clenched his teeth when he saw the other sneer at him. “Do you think that my greatest foe is stupid? Dumbledore already knows what you are doing - you’ve been bribing your way into power for fifteen years.”

“He hasn’t managed to stop me, though,” Lucius protested. “He couldn’t even save Potter’s mudblood from being expelled.” That had been a beautiful plot. Not only had he managed to remove that uppity mudblood from the school before she embarrassed the real wizards and witches further with her skill, but since Parkinson, Greengrass, Davis and Bulstrode had been so greedy, he had leverage over them as well. And Draco had - finally - learned how to deal with his enemies. He wouldn’t repeat the mistake that he had made with the Malaclaw venom.

“Do you expect me to be impressed by the fact that you managed to get a mudblood child expelled? A single mudblood gone from Hogwarts is nothing! Dozens of them still pollute those sacred halls with their presence!” The Dark Lord flicked his wand, and Lucius hissed when his Dark Mark started to burn his arm.

“Milord… she was one of Potter’s closest friends. My son told me how much he depended on her. Your foe is weakened.” Lucius spoke quickly, shivering as the pain in his arm grew stronger.

“She is an ignorant child, nothing more. Dumbledore is the enemy, and Potter is his tool. Mudbloods don’t matter as long as those two live!”

Lucius drew a hissing breath as he clutched his left arm. “Milord, please…” he managed to say as he sagged in his seat.

The Dark Lord scoffed, but with a swish of his wand, the pain stopped. “You have grown soft, Lucius. Expelling mudbloods? You used to kill them, remember?”

He did. He had been young, and foolish. But he nodded. “Yes, milord. But as you said - the time is not yet ripe for such acts. We have to move cautiously.”

“Cautiously, yes - but not cowardly! I expect results, Lucius. You killed Pettigrew to increase your influence; you promised me the Ministry - but you have not delivered.”

Lucius drew deep breaths as he recovered from the Dark Lord’s torture. “Milord, I’m close. The Minister considers me his best friend. I lead the biggest faction in the Wizengamot. I have promoted your staunchest followers in the Ministry. I only need a little more time.”

“And yet you have failed to rid the Ministry of Weasley. You could not even manage to get his son fired. Black still controls his huge fortune despite your best efforts. When will you demonstrate this much vaunted influence of yours?”

“Milord, Dumbledore needed to call in favours to save Weasley - and that wasn’t the only time he has had to. The more he struggles to oppose me, the weaker he grows. Already people are asking if he can fulfill his duties as both the Chief Warlock and the Headmaster of Hogwarts. And they notice how much he favours his allies. Protecting Black has cost him, too - and thanks to me, he spent a small fortune to pay the mudblood’s debt.” Lucius leaned forward, placing his hands on his desk. “We are making progress, milord, on multiple fronts. Victory is but a question of time.”

“You’ve said that before. My patience is growing thin, Lucius,” the Dark Lord snarled. “I know your ambitions. Do not fail me.”

“I live to serve you, Master,” Lucius said, bowing his head.

“You live as long as you serve me. Don’t forget it.” Another flick of the Dark Lord’s wand made Lucius’s Dark Mark burn again, but only for an instant, before the Dark Lord left him.

But it had been enough to leave him trembling with fear and pain. Shivering, he rubbed his arm as he leaned back in his seat. He hit the bell on his desk, and, half a minute later, he heard the concealed door in the wall at his back open.

He didn’t turn his head. “Dobby, fetch me the bottle!”

“Yes, Master Lucius.”

A minute later, the elf had come and left again, and Lucius had recovered enough not to spill the whisky as he filled his glass. This could not go on. The Dark Lord was too impatient. If the Dark Lord treated him like this, when he was one of his most influential and richest followers, how would he fare once the Dark Lord had won?

He took a sip from his glass, shuddering as the liquid burned his throat. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. All he had wanted, back in the beginning, was to teach the mudbloods their place. Those filthy animals couldn’t be allowed to hold any power in Wizarding Britain. The damage they would do to society…

He sighed and rubbed his arm. If had he known the price of following the Dark Lord… If he had not sacrificed Pettigrew to remove any lingering suspicion… He wouldn’t have done it had he been aware that the Dark Lord was still alive. And now it didn’t look as if the Dark Lord would ever let him forget that lapse.

If he managed to deliver the Ministry to the Dark Lord, perhaps… No. Lucius shook his head. He knew that he wasn’t the only Death Eater working to take over the Ministry. He had rivals ready to tear him down and take his place. Rivals who would claim they had done it. And the Dark Lord would listen to them - or pretend to listen to them, if only to punish Lucius for his supposed failures. Or his family.

The thought of Narcissa or Draco suffering the Dark Lord’s wrath, writhing under his Torture Curse… He downed the entire glass and refilled it. He couldn’t let that happen. But he couldn’t do anything. Not alone and with the Dark Mark burning on his arm.

But he didn’t have any allies. He didn’t know who else was working for the Dark Lord and in a similar situation - although he had his suspicions, of course. But, even if he knew, he couldn’t trust them not to betray him - willingly or not.

No, there was but one wizard who could help him. One wizard able to stand against the Dark Lord. A wizard he had opposed and fought for two decades now. But, Lucius thought, a wizard who would know the value of his influence. And, he added, remembering a diary resting in his hidden vault, he could offer something else in exchange for help against the Dark Lord.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 7th, 1996**

“If you try to lick my face again, I’ll curse your tongue off.” Mr Fletcher raised his wand and glared at Mr Black.

“Don’t worry about that - I won’t do it again. I needed half a bottle of Ogden’s Finest to burn the taste off my tongue. That aftershave...” Mr Black stuck his tongue out and made exaggerated gagging noises.

“It’s not meant to be appreciated by animals,” Mr Fletcher shot back.

“Let me tell you from personal experience: It doesn’t taste any better to humans either. I bet it drives witches away!” Mr Black sneered.

“I haven’t heard any complaints from Hermione.”

Hermione Granger opened her mouth to remind the two wizards that they had gathered in the basement of Grimmauld Place to plan a heist, not to exchange barbs with each other, but Mr Black spoke up before she could: “Well, her nose must be defective. Or she’s simply too polite to mention that your aftershave reeks.” He sighed. “She usually has better taste in men, too.”

“My nose works perfectly well!” Hermione glared at him.

Her employer sniffed at her. “As a Grim, I’m the expert on smells here.”

“You’re a dog, not a Grim,” she corrected him, barely managing to avoid adding ‘stupid’, “and given that dogs tend to stick their noses into every disgusting thing they find, I don’t think you’re an authority on aftershave.”

“Well, your friend - and your student, ‘Mr Smith’ - would disagree. The lovely Jeanne loves my aftershave.” Mr Black smirked.

“Or she’s simply too polite to criticise it,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “After all, I taught her manners.”

“You also taught Miss Granger manners, didn’t you? And yet she often behaves like an animal around me - and not in the sexy way.” The dog rubbed his recently healed nose for emphasis.

“It’s the only language you seem to understand,” Hermione said with a sweet smile.

Her tutor laughed. “You could try a rolled-up newspaper too.”

In response, Mr Black changed forms, for a moment only - he was smirking at Mr Fletcher, who had jumped up from his chair and aimed his wand at the dog. “A little twitchy, are we? Or afraid?” Mr Black asked in a mocking tone. “Do you hex every friendly dog you happen across?”

“You’re anything but friendly, Black,” Mr Fletcher snarled.

“I’m very friendly! Just ask my friends!” Mr Black said, giving the other man a toothy smile.

“The ones you paid or the ones you blackmailed?” Hermione’s tutor shot back.

This was getting too serious, Hermione thought. “Please!” she spoke up, “We’re here to plan the next heist, not to exchange insults.” She saw the dog opening his mouth and quickly added: “If you say ‘He started it!’ I’ll hex you. This is about Harry, not about who’s had more success with witches.” She glared at both of them for good measure. They were worse than Harry and Ron had been in first year during their disagreement over which Quidditch team was best - Puddlemere United or Chudley Cannons. Both were wrong, anyway - the Holyhead Harpies were clearly the best team.

“Do you let your student talk to you in that manner?” Mr Black complained.

“Only when she’s correct,” Mr Fletcher said. He sat down again and pulled out a roll of parchment from his pocket.

The dog grumbled something and sat down as well. Hermione sighed.

“Alright. Our acquaintance gave me a list of places to look into,” her tutor started the briefing.

“You mean Dumbledore,” Mr Black said, “and by ‘looking’ you mean ‘breaking into’.” Hermione scratched the tabletop with her nails, and he shrugged. “Just clarifying things.”

Mr Fletcher ignored him. “These are suspected vampire lairs and manors of families who might own tomes covering blood magic.”

“That’s an awful lot of assumptions. And a lot of locations.” Mr Black simply couldn’t keep quiet and let someone else talk, Hermione thought.

“You wanted to be involved in this kind of work, Black.” Mr Fletcher scoffed. “If it’s too much for you then you can go back to your girlfriend and let us work.”

“As Miss Granger has pointed out, this is for Harry. Not for gold.” Mr Black looked rather grim.

“We’re not doing this for gold either.” And so did Mr Fletcher.

Hermione wanted to hex them both. “Which location will we hit first?” she asked instead, a little louder than she usually would.

They got the message. Her tutor tapped the first name on the list. “This house in Swansea. Up until 1915, a branch of the Tripe family lived there. Officially, the house has been vacant since then, but it’s been kept in good repair - even after the last heir of the Tripe family was killed in Grindelwald’s War.”

“Magenta Tripe married into the Black family,” Mr Black added. “But I don’t think we have a claim - my mother would have pressed it, and she would have known, obsessed as she was with our ancestry.”

“Someone’s been living there. And according to my source…”

“Dumbledore,” the dog cut in again.

“...Maximilian Tripe was declared dead in 1905, but persistent rumours claimed that he was actually turned into a vampire,” Mr Fletcher said. “He was a scholar during his life, and known for his controversial views on the Dark Arts.”

“You’re going to break into the suspected lair of a vampire who is over a hundred and fifty years old, and was a dark wizard when he was alive?” Mr Black sounded surprised.

“Of course,” Mr Fletcher answered. “It’s what we do.” Hermione smiled widely at hearing him  include her. He trusted her!

Mr Black, though, turned his head to stare at her. His meaning was clear. She raised her chin and met his eyes. “For Harry,” she said.

The dog swallowed what he had been about to say.

*****

**Swansea, West Glamorgan, Britain, February 8th, 1996**

There was the garden! Hermione ducked down and slowly approached the iron fence. She could just make out the slightly blurry form of the building behind it, but the fence was the important part, anyway. It was tall and massive, but the bars were far enough apart that a lithe cat like herself could squeeze through easily.

Unlike a big, stupid dog, she thought with amusement. It was so like him to vent his frustration by marking the fence post - the dog must have forgotten that they weren’t here to stay and claim the territory, but rather to scope out the building for a quick raid.

She reached the fence and sniffed the air. She didn’t smell any decaying carcasses, nor any blood. Which meant that the wards defending the place - the fence was also the wardline - wouldn’t harm her or any other animal. She carefully and cautiously put her paws on the concrete base of the fence and peered through the bars. From here she could see the building clearly. The green bricks - no, she reminded herself, they were red, actually. Not that it mattered, anyway - were partially covered with ivy that reached up to the gable roof. Perfect for climbing - if you were a slender, agile cat. Dogs, of course, couldn’t climb, even if the plants were able to hold their weight.

But all the windows were shuttered, she noted. And through the slits she could spot curtains. She wouldn’t be able to peer inside even if she climbed the walls. She sniffed the air - the plants in their pots at each side of the entrance had been freshly watered. And there was a newspaper on the stairs.

Someone was living there. Someone who didn’t like the sun. She narrowed her eyes and flattened her ears in disdain - while the night was perfect for prowling, as all the humans were unable to spot a cat, being blind in the darkness, only an utter fool would not want to take naps in the sun.

She ducked her head and slowly moved it until her whiskers touched the bars. Enough space for her head. Satisfied, she pushed through, her slender body barely touching the metal, until she landed gracefully in the garden.

It was a well kept garden, too - the grass was cut so short that no prey could hide in it. No sign of any rivals. More importantly, no sign of a dog - how people could keep those stupid animals in their homes when they could invite a cat instead, she couldn’t fathom. Quick as lightning, she dashed over to the building proper, hiding behind a flower pot.

No one came out to feed her or scare her away. Which meant that she hadn’t been seen. She eyed the front door - no window there, but a massive knocker - and the ivy - grown enough to support her weight, as she had known - then made a circuit of the building. There was a door at the back. Those usually led to the kitchen, or close, but she couldn’t smell any food, nor those spices humans were fond of. But… her nostrils flared. The scent was faint, but clear. Blood. Fresh, too. The owner must have successfully hunted last night. Or used some method to preserve the blood.

The door itself was sturdy, but there was a window - although with a curtain blocking the sunlight. And she saw dead bugs on the threshold. She didn’t smell poison, so they had probably been killed by magic.

It wasn’t bad, though - she wouldn’t have been able to break through the door with her claws anyway. And she could deal with such spells when she had hands and her wand. She continued her tour. On the right side of the house there was a coal chute. Lots of dead bugs there. And someone had filled the space below with concrete. She hissed in annoyance - she might have been able to squeeze through the gap between the lid and the stone, otherwise. She couldn’t smell anything, either. Not even dust. Unnatural.

She finished her tour, but didn’t find anything else of interest. That left the roof. She could climb up and see if the attic was sealed as well. It would be easy for such a good climber as herself. The work of a few minutes, at most.

She flattened her ears. Her tutor had forbidden it. But he was no cat; he didn’t know what cats could do. On the other hand, he knew magic. And she was a smart cat, not a stupid dog who didn’t listen.

She glanced up at the roof one more time. It would be so easy to climb up! But instead she left, slipping through the fence at the exact same spot she had entered - she smelled her fur on the bars. Mission accomplished, she thought, her tail held high, as she started towards the building where her tutor - and probably the stupid dog, too - was waiting.

She had almost reached the street she had to cross when, suddenly, a rival cat crossed her path. A tomcat. A big one. Smaller than Crookshanks, though. And not nearly as smart - he was hissing at her.

She flattened her ears and hissed back. She had fought the stupid dog several times and he was as massive as a human; a mere tomcat didn’t impress her. Most of his bulk was fat, anyway.

He stood his ground as she approached, growling now. She still wasn’t impressed. She was on a mission, an important mission. No tomcat could be allowed to interfere. When he ignored her last warning, she struck. Right on the nose!

*****

“Was that you I heard hissing and screaming, or was that another cat?” Mr Black asked as soon as Hermione Granger entered the room they had rented - under a fake name, and in disguise, of course.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you curious about what I found out?”

He shrugged. “You’ll tell us that anyway - and in great detail - as soon as Fletcher is here. I’d rather hear it once. Hard enough to stay awake.” He ignored her scowl - she was thorough, not boring! - and peered at her. “You don’t look hurt.”

“Of course not.” She scoffed - she had healed the scratches the other cat had left on her before entering.

“But you haven’t answered the question,” he said, grinning.

She rolled her eyes. She could lie, but they were on a heist, and lies caused trouble in a team. “I had to persuade a cat that he better avoid us.” She didn’t want to deal with a rival cat in the middle of the actual heist. And the tomcat had to learn not to annoy his betters.

“I hope you were more gentle with him than you are with me,” Mr Black said. “You didn’t kill the poor thing, did you?”

“I haven’t killed you, have I?” she shot back. As if she’d kill a fellow cat! Did he think she was a monster?

“Well, I’m an experienced - and handsome - wizard who is far harder to kill than a simple cat,” he retorted. “But it certainly felt as if you tried your best to kill me.”

She sighed. He was such a dog.

Fortunately, Mr Fletcher returned before she was honestly tempted to teach the dog a lesson too. Not that she thought he’d ever learn it.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 10th, 1996**

“So, you lot wanna learn how to fight for real? No more playing around with hexes and jinxes?” The scarred old Auror walked back and forth in front of Harry Potter and his friends, his peg leg punctuating each word with a dull noise.

“Yes!” Harry answered together with Ron and Ginny. They hadn’t been playing around, not for a long time, but Remus and Sirius had told him that it was a bad idea to try and correct Mad-Eye Moody.

“Shouting won’t make it true,” the old wizard scoffed. “We’re not in a muggle movie.” He narrowed his good eye - the artificial one kept spinning wildly in its socket - at them. “I’ll tell you straight away: I’m not gonna coddle you. I’m not a school teacher; I’m a Senior Auror. I’ve made Auror trainees and even rookie Aurors break down in tears,” he added with a smile that was turned into a sneer by the scars marring his face.

Harry bit his lip to keep from giving the man lip. Sirius had warned him against that, too. Even if he wanted to say that he had faced Voldemort and a vampire and was no rookie any more.

“Heard you had a little tussle with a blood sucker, Potter,” Moody continued as if he had read Harry’s thoughts - which he hadn’t, Harry knew. The Auror stopped in front of him. “You and the little girl there.”

“I’m not a little girl!” Ginny spat. “I fought that vampire too, even wounded!”

“Hah!” Moody turned to her. “I’ve read the reports. I’ve seen the body. You sent a few spells at the vampire, that was it. You didn’t even rate a curse in return; you were wounded by an explosion aimed at Potter here.”

Ginny gasped in outrage, but Moody had already turned back to Harry. “And you, Potter! You were supposedly trained for exactly that situation! And what did you do? Break your broom, lose your Cloak, and get cursed!”

“I didn’t _lose_ my Cloak - I gave it to Ginny!” Harry snapped. “And we bloody well got that vampire!”

“Three versus one, and he hit two of you. If he had been using another dark curse, a faster one, you’d be dead.” Moody shook his head. “Sloppy of Lupin, really.”

“Remus did his best!” Harry protested. Remus had been cursed, and still fought on - and had beaten the vampire!

“And it wasn’t good enough.” Moody turned to Ron. “And you! You weren’t even in the fight. The only thing you’ve done so far is play around in training - you’ve got even less experience than these two here. Whatcha gonna do, serve as a distraction?”

Harry glanced at Ron. His friend was glaring at the old Auror and clenching his teeth. “I’ve heard better insults from my brothers,” Ron spat. “I’ll do whatever is needed. And it’s your job to teach us that, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Harry joined in. “How about we start?”

They’d show Moody what they could do. Sirius and Remus had trained them well, after all.

*****

“Get him!” Harry Potter yelled, flicking his wand and sending two Stunners at Moody. But the Auror had already vanished behind a conjured wall. “We just have to hit him once!”

“I’m trying!” Ron, at his side, yelled back, vanishing the wall.

Harry had been waiting for that. His next Stunner flew through the space the wall had been in - and vanished in a cloud of fog or smoke.

“Ginny! Flank him!” There was no response. “Ginny?” He glanced to his side. The witch was on the ground, knocked out.

“Harry!”

He whirled around, just in time to catch a Stunner that shattered his Shield Charm. He was already dropping to the ground, but another hit him before he even touched the stone floor.

*****

“You’re worse than I hoped, but you’re not entirely hopeless.” Moody was once again pacing - if you could call his limping gait that - in front of them. Harry Potter knew that it was an act, though - the old Auror hadn’t been limping at all during their ‘lesson’. The wooden leg was probably enchanted too, and better than a natural one, Harry thought.

Ron mumbled something under his breath, rubbing his arm. Harry didn’t catch it, but Moody chuckled. He probably also had a spell to enhance his hearing. Ginny didn’t say anything. The witch just glared at Moody.

“So, we’ll do this twice a week, until you’re better than the curse-fodder I usually train. Until then you’re not to leave the school unless Albus or I are escorting you,” Moody went on. “Mind you, that’ll probably take the rest of the year, so no more Hogsmeade weekends for you.”

Ginny gasped, but Harry and Ron nodded. No matter how brutal Moody was - and Harry was certain he had broken a few ribs during their training; he knew the feeling even when they had been numbed - a real fight was far worse. And Harry didn’t intend to get cursed again. Or see Ginny get hurt again.

Moody squinted at them with his good eye. “And remember: Constant Vigilance! Don’t trust anyone - not a student, not a teacher, not even a friend! Voldemort’s after you, and you know what he can do. If he catches you off-guard, you better hope he kills you, because I’ll make you wish that he had!”

Harry winced. He didn’t think that the Auror was entirely serious, but… best not to risk it. Which, he realised, was probably why Moody had said that. “Yes, sir,” he spat out.

Moody stared at him, then nodded curtly. “Get to the infirmary and let Poppy check you out.” With that, he left.

“Merlin’s balls!” Ron sighed and sat down as soon as the door had closed behind the Auror. “I thought Sirius and Remus were brutal!”

“They warned us about him, remember?” Harry said. He touched his chest. His ribs were still numbed.

“Yeah. Didn’t think they were that serious. You know them.” Ron’s laugh turned into a cough and a groan. He had been hit in the chest too, Harry recalled.

“Let’s head to Pomfrey,” he said. If they hurried a little they would be back in time for dinner. He turned to look at Ginny, who had been uncharacteristically silent so far. She was staring at the door. “Ginny?”

She whipped her head round to look at him, and he flinched at her expression. “Who does he think he is? No more Hogsmeade?”

“Well, I reckon he’s right,” Ron said. “Wouldn’t want to risk another attack until we’re ready, and Harry’s curse has been fixed.”

“We weren’t attacked in Hogsmeade,” Ginny retorted, “but outside of it, when we were alone.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to attack us in Hogsmeade,” Harry said. “And that could hurt a lot of people.” Voldemort wanted to keep his actions secret, as far as he knew, but the Dark Lord might very well decide that killing Harry was worth exposing himself. Or he might simply count on blaming the attack on others.

Ginny scowled. “Still…”

“Don’t fret about it,” Ron said, chuckling. “You didn’t really think Mum would let you visit Hogsmeade again until you’ve graduated anyway, did you?”

Harry didn’t think Molly would approve of Ginny’s answer to that either.

*****

**Swansea, West Glamorgan, Britain, February 11th, 1996**

Standing at the window of their rented flat, Hermione Granger tapped the side of her mask with her left hand twice and slid her finger forward. In response, the building at which she was looking grew larger in her field of vision. The new spell on her equally new mask wasn’t quite as good as Omnioculars, but it was far easier to use. And it was good enough to study the house from afar - and in true-colour; adjusting to the colour spectrum cats’ eyes saw had been a bit of a challenge. Only hags were supposed to have green skin.

“The whiskers look cute, but the mask as a whole looks kind of… faceless.”

She ignored the dog’s comment - her mask looked perfect, anyway, with its smooth black finish and painted whiskers - as she looked for any sign of the building’s inhabitants.

“And where are the ears? Every cat mask I’ve ever seen has had ears. And eyes that glow in the dark. And a tail.”

Sighing, she withdrew her finger, which restored her normal vision - she would have to modify the enchantment so she could also tap the mask twice to stay zoomed in, she noted - and looked at Mr Black.

He flinched slightly. “That’s a really creepy stare, you know.”

“You can’t see my face,” she answered.

“That’s my point.” He frowned. “That aside, how can we give you a potion if we have to with you wearing the mask?”

She was surprised that the dog had thought ahead, then she remembered what had happened to Harry. Of course his godfather would worry about such a situation. “You open it like this.” She pushed on the latch behind her ear, letting the mask swing upward like a visor.

“You’re wearing another mask under your mask?” He stared at her face.

She nodded. “There are spells that can see through clothes, and I haven’t found a good spell to block them. This half-mask, however, is thin enough that the most common spells will have trouble focusing on my actual face.” Which would be tanned too, to change its tone from her natural one. He still looked surprised. She frowned. “Did you think I chose my outfit just because I liked the look?”

“Of course not,” he protested - but he didn’t sound sincere.

“You did.” She sighed - a common occurrence when talking with the dog. “I’m not wearing this suit to show off my body, but because the leather protects me and will not snag on things - nor let an enemy easily get a grip on it. Besides, it’s a classic muggle cat burglar's outfit.” That it also showed off her body was a welcome side-effect, of course.

He closed his mouth, then frowned. “Is that a subtle hint that I should change my robes?”

“You’re not coming with us,” she said. No sane thief would take an untrained dog into a vampire’s lair.

“But I might have to, to save you if you run into trouble,” he retorted. “So I should look the part.” He drew his wand before she could tell him how unlikely it was that she and Mr Fletcher would need him to save them. “There! How does that look?”

Hermione blinked at the sight, then clenched her teeth. “You’re not copying my suit!” A dog had no business wearing a catsuit!

“I’m not - it would be much too tight in the groin, you know?”

She didn’t need nor want to know. “Use a different design. This one is mine.”

“You can’t own a look!”

“Of course I can! Have you never heard of copyright?”

She should have known that he hadn’t.

*****

Mr Fletcher shouldn’t have found the whole affair amusing, Hermione Granger thought an hour later. At least she had managed to get the dog to change his ‘thief look’ to something that wouldn’t make people who saw both of them think they were a couple. Or father and daughter - Hermione didn’t know which would be worse.

“Alright, we’re ready. The sun’s been up for a while, so the vampire should be asleep by now. Or dead to the world, if you prefer,” her tutor said. “We’re going in through the back door - the hedges in the back will hide us from muggle eyes.”

“You’re not going to disillusion yourselves?” Mr Black asked.

“Of course we will,” Mr Fletcher answered. “But a door opening by itself would look mighty strange to a muggle, wouldn’t it?”

Hermione bit her lip to refrain from pointing out that muggles had doors that opened automatically, though generally not back doors, and not in such buildings. She took a sip from the potion that would hide her scent - vampires had a very good sense of smell according to her sources.

To her surprise, Mr Black simply nodded. “Alright. I’ll be sitting here, and keeping an eye on the building, ready to rush in and save you if you run into the vampire.”

“You do that,” her tutor said, glancing at Hermione. It was obvious that he didn’t expect to need the dog’s help either. But Mr Black had insisted on helping - it was for Harry, after all, which Hermione had to respect. And he already knew too much about them anyway.

And, in a pinch, a bungling dog barging in might make for a decent diversion, she added to herself as she cast a Disillusionment Charm and went out the window after Mr Fletcher.

*****

Hermione Granger would have preferred to enter through the roof, but since they were doing this during the day, the back door was the best option as it was hidden from the neighbour’s view. Even though its defences would be stronger than those on the attic window. At least Hermione thought so. She glanced upwards again as Mr Fletcher worked on the wards - since he wasn’t an animagus, he couldn’t slip through them unhindered.

She didn’t like this. Not only were they standing in the open - although disillusioned and in the backyard of the neighbouring house - but she still wouldn’t get to work on the wards herself. How could she gain the experience she needed without actually doing her part of the work? Not all wards would let animals through.

But Mr Fletcher was the one in charge, and he had made the plan. And he had the experience - with the exception that her tutor hadn’t worked with animagi before. Not that the dog would be able to add much - he couldn’t climb and he wasn’t trained in Curse-Breaking either.

She glanced at the house. The heavy curtains behind the windows didn’t reveal any signs of movement within. But still… she wanted to change and pass through the wards. Check up close if the vampire had actually gone to sleep.

“Don’t fret,” Mr Fletcher’s voice coming from the back part of her mask interrupted her. “We’ll do this like we trained - the middle of a heist is no time for experiments.” He knew her well, she realised - with both of them disillusioned, he couldn’t actually have seen her fret.

“Yes, sir.” It made sense, but she couldn’t help feeling that this was a mistake. But perhaps she was simply far more nervous, knowing that they were about to break into the lair of a very old and experienced vampire. Who was now probably paranoid due to the string of disappearances of other vampires.

If she could ever tell Harry about this, he’d better appreciate what they were doing for him!

“Got it. I’ll go over the fence. Wait until I tell you before following me.” Mr Fletcher sounded slightly tired, but that might just be her imagination, Hermione thought.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, the enchantment on her mask picking up her voice.

When his marker moved up and over the fence she saw a faint blur underneath it and, a second later, she spotted the grass being flattened where he landed in the garden. Ten seconds later, she heard his whispered voice again. “I’m in the garden. Come!”

She was tempted to change and slip through the bars, despite what Mr Fletcher had told her. But he trusted her. And he’d notice when the marker above her head disappeared. So she stepped forward, put a foot on the concrete base of the fence, grabbed the spiked tips at its top, and heaved herself up. Her boot found purchase on the middle ornament of the wrought iron bar and a quick vault later she landed in a crouch on the lawn. She drew her wand and fixed the grass she and her tutor had flattened as she made her way towards his position at the back door.

“Lethal vermin ward,” he whispered, “among other spells.”

“Would it affect a cat?” she asked. Cats weren’t vermin, after all. Dogs might qualify, though.

“Maybe. Hard to tell. Definitely stronger than the usual anti-bug spell. Not good enough to stop us, of course,” he added, and she knew he was smiling lopsidedly. A moment later the door swung open and she saw his marker move inside.

She followed. As expected from the age of the building, they were in a narrow hallway next to the kitchen - she could spot a very old-fashioned stove through the open door ahead. She closed the door behind her, then ended the Disillusionment Charm. Mr Fletcher did the same. Even with the thick curtains blocking all of the windows, there was enough ambient light to not need a light source of their own.

He nodded at her, then moved towards the kitchen door. She followed him, but waited in the doorway while he searched the place. A glance told her that the kitchen was even more outdated than she had thought - all the appliances seemed to date back to before the Great War. She could see no sockets, nor a fridge - but there was a large ice box. Everything was sparkling clean, though.

Mr Fletcher opened the ice box. “Definitely a vampire,” he whispered. “It’s full of blood. Stasis spell, too.”

She swallowed and focused her attention on the hallway. Somewhere in the house - probably in the basement - was a vampire. She shuddered, then forced herself to calm down. They were trained, experienced thieves. Tripe - if he was the vampire living here - wouldn’t even notice their presence.

“Nothing in the kitchen,” Mr Fletcher whispered.

Hermione nodded. That meant they would search the ground floor next. She moved ahead to the next door. That should be the dining room, according to the usual layout for such houses which she had memorised. Close to the kitchen so the food wouldn’t get cold while being served - not that vampires or wizards would worry about that.

This time she went in while Mr Fletcher kept watch. The room held, as expected, a large but narrow dining table and seats for ten people. A fireplace too, but without a Floo powder cup. A quick check with a few spells showed that there were no secret doors hidden in the room either. “Nothing,” she reported in a whisper as she left the room again.

“Alright,” Mr Fletcher said as he turned towards the next room.

Hermione followed him, covering the hallway and the door to the street ahead of them - and the stairs next to it - with her wand. The whole house was very clean, she noted. Not a speck of dust in sight - despite the thick carpet on the floor and the heavy curtains.

Mr Fletcher had just bent down to check the door for traps when she caught a shadow moving up ahead, near the stairs. But before she could react the entire carpet was swept up and she found herself thrown into the air with enough force to brush against the ceiling before crashing to the ground. She rolled with the fall, as she had trained to, and rose in a crouch, her wand out. The carpet was still moving, though - racing towards her as if it were a giant snake trying to constrict her. She stabbed her wand at it a moment before it reached her.

“Finite!”

The carpet fell down in a tangled heap and she jumped over it. Mr Fletcher was casting spells at the shadow - which was a wizard in dark robes, she realised - but as she aimed her wand, his shield shattered under a barrage of curses, and he went down.

Stunner, she thought - the red spells were quite distinctive - and sent one herself at the shadow, followed by a Banishing Charm. Both were stopped by the man’s shield. No, the vampire’s shield - she could see the red eyes. She was about to cast a Piercing Curse to shatter the shield but he was faster, and only a quick drop to the floor saved her from getting hit by three more spells. She rolled to the side, right to the door to the dining room. If she could dodge inside, reach the windows, just vanish the curtains...

Then she felt the carpet beneath her move again, and this time she wasn’t quick enough to dispel the spell animating it before it wrapped itself around her, crushing her arms against her sides. She was lifted up as she tried to move her wand - but it was held fast by the fabric. She managed to reach her suit’s enchanted pocket with her other hand, though, searching for the mirror inside, as she was turned around until she was staring straight at the vampire.

He sneered and she shivered when saw his fangs in the dim light filtering through the thick curtains. The tip of her finger reached the mirror, and she frantically tried to rub it.

“You thought I was defenceless during the day?” He scoffed as he walked - stalked - closer until he was standing in front of her, in the middle of the doorway.

She felt the mirror vibrate in her pocket. “How did you notice us?” she asked. She had to stall the vampire.

“I smelled you.” His sneer deepened as he cocked his head sideways. “What a silly mask.”

She clenched her teeth. It wasn’t silly. “We took potions. There was no scent.”

He laughed, though it sounded rough, almost alien. “I smelled the blood.”

The ice box! She could have hexed herself for that mistake.

His nostrils widened. “Your blood too,” he added, licking his lips.

The fall had hurt, but was she bleeding? When his hand rose towards her head she first tried to pull her head away - then realised that that exposed her throat. But… though she couldn’t move it, she still held her wand, technically. She didn’t know any spells that would directly affect the vampire - a mere Lumos certainly wouldn’t hurt him as daylight would - but they were right in the doorway, opposite a large window. The shutters had slits in them. And the sun would be…

“Accio curtains!” she yelled, and felt the spell work.

But the curtains didn’t even move.

“Did you think I would not have taken measures to prevent such an obvious ploy?” The vampire threw his head back and cackled. Then he flipped his head down again and stared at her without moving a muscle. Unnaturally still, she thought with a shiver. “Did you think I wouldn’t expect you, after the disappearances? That I wouldn’t be prepared?”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t us.” How much longer could she stall him?

He laughed again. “I’ll find out the truth.” His smile stretched until he was baring his fangs at her. One hand gripped her hair - dyed blonde and straightened for the heist - and pulled her head back, exposing her throat. He touched her collar with his wand and cast a spell, cutting it open.

He was going to bite her. Kill her.

Then the back door was thrown open and the vampire released her, throwing up his arms to shield himself against the sudden bright light filling the hallway.

A second later, a massive black dog pounced on him. The vampire’s shield held, but the impact threw him back and away from Hermione. Before the vampire could recover, the dog changed into a wizard, his wand already moving, and once more spells filled the narrow hallway.

The vampire’s Shield Charm absorbed several spells before shattering, but his own curses missed their mark - Mr Black had stepped to the side, pushing Hermione into the dining room with his shoulder as he kept casting.

On the ground, unable to see the vampire any more, and still held helplessly by the carpet, she tried to free herself as Mr Black traded curses with Tripe.

“Finite! Finite! Finite!”

Third time lucky, as the saying went, and she felt the carpet slacken around her.

“Evanesco!”

With the carpet gone, she rushed to the door - but Mr Black was already lowering his wand. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t answer as she pushed past him to peer around the doorway, then recoiled, her free hand hitting her mask as she tried to cover her mouth.

Mr Black sounded unconcerned. “That was a spell of my great-great-uncle’s. He apparently had a little feud with a vampire. Very messy, but very effective.”

Messy was an understatement, Hermione thought. The hallway was covered in blood and there was nothing left of the vampire but shredded, soaked robes.

“Are you alright?” Mr Black repeated his question.

She stared at him. How could he be so… Then her eyes widened.

Mr Fletcher!

*****

Her tutor was covered in blood - soaked in it, actually - and unconscious, but he was alive. And he didn’t seem to have been cursed or seriously hurt, either, Hermione Granger found after a few frantic spells - or rather, she corrected herself, no curse that those spells could detect.

“Ennervate!”

He opened his eyes with a groan, then tensed, his hand grasping for the wand he had lost. He didn’t relax much, if at all, even after he recognised her. “What?”

Hermione handed him his wand and was about to explain what happened when Mr Black cut in: “You were beaten by the resident vampire and I had to save you. Seems I was correct in my prediction.”

She glared at him, and discovered a drawback of her mask - he couldn’t see her face behind it. But, she had to admit, Mr Black was correct. Even if he shouldn’t have been so blunt and smug about.

“He must have smelled the blood in the ice box when we opened it,” Hermione said to her tutor. She nodded at the other wizard. “Thank you. You saved our lives.”

“So much for ‘vampires sleep like the dead during the day’,” Mr Fletcher muttered. “Should have known not to trust Kettleburn’s lessons. He lost too many limbs to know what he was doing.” He stood, wincing as he put weight on his left leg. “Did you secure the house?” he asked as he flicked his wand, fixing his leg.

Hermione grimaced. “We treated you first.”

“You’re safe with me at your side,” Black added with a condescending grin. He could back his boasts up, though, Hermione thought - at least in her limited experience. Too limited, she added - she needed to learn how to fight better.

But first they needed to search the house for the books of blood magic Dumbledore needed to cure Harry. And, she added with a slight grin, any other books that looked valuable. Or anything else - it wasn’t, she thought, grimacing again when she looked at the remains of Tripe, as if their owner had any further need for them. And, she added, he didn’t have any heirs left anyway.

She wondered if her enchanted pocket could hold everything she wanted to take.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 12th, 1996**

“You know, if I didn’t know that your inner animal is a cat I’d assume it were a locust.”

Hermione Granger did her best to ignore Mr Black’s comment as she pulled another book out of her pocket. A copy of the ‘Transfiguration Almanach’ from 1799 - very valuable due to its rarity, but lacking about two hundred years’ worth of spell research in the field. But it was a first edition!

She put it on the ‘historical’ pile, with the other outdated but gorgeous books she had found. Next was a banned tome about ritual magic. She had skimmed that one in the Black family library already a few months ago, but it never hurt to have a copy of her own. Unless it was cursed, of course. Which it wasn’t - she and Mr Fletcher had dealt with the curses before removing the books. That went on the ‘useful’ pile.

“I forgot to check - did you take the shingles on the roof as well? You took everything else, including the pots from the kitchen.” Mr Black was shaking his head at them.

Those would fetch a good price from antique collectors, Hermione knew. And if she were wrong they could be sold for scrap. Waste not, want not.

“I might need to cast another Extension Charm,” Mr Black continued, looking around the newest room in his basement.

She snorted at the hyperbole. While her and her tutor’s enchanted pockets could hold a lot of loot, their contents couldn’t fill an entire room. Not unless they unshrunk the furniture.

“Wasn’t the plan to only steal the books needed? Or, if possible, copy them?”

“That was before you killed Tripe, Black,” Mr Fletcher spoke up. “With him dead there was no longer any need to limit ourselves to a quick grab.” Her tutor didn’t sound entirely happy about that, Hermione thought. She wasn’t entirely happy either. About the killing, of course.

Black must have noticed too, since he frowned. “Even though it would be absurd, I cannot help but suspect that you do not approve of my daring rescue of you two.”

“I approve of being saved from a nasty fate,” Mr Fletcher grumbled. “And you have my thanks for that. Which I already told you.”

“While you were busy breaking into Tripe’s vault,” Mr Black shot back. “Truly, a more heartfelt display of gratitude has never been observed.”

Her tutor could have handled his rescue with a little more grace, Hermione thought - Mr Black had saved their lives, after all. If he hadn’t been there… she rubbed her throat. The leather of her suit had parted far too easily when the vampire had used his wand. “We’re very grateful for your timely intervention, Mr Black,” she said.

“Then call me Sirius.”

“What?” She stared at him.

He grinned widely. “If you’re really feeling grateful, then I demand that henceforth you refer to me as ‘Sirius’!”

“Like hell, Black!” Mr Fletcher spat.

“I wasn’t talking to you, but to her,” Mr Black shot back. “I don’t expect much gratitude from the likes of you.”

“‘The likes of me’?” Mr Fletcher snarled. “I’m not the one who used a dark curse to kill on a heist!”

“Should I have let him kill her?” Mr Black scoffed. “He was a vampire, a hundred and fifty years old, and a damn good duellist. I couldn’t have stunned or otherwise incapacitated him.”

“You looked that spell up in advance.”

“Of course I did!” Black shook his head. “We’re not doing this for fun, or gold. We’re fighting a war.”

“We’re in a war with Death Eaters, not with vampires hiding from Death Eaters.” Mr Fletcher was standing now, facing Mr Black.

The other wizard shrugged. “If they’re trying to kill me I’ll do my best to kill them right back. Same for my friends. Or friends of Harry’s.”

“That’s a fast way to make the Aurors get serious about killing you too,” Mr Fletcher retorted. Hermione saw that he was glancing at her.

Mr Black must have caught it as well since he sighed. “I’m not going to kill just anyone. But the kind of people who have books about blood magic and the Dark Arts in their basement? I won’t take any risks with them. And the Aurors won’t bother about their deaths either when they see what they’ve been up to.” He blinked. “Well, that might be a little difficult in this case, since you cleaned out the basement more thoroughly than a Niffler does a purse.”

Hermione winced. Maybe they had gone overboard a little. But it felt wrong to leave books if she could take them instead.

“Alright.” Mr Fletcher sounded as if pained him to agree, Hermione thought. “But I’ll be watching you, Black. We’re thieves, not killers.”

And once more, Mr Black grinned widely. He turned to her with an expectant smile. “And…?”

Hermione blinked, and suddenly knew just how her tutor felt. But they did owe the man their lives, even if he was entirely too smug about it. “Alright... Sirius.”

He beamed at her. “Yes! Now say it with a smile!”

She bared her teeth at the dog instead.

*****

 


	17. Cats and Wizards

**Hogwarts, February 22nd, 1996**

Remus Lupin stared at the vial in his hand. It smelled as vile as it tasted, but the potion was the only thing between him and a painful, brutal death. One sip and the blood curse on him would be kept at bay - for another day. It was like the Wolfsbane Potion in a warped way - that, too, kept the beast at bay, but only for another month.

On the other hand, he just had to throw the vial away, and in a few hours - he hadn’t tested just how long the grace period Dumbledore had mentioned was - he would be dead. No longer would he be a danger each month to everyone around him. No longer would he be a failure.

He had failed Sirius, believing the slander instead of trusting his only remaining friend. He hadn’t even had the courage to confront Sirius, which would have brought forth the truth. No, instead he had hidden, and Sirius had suffered for over a decade.

And he had failed Harry. The boy had been cursed on his watch. Remus had failed to stop the assassin in time. If the vampire had used a different, quicker curse, Harry would have died. It was only thanks to Dumbledore - and Snape - that the boy had survived Remus’s blunder.

He scoffed. A danger and a failure. He had been given a chance to redeem himself, to help Sirius protect Harry, and he had failed. He didn’t deserve to live - he would only make another blunder. Get someone killed. If he wasn’t around, Sirius could find someone dependable to protect Harry. And Dumbledore and Snape wouldn’t have to care about the effects of a possible cure on someone also suffering from lycanthropy, or about the effects of their new potion when taken in conjunction with the Wolfsbane Potion.

All he had to do was the throw the vial away and then take a little Sleeping Draught. Perhaps the Draught of Living Death; he knew where to buy it. He wouldn’t feel a thing, he wouldn’t wake up, not even when the curse struck. It would be messy, of course, but he could prepare for that.

“What are you waiting for?”

The sudden question startled him and he almost dropped the vial. He whirled, and saw Tonks leaning against the doorframe. Had he missed her knocking? “What?”

She was frowning at him. “Why are you staring at the vial instead of drinking it? It won’t taste any better no matter how long you air it. It’s not wine.”

“I was simply lost in thought,” he answered. He wasn’t lying, not really.

She stepped fully inside his quarters and closed the door behind her. She was wearing her Auror robes, he noticed. Not the student robes she sometimes wore ‘to fit in’, as she claimed. Even if - in his opinion - they didn’t fit her any more. “Berating yourself for the attack?” she asked.

He started at her. Had he been that obvious?

She shook her head. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

So, yes, he had been that obvious. Did Sirius know? His friend wasn’t the most observant, hadn’t been even before Azkaban, and he was focused on helping Harry, so he had probably missed it. It wasn’t as if Remus had spent that much time with him lately. He noticed that she was frowning at him - she had a very expressive face, no doubt a result of her special talent. “I failed to protect Harry.”

“Really? I heard you saved his life. Took down the bloodsucker and carried Harry to the infirmary in time for treatment - while suffering from the same curse. That kind of failure would be called success by most people.”

“If the vampire had used another curse, Harry would be dead,” he retorted.

“As would you.” She sighed theatrically and he pointedly didn’t look at her heaving chest. “But the point is that you two are alive and the bloodsucker’s dead - and by all accounts, he was a right nasty bugger. An old, experienced one. He would have given any Auror trouble. You did well.”

He should have stepped in and told Harry to take the carriages back to Hogwarts, avoiding the whole attack. But he had let the couple have their moonlight walk. “Miss Weasley was hurt as well,” he pointed out.

She made a dismissive gesture that reminded him of Sirius. “A scratch. Didn’t even need Pomfrey for that, a simple spell was enough.”

He should have taught her that spell, Remus thought. It wasn’t on the syllabus until their fifth year, but that was no excuse. Knowing that spell could save lives - more lives than knowing how to cast a Stunner.

“Are you still brooding about this, even though I’ve told you not to?” She was leaning forward, peering at him with narrowed eyes. In any other situation, it would have been funny. Cute, too. But not in this one.

“It’s nothing.”

She snorted. “‘Nothing’ my arse!”

“It doesn’t concern you.” This wasn’t any of her business. And not any business of the Aurors either. Just his personal failure.

“Are you certain?” She had that challenging look in her eyes again. And that flirty smile. He had seen similar smiles on some of the older students. He knew what it meant. Tonks wasn’t a seventh year with a crush on their teacher, but she was almost their age. And he was a dark creature, far too old and now twice cursed. And a failure.

She frowned at him again. “You’re far too depressed. It’s not the full moon, not even close.”

He gasped. How did she…

She sighed. “Please. That was obvious, too. I’m an Auror, not a dumb kid. Putting clues together is what I was trained to do, and our bodyguarding schedule made it rather obvious.” With a grin, she added. “And it helped that I had to track a werewolf in my first case, of course.”

He closed his eyes. She had known for some time, then. And had still flirted with him. Well, she was a Black - they had a streak of rather dark and sometimes cruel humour. On the other hand, she hadn’t displayed any such tendencies with others, as far as he knew.

“I’m not gonna vanish just because you closed your eyes. That’s not how it works, you know.”

He knew, without needing to look, that she was grinning now. Widely. She could be just as annoying as Sirius was in his teenage years. And as blunt. Well, he could be blunt too. “I’m a dark creature. Not something fanciable.”

She snorted. “You’re a wizard with a curse. Two curses, actually.”

“A dark curse that turns me into a raging monster under the full moon. If I don’t take my potion I would try to slaughter the entire school.” She had to see that. Especially since she had ignored his second sentence.

“You’d have to get out of your cage first.”

“Did you break into my quarters?” He gaped at her - but he didn’t keep the cage around, he conjured it when needed. That would mean…

She shrugged with a familiar insufferable grin. “Well… I had to check my theory. You look cute when you’re all furry and curled up like a dog. Though you might also need better locks and spells on your door.”

He had the best spells - he couldn’t risk anyone getting in. Anyone but… “Sirius helped you.”

She pouted. “I could have broken in. He just made it a little easier.”

And Sirius didn’t tell him. Remus would have words with his friend.

“See? You’re not brooding any more. We’ve made progress.”

“You took a huge risk.” He was a werewolf, not a dog like Sirius.

She snorted. “I’m a trained Auror. If you forget to take your potion then you lose your mind. And as Mad-Eye taught me: If you stop thinking you’ve already lost.” She blinked. “Well, he also told me that I needed to develop the correct instincts so I didn’t have to think about everything I was doing, but you get my point.”

But she didn’t get his. “When I… change… I become a monster. A monster who likes to kill and maim people.” He spoke in the most serious tone he could manage. She had to understand this. “Even with the potion, I know exactly how good it would feel to tear someone apart and bathe in their blood.”

“So?” She shrugged and picked up from his desk a globe showing a Grindylow, fiddling with it. “That’s not any different from the victim of an Imperius Curse.” She put the globe down again. “Have you ever been under that curse?”

He shook his head. He had dodged that particular spell so far.

“Well, I have.” She noticed his expression, and quickly went on: “Not like that. Mad-Eye cast it on us during training, so we would know how it feels. And let me tell you, under that curse, you feel very happy to do anything you’re ordered to. Everything’s fine, no matter what humiliating or embarrassing order you’re obeying.” Now she was frowning, and he heard her mutter: “I still haven’t gotten back at him for that.” Louder, she continued: “Anyway, the thing is, you’re not any different from the victim of an Imperius Curse. And you wouldn’t blame them for what they did while under someone else’s control, would you? I mean, real victims, of course, not Malfoy and his ilk.”

“Well, no, but that’s different.”

“Different how? Because they don’t grow fur?”

“They’re not dark creatures,” he shot back.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s a Ministry definition, nothing more. The Scandinavians don’t consider werewolves dark creatures.”

“That’s because of their traditions.” And because using werewolves in war made for a very powerful deterrent.

She shrugged. “Either way, it shows that you’re a curse victim, not a monster. Now drink your potion like a good wizard and stop brooding!”

“Will you leave me in peace if I do?” He almost blinked at his own tone. Not serious enough by far.

“Nope.” She grinned and crossed her arms under her chest, leaning back against his desk. “But I might let you go back to whatever you were doing before you got lost in brooding, for tonight at least.”

It was as good as any other reason to drink the potion, Remus supposed.

“Good boy!”

She still had an insufferable grin. And he still needed to have words with his friend. But he was feeling better, he realised.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 23rd, 1996**

“What’s the verdict?” Harry Potter asked as soon as he saw the Headmaster put his wand down. “Sir,” he added belatedly. He didn’t want to be rude, but he had been examined daily for weeks now by Dumbledore and Pomfrey - and once even by Snape - and he was very much sick of it. It was also rather boring.

“As far as I can tell, the curse is being held completely in check - as planned,” Dumbledore said with a smile.

That had been the result of every examination so far. “No change then.”

“Not for the worse,” the Headmaster said.

“Not for the better either,” Harry said, then pressed his lips together. Dumbledore had saved his life and was working hard to cure him.

“That would have been an unexpected development, seeing as the potion you are taking has been created to stop the curse, not counter it.” The old wizard leaned back in his seat. “Although I have been pursuing a promising lead.”

“Did you refine the distilled phoenix tears?” Harry asked, looking at Fawkes. It hadn’t ended the curse, but it had helped Remus recover from the lingering damage he had suffered from it.

“No.” Dumbledore shook his head. When the phoenix trilled and stuck his head under his wing, apparently angry, the Headmaster petted the bird. “As I said after we tried it, the tears worked perfectly - but they heal; they do not break a curse, which is the crux of the issue.”

That was a rather flippant way to talk about a deadly curse, Harry thought. Especially to one of its victim. “Ron said his brother is a great Curse-Breaker.”

Dumbledore chuckled, briefly. “Young William is indeed talented, and, by now, experienced, indeed - but not with the kind of curse with which we are dealing here. As with so many problems in life, we need to understand the curse first, before we can find the correct means of ending it.”

“You’re studying blood magic.” Harry stared at him. He was no Hermione, but he had looked up blood magic after getting cursed.

“The study of that art has been banned.”

That wasn’t a denial. Harry nodded.

Dumbledore sighed. “But enough of that. How are your lessons with Alastor progressing?”

Harry scowled. “We’re ‘not entirely hopeless any more’. Just ‘mostly useless’.”

The Headmaster laughed. “That is high praise from him. Have you asked young Nymphadora about her training under him?” Harry shook his head. “You should,” Dumbledore said.

Harry shrugged. Since he wasn’t allowed to visit Hogsmeade any more, he no longer saw Tonks very often.

“Speaking of your distant relatives,” the Headmaster went on, “has Mr Malfoy been giving you any trouble lately?”

Harry frowned. “No, he hasn’t. Do you expect him to try something? Against my friends?” If Malfoy was trying to go after Ginny...

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, no. I was simply checking that he has not had a relapse, you might say. But it seems then that he has truly learned his lesson?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. The git had been staying clear of Harry and his friends since their second year.

“Have you felt anything from Voldemort?”

“No. I would have told you at once,” Harry added, feeling a little indignant. As if he’d keep that to himself! “Does that mean he hasn’t murdered anyone else?”

The Headmaster sighed. “Unfortunately, all it means - and even this is a mere assumption on my part - is that he has not used another blood magic ritual. Yet. But ordinary murders? I do not think those would have an effect on your scar.”

“What’s so special about rituals?” Harry asked.

“Before the invention of wands, rituals were how wizards cast the most difficult spells. Staves, which wizards used to cast spells back then, were crude and not well suited for the precision needed for casting more advanced spells. Rituals made them more manageable - at the cost of increasing the time needed to cast the spell, among other requirements.”

“Voldemort’s not using a staff,” Harry pointed out.

“Indeed. Staves were rendered obsolete when Roman wizards discovered how to make wands. The advantages offered by wands were so great that the Romans managed to conquer most of Europe before the secret spread to their neighbours. And almost two thousand years later, wands were the key to the Spanish conquest of the New World. Nothing has shaped the magical world as much as the invention of wands.”

Harry had already learned that when revising for History of Magic. “Were rituals rendered obsolete as well?” he asked before the Headmaster could go off on a tangent.

“Most rituals were. Why spend an hour, or even longer, casting a spell, if you could do it in but a moment with a wand?” Dumbledore shook his head. “But there was one area where wands could not replace rituals.” He sighed. “Sacrificial magic.”

“Is that blood magic?”

“There is a great deal of overlap, but there are many sacrificial rituals that are not blood magic, and blood magic is not limited to sacrificial magic.” Dumbledore looked rather serious.

“How does that work?” When he saw the Headmaster frown, Harry quickly added: “You said that to solve a problem we have to understand it first.”

Dumbledore laughed for a moment, though he didn’t look as if he was amused. “I did, did I not?” He sighed. “Some will claim that sacrificial magic uses blood to empower a spell. The fact that the blood of magical creatures has magical properties which have many uses, both beneficial and not, might seem to support this. But it is not the blood that lends its power to a ritual, it is the potential that is sacrificed by cutting a life short.” He must have noticed that Harry didn’t follow, and added: “A life is a very precious thing. Think of all that we can accomplish during our lifetime. How many people we affect and influence - sometimes merely by existing. The right idea can change the world - imagine if the wizard who invented the wand had died of Dragon Pox before learning magic.”

“There wouldn’t be any wands around,” Harry said.

“I would not go that far. But their invention would have been delayed. History would have changed. Would Rome still have conquered its empire? Or would another realm have replaced them?” Dumbledore took a deep breath. “That is an extreme example, of course. But every human, muggle or wizard, has the potential to change the world. And now imagine this potential for change, this power, channeled into a spell. That is what makes sacrificial magic so powerful. And why it has been banned in all civilised countries.”

“And that’s what Voldemort is doing.” Harry hadn’t felt that sick since the curse on him had been stopped.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Unless we stop him. Which we will.”

Harry hoped that the Headmaster was correct.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 24th, 1996**

“Stupefy!”

A red spell flew at Harry Potter, but he was already moving before his opponent had finished casting, and the spell went wide over his head. His own stunner - cast silently - connected, and Ginny went down. He stood and pointed his wand at her.

“Rennervate!”

She opened her eyes, blinked, then scowled at him. Harry smiled at her. “You almost got me that time.”

“You said that the last time too,” she retorted as she got up as well, though a little slower.

“And the two times before that,” Ron, who was sitting on the bench, added. Ginny didn’t just scowl at him, though, but flicked her wand at him. Her Bat-Bogey Hex splashed harmlessly against his Shield Charm, though.

Ron shook his head. “That didn’t work the last time either. Remember what Moody said about repeating what didn’t work?”

“He also said that if you keep at it it’ll stick sooner or later.”

Ron snorted. “He meant training, not tactics.” He shook his head. “But you don’t need to be so angry - you’re a year behind in school, and in training too. It would be weird if you were as good as us.”

Judging by Ginny’s expression, she didn’t share that opinion, Harry thought. But Ron was right. “Yes,” he chimed in. “But you’ll catch up soon enough.”

“Not soon enough,” Ginny mumbled, scowling. “It’s a Hogsmeade weekend, and we’re at Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, but Hermione’s coming to visit us here in the afternoon, and Luna’s fetching us sweets from Honeydukes,” Ron said. “She took the first carriage out, too, getting up early on a Saturday for us.”

Ginny rolled her eyes at her brother, shaking her head. “We got up early for this training,” she said.

“We did.” Ron shrugged. “But then, we’re the ones Voldemort wants to see dead.”

Harry nodded. “And with all the others gone, and just the first and second years left, it’s almost as if we’ve got the whole castle to ourselves.”

“We’ll probably have to pry Hermione out of the library, though,” Ron added with a grin. “At some point at least.”

Harry laughed - he could see that happening. “We can go play Quidditch, too.”

“Unless Mad-Eye thinks that’s too dangerous. Or tries to turn it into a training session,” Ginny muttered.

Harry reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll also have the tower to ourselves,” he whispered.

That, at least, cheered her up.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 24th, 1996**

There they were. Harry, Ron, Ginny and Luna, standing at the side gate to the greenhouses. Hermione Granger was tempted to sneak up on them while disillusioned. She wanted to see if Harry’s vaunted ‘special training’ was any good; she doubted that the dog could teach him much about detecting sneaky cats, it wasn’t as if he was doing well at that himself. But she couldn’t reveal her own special training like that. Even if she wanted to.

She could sneak up on them as a cat of course… but that wouldn’t be the same. Sighing, she turned back around the corner and ended her Disillusionment Charm. Time to act the frumpy bookworm again. Although… she might use the opportunity to visit the Hogwarts library today; there were a few books she could use for her studying - O.W.L.s. were just a few months away, after all - and which she hadn’t yet found in a shop.

“Hermione!” Harry yelled and she barely managed to return the greeting before she found herself being hugged in a rather ironic reversal of their usual roles.

“Hey! How are you doing?” Ron waved at her.

“Hi.” Ginny’s greeting was rather curt.

“Hello, Hermione. Have you found any Nargles hiding in muggle Britain yet?” Luna asked.

“I’m doing well,” Hermione answered Ron as her friend replaced Harry, lifting her off her feet as he embraced her - when had Ron grown so tall? She nodded at Ginny and Luna. “No, I’m sorry, but I haven’t encountered any Nargles so far. They probably hide from muggles as well.” And from vampires, or she might have found some.

“Aw.” Luna pouted. “I had hoped for some advice about likely locations for our next expedition.” She brightened up instantly, though. “I guess we’ll have to search out the locations with the most confused muggles, then. Nargles are bound to be attracted to those spots.”

“Try Westminster then,” Hermione joked.

“Will do!” Luna chirped, pulling out a sheet of parchment to make a note.

Hermione winced. The Lovegoods trying to search Parliament… “Actually, if there are no Nargles in the Wizengamot, they won’t be found in Westminster either,” she quickly tried to correct her lapse.

“Oh, we haven’t discounted the Ministry as a breeding spot for Nargles yet. Maybe they are migratory? Moving from muggle Britain to Wizarding Britain and back according to the seasons of the moon?”

“Something that requires further study,” Ron cut in. “But maybe not today. Let’s get inside the castle, shall we?”

To Hermione’s surprise, Luna agreed at once.

*****

“So, you’ve been training hard?” Hermione Granger asked later as they were leaving the library.

“Harder,” Harry corrected her. “We weren’t slacking off before. But Moody’s in a different league than Sirius and Remus.”

“Like the Harpies compared to the Cannons?” she asked with a grin and a glance at Ron.

“Oi!” her friend protested. “They’ve had a few bad seasons, but at their core, they’re a team with potential.”

Luna nodded. “Ron’s got a few strategies worked out that would improve their game plays considerably.”

Ginny, who was hanging on Harry’s arm, just as she had for the whole afternoon so far - the attack must have really shaken her, Hermione thought - snickered. “Well, they certainly can’t do any worse even if they tried.”

“Oi!” Ron glared at his sister, who sniffed at him.

“They’d still be the worst team in the history of Britain even if they won the championship for the next five years straight,” Hermione said. Which the team never would, new tactics or not.

Ron huffed but Harry chuckled. “So, where do we go now? Swing by the kitchen and have the elves prepare tea?” her friend asked.

“Oh, yes,” Luna chimed in. “We’ve remodelled this unused classroom on the third floor - it’s almost as cozy as The Burrow.”

That sounded interesting, Hermione thought. “Alright. But I will need to see the Headmaster first.” She patted the pocket with the notes she had taken in the library. “The O.W.L.s are coming up and I’ve got a few questions for him.” It wasn’t technically a lie, she told herself. Just some misdirection.

“OK,” Ginny said. “Then let’s split up and meet here in… half an hour?”

Hermione nodded at her. That would be enough to get the details of the next heist.

Ginny smiled. “Good. Ron and Luna can get everything from the kitchen and Harry and I will make sure that the room is ready.”

“Didn’t you finish the room this morning?” Ron asked, frowning. “Maybe you two should brush up your Transfiguration and cleaning charms.”

Ginny scowled at him. “No, we didn’t. There wasn’t enough time after training. And no, we don’t need to,” she said in a tone that brooked no dissent, then dragged Harry off.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Luna chided Ron, who had started to grin as soon as the couple had turned the corner.

He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll be a little more subtle next time.”

“Like a Slytherin?” Luna asked.

Ron gaped at her, then narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t very nice!”

Luna giggled, and skipped off towards the kitchen.

Ron sighed. “See what I have to deal with?” he said, though he was smiling, before he followed the blonde witch.

Hermione sighed as well, once Ron was out of earshot. She was happy for her friends, but she couldn’t help feeling jealous. Of them having fun at Hogwarts, of course.

*****

**Norfolk, Outskirts of Norwich, February 25th, 1996**

“That looks like a rather large house,” Hermione said, “for such a distant member of an Old Family.” It wasn’t quite a manor, but it was old, dating back to the Regency era.

“Not so distant, actually - dear Quentin is supposedly the bastard son of Aloysius Selwyn, according to my lovely grand-aunt,” Mr Black - Sirius, she reminded herself - commented. “Aunt Nysa was quite vocal about how unseemly it was to pass off a bastard as a distant relative. Even if everyone knew it and no one said anything. Although I think she was mostly annoyed because she had hoped to inherit this house herself, through her husband.”

“Ah.” While Hermione would never scorn additional information, she doubted that this particular piece of family gossip be useful. She didn’t bother looking at the dog, focusing on the house instead.

“I don’t care about the family history,” Mr Fletcher said, “but about the fact that Albus thinks we might find tomes about blood magic in there. Those are old wards, lethal ones, and I bet that there are worse curses inside.”

“Or vampires,” Sirius said, and Hermione didn’t have to watch him to know that he was grinning in that infuriating manner of his. At least he wasn’t wearing a copy of her suit - he had copied Mr Fletcher’s clothes, although in black.

“No sign of vampires,” Hermione commented. All the windows were unshuttered, and she couldn’t see thick curtains either.

“Could be a trap,” Harry’s godfather said. “Are you certain that we should break in at night?”

“Getting cold feet, Black?” Mr Fletcher chuckled.

“Hardly,” the dog shot back. “I have the utmost confidence that I can handle any vampire. But if Hermione should get hurt because you leave me behind, or stumble into a trap, then Harry might blame me instead of you.”

“If I should get hurt,” Hermione said in a slightly louder tone before Mr Fletcher could retort, “then I’ll get treated without Harry even knowing about it. And if that’s not possible, we’ll pass it off as an accident with an old book I found in Knockturn Alley. So, Harry won’t be blaming either of you.”

Sirius scoffed. “Wishful thinking. He’ll blame me for not checking the book for curses, and him for not teaching you better.”

Hermione grinned in response.

Sirius frowned. “I hope that you won’t also loot this house to the bedrock. I can’t extend the basement forever.” After a few moments of silence, he added: “This is the part where you reassure me that you’re not going to do that again.”

This time Hermione turned towards him. “Would you really want me to lie to you?” she asked with the sweetest smile she could manage. “If we can remain undetected, we obviously won’t steal anything but the knowledge we need. But if we are seen…” She shrugged.

Sirius sighed, but Mr Fletcher chuckled. “We’re thieves, Black. It’s what we do.”

Hermione nodded. “Besides, every Galleon we steal is one less Galleon going into the Dark Lord’s coffers.” And the last two houses they had broken into had been abandoned, anyway.

“I understand stealing the Galleons. I even understand stealing the books. But the furniture?”

She shrugged. “Waste not, want not.”

The dog had been born rich, and had never been poor. He might not understand her situation. And he might not be aware just how valuable antiques were in muggle Britain.

Not to mention that she wasn’t in the habit of leaving a task half-done.

*****

She might not have said anything, and she knew that everything pointed at Quentin Selwyn being an old wizard, not a vampire, but Hermione Granger couldn’t help feeling anxious when they approached the building. She remembered how the vampire had grabbed her, how he had been about to bite her, and barely refrained from rubbing her throat.

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Once again, she was the lookout while Mr Fletcher worked on the wards. She was loathe to admit it, but Sirius’s presence helped, too - her mask granted her night vision, but that wouldn’t let her spot a disillusioned wizard outside the range of her Human-presence-revealing Spell. The dog’s nose might, though - not many wizards thought of masking their scent.

And, she added, sneaking a glance at the dog making his rounds nearby, she could understood how some might mistake him for a Grim. With his size, black fur, and gleaming teeth he certainly looked the part.

Once again, she was glad that the spell on her mask meant she could see the dog clearly even in the shadows - the moon wasn’t very bright, and the sky was cloudy too. If a cat could see a dog, she could evade him easily.

Mr Fletcher was taking his time, she thought - much longer than at the last house. And he was sweating, too. If only she could help… Or, rather, if only he would let her help. But he wouldn’t.

After what felt like hours, but hadn’t actually taken that long, he finally sighed. “All done. These are some really nasty wards. Standard spells, but backed by lethal curses.”

That had been banned since the middle of the last century, Hermione knew, but in typical fashion, the Ministry had never outlawed existing wards - those of the Old Families. She pressed her lips together.

Mr Fletcher was looking rather tired, but he stood anyway. “Let’s go then - the way to the wall’s clear.”

Hermione had been waiting for that. She was already changing before he had finished, and a short jump later she was sprinting over the lawn as fast as her four legs could carry her. Much faster than the dog, of course. A shadow in the night, gone in the blink of an eye.

She reached the wall and sniffed the air. No blood. No animals either. Behind her, the dog arrived, panting of course. And making more noise than a dozen cats together. She sniffed in disdain and raised her head. She could reach the roof, too. There was no ivy on the walls, but there was an old tree whose branches had grown so much, they were almost touching the roof.

On the other hand, that was an obvious route - even for a human. She changed back and tapped her mask, then hissed.

The branches growing towards the house glowed with spells - and she’d bet half her library that those were curses.

*****

“Definitely dark curses,” Mr Fletcher confirmed a few minutes later, after having checked the tree out. “No warnings, either - if you trigger those spells, you’ll get hit with a full Body-Bind Curse and a Blood-boiling Curse for starters. You’ll die slowly without being able to move or even scream.” He was whispering, but the enchantment on her mask that had replaced her earring let Hermione Granger hear him clearly.

“That makes it more likely that Selwyn has banned tomes in his library,” she responded, back in human form and disillusioned again.

“Doesn’t mean they’ll be the ones we need,” Sirius cut in, putting a damper on her hopes. “It just means he has something to hide.”

“Something for which he’s willing to kill,” her tutor added. “Which means it’s dangerous, valuable or both.”

“Yes.” Hermione smiled slightly.

Sirius groaned. “Most sane people would be warned off, not attracted, by lethal traps.”

Her smile widened. “Are you a Gryffindor or not?”

He glared at her. “I never said I wouldn’t go, did I?”

She knew what he meant, and raised her chin. “I’m a better thief than you.” Much better - dogs were rubbish at sneaking. “If anyone is at risk from falling into traps, it’s you.” She had spotted the curses on the tree, after all.

He scoffed. “I grew up in a house full of curses.”

She thought that the curses in Grimmauld Place had mostly been added in the last years of his mother’s life, long after Sirius had been sent to Azkaban, but this wasn’t the time to check if his memory was acting up again. “Let’s proceed, then.”

“Yes,” Mr Fletcher agreed. “But with a slight change of plans. We’ll go through a first-storey window.”

“Ah! They will not expect that, not with the trapped tree,” Sirius said.

“That might be the case,” Hermione corrected him, “but even if it’s not, glass windows are easier to break through than sturdy back doors.” She conjured a transparent pane of plexiglass, thick enough to carry their weight, and levitated it. “Don’t fall off!” she cautioned him - it wouldn’t do to lose the dog to his own clumsiness.

A few minutes later, they were floating in front of the second window from the east - a reading room, as far as Hermione could tell - and Mr Fletcher was working on getting through its defences. She still wasn’t allowed to help him - someone had to keep the pane they were standing on steady, and she wouldn’t trust the easily bored dog with that - but this time she could watch him work through her mask.

The window was covered with spells, which looked impressive at first sight. But as Hermione studied the arrangement further, and watched Mr Fletcher deal with it, she noticed that the spells were not ideally placed. Or not any more - they looked rather old, and while wards grew more powerful as they grew older, they did also need maintenance. Which this window hadn’t had in a few years, at least.

The owner probably trusted his trap and the main wards, and couldn’t be bothered to maintain every little spell, Hermione thought. Which would turn out to be a fatal mistake. At least for his wealth. Her tutor had already found a weakness - the spell allowing the window to be opened from the inside without triggering the defences wasn’t properly anchored.

“Done,” Mr Fletcher whispered ten minutes later. Hermione could hear his ragged breathing - he had pushed himself.

“About time,” the dog commented in a whisper. “I was getting bored.” He had the gall to even yawn, fake as it sounded.

She wanted to hex the dog - this was a serious heist - but they were on a mission. She could swat his nose later. She tapped her ear. “I’m going in,” she whispered.

She heard Mr Fletcher draw a sharp breath, but he didn’t contradict her - he had to know as well as she did that he was too exhausted to take point. She reached out towards the windowsill, then used her wand and a quick spell to push the window open. She couldn’t see any spells on the ground inside, and the room looked to be empty. She took a deep breath, then jumped through the window, landing in a crouch on a thick, old carpet.

No dust was thrown up by her landing - the room was regularly used, or at least regularly cleaned. It wasn’t a real library, though - too few shelves, and the books on them… she shook her head. Literature, not magic, a quick glance told her. And no spells on them either. Unless… She narrowed her eyes and summoned a few books at random.

“I don’t think he’s keeping his highly illegal tomes in his reading room,” Sirius whispered. “Or are you starting the looting already?”

She ignored the dog and checked the books. The content matched the covers - Selwyn wasn’t hiding his magic tomes in plain sight. A flick of her wand sent the books back to their original places. “I just checked the books in case they were a cover.”

Sirius snorted, but Mr Fletcher was already at the door. “No spells on it,” he reported.

“So, Quentin’s not as insane as my dear mother,” the dog had to comment. “Let’s go downstairs - they always hide the best stuff in the basement; the odds of it surviving a fire are greater there.”

Mr Fletcher pulled the door open until he could peer through the gap. “No one outside, and the hallway’s dark.”

They had seen that from the outside already. Selwyn was probably asleep - or in the basement, doing whatever it was that he had to hide from everyone. She wasn’t certain which she preferred.

“I’m checking the stairs,” she whispered. “Wait here.” She dropped her Disillusionment Charm and changed before Mr Fletcher could protest. A moment later, she pushed her lithe form through the gap in front of him.

It made perfect sense, she thought. As a cat, she could sneak around much better, and no one would spot or hear her. And no Human-presence-revealing Spell would detect her. And Mr Fletcher could rest a little.

She padded down the hallway until she reached the top of the stairs from where she peered down at the entrance hall, her sharp eyes easily piercing the darkness. It was empty and dark. She didn’t smell any wizards either, nor any blood. Everything was as it should be.

Hermione was about to descend when she heard the faint sound of human voices. She quickly pressed herself against the floor and inched back. If they came this way… but would they? Below her, a door was opened, and light shone into the entrance hall. She crept forward a little, just enough to see what was going on.

“Do not disappoint me, Quentin.” The voice sounded cool and arrogant. She felt her fur raise on her back. Who was this man? He obviously wasn’t Selwyn.

“I won’t, milord. I promise: I will find the tome for you.”

Hermione froze. There was only one man a wizard such as Selwyn would address in that manner, and with so much fear and subservience.

Voldemort.

Hermione remained frozen, unable to move while her heart raced in her chest and her fur stood on end. The Dark Lord was there. Just a few yards from her. She should flee - withdraw - before he spotted her. Warn the others. They had to get away. But she couldn’t stop staring at the monster.

“See that you do, and quickly,” Voldemort said. “My patience is not unlimited - and neither is my generosity.” He looked younger than she had expected, Hermione thought while she tried to breathe again.

“I will, milord. I will not rest until I have fulfilled my task!”

“I expect nothing less.” Voldemort inclined his head as the other wizard shuddered. The Dark Lord turned towards the door, then stopped. His head moved - and he stared directly at her, his eyes boring into hers.

Hermione trembled, her claws digging into the carpet. She had to get away - but that would make him chase her. If she stayed still, though…

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, then shook his head and addressed Selwyn again. “You’re a Slytherin, my dear Quentin. You should get a snake as a familiar. A large one which feeds on cats.”

“Of course, milord! I will acquire one tomorrow!”

“And feed it,” the monster added with a cruel smile.

“Of course, milord!”

Chuckling, Voldemort glanced once again at Hermione, then left through the front door.

As soon as the door had closed behind the Dark Lord, Selwyn seemed to sag and almost collapsed against it, trembling fiercely. “A snake. A large snake… And cats to feed it.”

As the wizard was stammering to himself, Hermione finally managed to withdraw, inching back on her belly until she couldn’t see him anymore. Then she whirled around and sprinted back to the reading room. She had to tell the others!

*****

“... and then he told Selwyn to get a large snake as a familiar before left,” Hermione Granger finished her whispered report. A snake large enough to feed on cats, the monster had said! Cats were not food!

“We did well to obliviate the other snake, then,” Mr Fletcher said. “He obviously uses them to control his Death Eaters.”

“We need to know which tome the Dark Lord is seeking,” Sirius said.

Hermione nodded - that was so obvious, even a dog could see it. “And we need to keep it out of his hands.” By stealing it beforehand, of course.

“We’ll have to interrogate Selwyn then,” the dog said.

“‘Interrogate’?” Mr Fletcher narrowed his eyes at Sirius.

“I’ll fetch Veritaserum once we have captured him.” The other wizard smiled. “Much more efficient and dependable than whatever you are considering.”

“I wasn’t considering it,” Mr Fletcher snarled.

“First we have to capture Selwyn,” Hermione reminded them. “He’s an experienced wizard and a Death Eater.”

“Who’s currently shaking in his boots and trying to decide which snake to buy that would both satisfy his master yet not be able to kill him on command.” Sirius shrugged. “You two would probably be able to capture him without me.”

“Yes we would,” Mr Fletcher said, and for a moment, Hermione expected him to send the dog away to fetch Veritaserum and let the thieves handle this. He didn’t, though, and turned to her instead. “Alright. Check if Selwyn is still in the entrance hall.”

She nodded and changed. A moment later, she was stalking the hallway again.

Selwyn had recovered by the time she reached the entrance hall again and he was walking, albeit slowly, towards the stairs. His bedroom was probably on the first floor, Hermione realised as she whirled around and hid behind a flower pot in which a large fern grew.

The man passed her without looking down - or looking at anything, she thought as she caught a glimpse of his expression through the fern’s foliage. Had this been the first time he had realised just what kind of monster he was serving?, Hermione wondered.

He walked down the hallway, passing the first set of doors. That left the reading room, and the room across from it. Hermione hesitated a moment, then shook her head and changed again.

Her silent Stunner caught the man right between his shoulder blades and he dropped to the floor. She cast a full Body-Bind Curse for good measure before calling the others.

*****

“That wasn’t the plan.” Mr Fletcher glared at her.

“I saw an opportunity and took it,” Hermione Granger defended herself. Apparently, her tutor didn’t share her own assessment of her chosen course of action. Sirius hadn’t been happy either, but since he had to fetch the Veritaserum from Dumbledore, the dog hadn’t been able to scold her.

“You should have returned to us when you saw him coming up the stairs.” Her tutor shook her head. “We make plans for a reason:”

“But then he would have been in another room, and we would have had to charge through the door. He hadn’t seen me. He wasn’t even aware of me, nor did he notice me until my spell hit him. I had to adapt to the situation.” He had taught her that, too, after all.

He didn’t seem to like hearing his own words thrown back at him. “And if he had seen you? You think he wouldn’t have realised at once that you were no normal cat but an intruder?”

“I was behind the flower pot - that fern there. He couldn’t have spotted me in the dark even if he had been looking.” Her lithe form could hide completely behind the flower pot. Unlike a huge clumsy dog.

“So you think.”

“Well, it worked,” she shot back. “And it was safer than breaking down the door to his bedroom and hoping to catch him by surprise.” That was far more dangerous, in her opinion. She saw his expression and bit her lip. Doing that would have been more dangerous - but it would have been Mr Fletcher or the dog who would have been taking the biggest risk. Not her. He didn’t agree with her; she could tell. But before he could say anything further, Sirius arrived with the Veritaserum.

But she knew that the discussion wasn’t finished.

*****

“And did the Dark Lord order you to do anything else for him?” Sirius asked half an hour later.

“Yes.” Selwyn answered in the now familiar dull tone of a man under the effect of Veritaserum,

“What did he order you to do?” Sirius leaned forward.

“He ordered me to buy a snake and feed cats to it.”

Hermione Granger, who had been poised to note down the man’s next answer, cringed slightly when both her tutor and Sirius turned to stare at her.

“You didn’t mention that,” Sirius said, his eyes narrowing.

“It wasn’t important,” she answered.

“Why would the Dark Lord mention cats?” Sirius asked. “Because he saw you,” he answered his own question.

“He saw a cat. He had no idea that I was a witch,” she retorted.

“And if he had suspected? You’d have been dead!” Sirius snarled at her.

“He didn’t.” That was what counted. “And now we know what he looks like.” Unless that had been a disguise.

“You were lucky. You won’t be lucky forever.” He shook his head.

“I wouldn’t call stumbling on the Dark Lord during a heist ‘being lucky’,” her tutor cut in.

“See?” Sirius, of course, interpreted that as agreement.

“If I hadn’t sneaked up on them, we wouldn’t have known about this ‘Tome of Blood’ that the Dark Lord is seeking,” Hermione pointed out. And wasn’t that a rather pretentious name? “No one expected this to be safe.”

“No one expected you to encounter the Dark Lord!” Sirius shot back.

“So, it’s me meeting him that’s the problem?” Hermione glared at him. “It would have been fine if he had seen you and thought you were a simple dog?” Before he could answer, she went on: “You’d have boasted about the encounter, and how clever you would have been for fooling the Dark Lord!”

“That’s different!” He didn’t deny it, at least.

“How so? Because I’m too young?” She stood, hands on her hips. “I don’t have Mr Fletcher’s experience, but I’m a skilled thief. And I pulled this off - I fooled the Dark Lord, and I captured Selwyn!” She ignored her tutor’s “against the plan” and went on: “My age doesn’t matter as long as I can do what’s needed!”

“It shouldn’t be needed,” Sirius spat out.

“And Harry shouldn’t have been cursed.” Hermione scoffed. “But he was - and I’m needed.” ‘For Harry’ remained unsaid, but he understood. Even if he didn’t like it.

“We’re still going to have words about sticking to the plan and informing your partners,” Mr Fletcher cut in and his glare made Hermione cringe slightly, “but we can do that elsewhere. Now we need to deal with Selwyn.”

Hermione glanced at the wizard. He hadn’t reacted to his name being mentioned and kept staring at the floor, still in the grip of the Veritaserum.

The dog shrugged. “We’ll obliviate him of this and make him think he went to bed as planned.”

How naive! Hermione sighed and looked at her tutor. He nodded at her and they shared a grin.

The dog narrowed his eyes at them. “What are you planning now?”

*****

“At least you didn’t loot the whole house this time,” Sirius said an hour later, back in the basement of Grimmauld Place, shaking his head.

Hermione Granger paused in putting the Galleons they had taken from Selwyn into Sirius’s vault and grinned at him. “I thought about it - but while we could easily make him think that he had less gold in his strongbox, I think we couldn’t have done that with the furniture and artwork. At least, the Dark Lord might have noticed during his next visit.”

The dog pointed at the books she had stacked next to her. “And those?”

She shrugged. “You were already messing with his mind to ensure he’d fail the Dark Lord’s mission” - and she didn’t want to think about what that would mean for Selwyn once he had to explain it to the Dark Lord - “so adjusting his memory to cover up the disappearance of a few choice books was easy.” And only a fool wouldn’t have copied the other rare books in the man’s library.

Sirius sighed. “I really will need a bigger basement if you continue like this.”

“Yes, you will.” She smiled sweetly at him as he gaped at her.

Did the dog really think that she would stop? She was just starting!

*****

**Hogwarts, March 1st, 1996**

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Ronniekins! Happy birthday to you!”

Harry Potter grinned at the cacophony - that had been, he remembered, Hermione’s term for it in second year - into which Ron’s brothers were mangling the simple melody. His friend scowled at the twins, but that was normal for a Weasley party, even one held in a ‘repurposed’ classroom in Hogwarts.

Ron cut the cake his mum had sent with a few Cutting Charms while Luna distributed the slices. It was, Harry discovered shortly afterwards, simply delicious. Not even Hermione would have complained about the sugar it contained.

Harry wasn’t alone in his opinion - the room was filled with appreciative noises, usually semi-muffled by mouthfuls of cake. Such as Ginny’s moaning next to him.

“Oh… I miss Mum’s cooking,” she added after swallowing.

“Easter holidays begin in a month,” Harry said.

To his surprise, she scowled. “They’ll have us stay at Hogwarts for our safety.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I heard it from Bill. He wrote me,” she explained after she must have noticed his own surprise, “that they have him going over The Burrow’s wards. Again. By the time he’s done, The Burrow’ll be safer than Gringotts.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “Gringotts is mostly underground - that’s a much more defensible location than a mostly wooden building above ground. If the wards are broken the building won’t last long.” Moody had been clear on that. He smiled at her. “You might want to expand the basement and move down there.” The Weasleys’ home was already called The Burrow, after all.

She laughed. “Don’t tell Mum that. She might do it.”

“She should.” Harry nodded at his girlfriend. “Things are getting worse in Britain.” Sirius hadn’t told him any details, but Harry knew that his godfather was fighting for Dumbledore. And for him, he added to himself.

“Well, this is a party, even if it’s one for Ron, so let’s not talk about that, OK?” Ginny said with a smile.

“OK,” Harry answered. He wrapped his left arm - always leave your wand arm free, Moody had taught them - around her waist. Maybe they could take a detour to the Astronomy Tower later.

Ron interrupted his pleasant thoughts. “Mate! Thank you for your gift!”

“What did you get him, Harry?” Ginny asked.

Ron answered before Harry could. “This enchanted pocket! Sticks to your robe - or to your skin - and has an extended interior.” He held up the slim piece of cloth Harry had had Sirius buy.

“Nice,” Ginny said. “That’ll be useful.”

Ron nodded. “Oh, yes! I’ll be able to carry everything I need in a fight with me!”

Ginny was scowling again, Harry noticed. Perhaps he should have bought her one as well?

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, March 30th, 1996**

Harry Potter was still recovering his balance after stumbling out of the fireplace into his home when he spotted movement beneath the window across from him. He reacted as Moody had taught him and aimed his wand at it at once.

‘It’ was a cat, he realised a moment later. A cat that seemed frozen to the spot, staring at him with wide eyes. He frowned. Sirius hadn’t told him anything about a new pet. And judging by the way the cat had reacted to him, it knew what a wand was. That was very suspicious.

“Ah, I see you’ve met the stray,” Sirius, who had followed him through the Floo Network,  interrupted him before he could stun the creature.

Harry blinked. “The stray?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the cat. It looked like a stray - too fuzzy to be a well-kept pet. Probably a mongrel, too.

“A stray cat which has been prowling around the neighbourhood. Hunting vermin, scaring poor dogs - the usual, you know.” Sirius passed him and walked towards the cat. “Hermione fed her a few times and now she occasionally visits. Probably fell asleep in the sun, the lazy thing, and forgot the time.” He crouched down. “Ungrateful too,” he added when the cat hissed at him. “You know how cats are.”

Harry nodded. He knew Mrs Figgs’s cats. And that monster Hermione insisted was a cat. Of course his friend would care for a stray cat as well. He didn’t lower his wand, though. “Be careful. She sounds angry.”

“Oh, she’s harmless - I checked. As long as you’re not a dog, you’re safe.” Sirius grinned at the cat and picked her up. She didn’t look happy, in Harry’s opinion.

“If she’s a stray she probably has fleas,” he pointed out to his godfather. The cat didn’t sound happy, either, he noticed.

“Don’t worry, Hermione made sure that she’s clean,” Sirius said. “Here, hold her!”

Harry found himself with his arms full of a squirming cat. With a very bushy tail, as he discovered when the thing slapped his face. He moved her to his shoulder so he had his wand arm free. “Pretty heavy,” he commented, then winced when the cat dug her claws in. He petted her back slightly awkwardly with the knuckles of his right hand, not dropping his wand, which seemed to calm her down. “Where’s Hermione?” he asked. It wasn’t as if he expected his best friend to wait for his arrival in the entrance hall, but… well, she usually did, and she knew that he was arriving today, to spend the the Easter holidays at home.

“She’s probably in the library and forgot the time,” Sirius said. “Put the furball down before you head there, though - can’t trust the fleabag in the library.”

Harry nodded. Hermione would probably hex the thing if it damaged a book. He set the cat down and she sped off towards the kitchen at once.

“Are you certain that Hermione is feeding her enough?” he asked his godfather.

Sirius blinked at his question, then started laughing.

*****

Hermione Granger was livid. At herself for falling asleep in the sun and missing Harry’s arrival, and at the dog for embarrassing her like that! Treating her as a stray cat! And insinuating that she would attack a dog without just cause! And handing her to Harry to be petted!

Which, she had to admit, had been rather nice. Even if her friend didn’t really know how to hold a cat. Or pet her. And had said she might have fleas!

But this wasn’t the time to dwell on that. She raced into the kitchen - that was far enough from the entrance hall - and changed back. A moment later, she apparated to the library. A quick flick of her wand later there were several open books on her usual table, next to a notepad.

Just in time, too, since Harry entered the library a moment later. “Hermione! There you are!”

“Harry? You’re here already?” She blinked, trying to sound surprised.

“Yes. Fell asleep over a book?” he asked, grinning.

She didn’t have to fake her blush, but he simply laughed and gathered her in his arms.

He knew how to hug a girl.

She would still make him regret saying she had fleas, though.

*****

 


	18. Love Trouble

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, April 2nd, 1996**

Bill Weasley - the only ones who called him ‘William Weasley’ were Aunt Muriel and Albus Dumbledore - closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t strain yourself, son. Take a break.”

He sighed and looked at his father, who was standing on the porch. “I’m not tired. Really,” he added when he saw the doubting expression on his dad’s face. “I’m just a little…” Frustrated. “...challenged here.”

His father sighed as well and sat down on the lawn next to him. “You don’t need to mince words with me. I know that you already strengthened The Burrow’s wards to the best of your ability last year. Your mother knows it as well, but…” He shrugged.

Bill nodded. He knew what his dad meant. “I’ve learned a few new tricks since last Summer,” he said. “It’s just a little tricky to implement them.”

Judging by the way his dad winced, he also knew what Bill meant. “Don’t endanger yourself, Bill.”

“This is very safe compared to some of my work,” Bill said, then clenched his teeth. That was the kind of line you gave to a pretty and impressionable witch, not to your worrying parents.

“Don’t let Molly hear that. You know what she thinks about your job.”

He certainly knew what his mum thought about his work. And his other life choices - she wasn’t exactly subtle. Bill shook his head. “I won’t. But this is an opportunity to show her that I can help the family with more than gold. That’s why I took the job, after all.” Part of the reason, at least, if he was honest. It paid far more than a Ministry post, but it was also far more exciting than pushing parchment around at the Ministry.

“You have already helped the family a lot, Bill. The matter with Percy could have been far worse, if not for your support. And the wards have never been stronger than after you improved them last year.”

“I can improve them further, though,” Bill retorted.

“You’re not doing anything…” His dad glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “...illegal, are you?”

Bill shook his head. “No. I’m not adding any illegal spells.” He wasn’t lying - the spells he planned to add weren’t banned in Britain. And not just because they weren’t known in Britain, either. “Just a few of the more obscure curses Egyptian priests used to protect their graves. Not the dark ones,” he added, “but spells others won’t know, and therefore won’t know how to deal with.”

“Unless they’re Curse-Breakers like you who do that regularly.”

Bill scoffed. “They would need to be very good Curse-Breakers - and we’re a rare breed.”

“Because you’re dealing with unknown curses regularly.”

Dad’s tone was mild, but Bill clenched his teeth. “We take far more time to break through wards in my job than anyone attacking The Burrow would have.” He wasn’t going to quit his job because of a little risk.

“So… how are you doing?” Dad asked after a short pause. “Apart from this, I mean.”

Bill didn’t know if he meant the wards, or the war that was brewing. “I’m doing fine. Gringotts wasn’t that happy with me taking a vacation, but what can they do?” He grinned. The goblins wouldn’t be able to easily replace him so they didn’t have any leverage. That was why they had approved his transfer to Gringotts in Britain, too - he had flat-out told them that he’d quit otherwise.

“A whole lot if they’re feeling cheated, according to Dirk Cresswell.”

Bill shrugged. “They would have to go against Dumbledore too.” And while the goblins were not cowards, they certainly weren’t suicidal either. His father didn’t look convinced, though, Bill noticed. “How are things at the Ministry?”

“Not as well as they should be, not as bad as they could be.”

Bill rolled his eyes at the answer. “Malfoy still giving you trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Someone should do something about that man,” Bill said. Sometimes a little blood had to be spilled to solve a problem - something he had learned at Gringotts.

“Dumbledore said the matter was in hand, and that rash action would be detrimental to his plans.”

Bill snorted. “I hope he does something before Malfoy goes after Percy again.”

“That was a nasty affair, but we weathered it well, considering the circumstances.”

“Could have been worse, should have been better?”

His dad laughed at his own words being turned back at him. “That about sums it up.” After a moment, he added: “Are you going to Hogwarts after dinner?”

“Yes. Dumbledore has a few questions about Egypt.”

His dad knew that there was more to it, that Bill was a member of Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix - the same as himself. But he didn’t pry; both knew better than to share sensitive information. And Bill didn’t want anyone to know that he had been removing dark curses from highly illegal books about blood magic for the Headmaster since he had returned to Britain. Least of all his parents.

“Now, Molly’s been wondering if you’ve met a nice witch yet.”

Bill rolled his eyes again. “My kind of nice witch, or hers?”

“I think as the years pass without you settling down, she is settling for ‘any kind of nice’,” his dad said. “So... have you?”

Bill shook his head. He hadn’t been looking, either, but he didn’t say that. Curse-Breaking wasn’t a profession for a family man, as his old mentor had taught him. And Bill wasn’t about to quit to settle down.

Not when being a Curse-Breaker so often did impress the right kind of witches.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 3rd, 1996**

Moody’s training hadn’t been entirely positive, Harry Potter thought as he finished his breakfast in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen. The combat training was great, but what Moody called - loudly - ‘Constant Vigilance’ was a mixed blessing. Harry understood the need to be cautious - he was all too aware that Voldemort wanted him dead and that the Dark Lord had many supporters to do his bidding, even at Hogwarts, and that there were ways to impersonate or control people. But it was sometimes hard to tell where the line between being cautions and being paranoid was.

Especially when it came to Sirius’s girlfriend, whose steps he heard in the hallway outside the kitchen.

“Good morning, Harry.” There she was, smiling widely - too widely - at him.

“Good morning, Jeanne.” Harry forced himself to return the smile. He’d still be calling the witch ‘Miss Dubois’ if not for Sirius. His godfather was in love with the witch. Whose English was far too perfect for a woman raised in France, in Harry’s opinion. She had the same tutor as Miss Merriweather, who hadn’t lost her obvious American accent despite having been tutored for longer. “Croissants?” He held out the basket to her. Breakfast had acquired a slightly French taste because of her, but he wasn’t yet certain if that was a bad thing.

Just as he wasn’t yet certain whether or not the witch was good for Sirius. His godfather was happy with her, as far as Harry could tell - and it wasn’t the result of potions or a charm; he had checked. But if she was just after Sirius’s money, it would break his heart. Or worse - Harry had heard the rumours about Zabini’s mother and her seven late husbands.

“Is your girlfriend visiting today?” Jeanne asked as she buttered up her croissant. “I’m not going to tell on her,” she added with a smile. “I know how it is to be young and in love.”

Harry didn’t doubt that - she was young, and Sirius was in love. He shrugged. “My home’s almost as safe as Hogwarts.” Safer, even - there were no Slytherins around. “Molly’s just upset that we didn’t ask her before Ginny visited.”

“She might also fear that the two of you would be a little too forward with each other.”

Harry snorted. “Molly’s been to Hogwarts too.” And he knew from Sirius’s tales that it hadn’t been any harder to find a private spot in the past compared to today. “Hasn’t Sirius told you about his romances at school?” he asked in a casual tone as he spread honey over his toast. He glanced at her to see her reaction, though, and noticed her flinching slightly.

She recovered quickly, though. “No, he hasn’t. It would have been poor form too, talking about past lovers with your paramour. You didn’t tell Ginny everything you did with your other girlfriends, did you?”

“Of course not!” Harry blurted out - he knew better than that.

The French witch nodded in apparent satisfaction.

Harry hid his frown behind his cup of tea. He really didn’t like Jeanne.

*****

“Hello, Hermione!”

Hermione Granger had barely stepped inside Grimmauld Place when she was greeted by her best friend. Which was rather suspicious, she thought. “Hello, Harry.” She hugged him, of course, but as soon as they pulled apart again, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you wait in the entrance hall for me to arrive?”

“What if I did?” He smiled at her so nicely, she almost dropped her inquiry.

She didn’t, though - she knew better. “It usually means that you need something from me.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he chuckled. “You’re right.”

Of course she was - she knew him better than probably anyone else. Sirius and Ginny certainly were not objective when it came to Harry, and Ron was also usually too biased. “So, what do you need? You didn’t insult another poor cat, did you?” she added with a glare.

He rolled his eyes. “Please let it rest, Hermione. It’s not as if the cat understood me.”

She huffed. Call her fat and claim she had fleas, would he? A tail like a bottle brush? The nerve of him! The dog was obviously a bad influence. “Cats are smarter than you think they are.”

He shrugged. “They’re also meaner than you think.”

What? She glared at him. “You shouldn’t believe everything Sirius tells you.” She needed to swat the dog on the nose again.

“Crookshank shredded my shoes when I visited you.”

“Easily fixed with a charm.” Obviously, the poor thing had just wanted to tell her that he needed new toys.

“That’s not the point,” Harry said with a frown. “And your stray clawed my leg.”

Only very lightly. “You probably held her wrong,” she said, shrugging. That should have taught him to insult a perfectly fine and elegant cat.

He sighed. “Let’s drop it. I need to talk to you about something else. Something more important.”

“Alright.” She nodded at him. “Your room or mine?”

He winced and glanced over his shoulder again. “Good thing Sirius didn’t hear that; he would have teased us for hours.”

She nodded - that would be typical for the dog. “So?”

“My room.”

*****

Harry Potter took a deep breath and faced Hermione, who was sitting on his bed. “You know Sirius’s girlfriend, ‘Jeanne’.”

“Of course I know her - I’m Sirius’s secretary and have probably spent more time in this house than you have so far,” she responded.

He rolled his eyes. Did she have to be like that? “Please, I asked you to drop it. This isn’t about your cat - this is important.”

“My cat is important,” she retorted. “And she’s not my cat.” He stared at her with his mouth open and she flushed slightly. “I mean, I don’t own her.”

“Whatever.” He took another deep breath. “Does ‘Jeanne’ act suspiciously friendly towards you too?”

“‘Suspiciously friendly’?”

“You know, like: ‘Please call me Jeanne.’ ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’ ‘You’re so brave.’,” he said, trying his best to imitate her voice.

“Not exactly like that,” Hermione answered. “But she does try to be friendly, yes.”

“Ah!” He knew it!

“Which is perfectly normal in this situation,” Hermione went on. “She wants to be on good terms with the family - and the staff, in my case - of her lover.”

“You’re not part of the staff,” he said, “you’re my best friend. Part of the family. Like Remus.” She had even stopped calling Sirius ‘Mr Black’. “But the point is, she’s also acting exactly like a gold-digger would when trying to earn our trust before she betrays Sirius or steals his gold.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That sounds exactly like what that twit Dawlish accused me of doing.”

“He’s an idiot. You’re my best friend, and you’re no gold-digger - you’re pretty much the opposite of a gold-digger!” Harry said.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked - in a rather tense way, he noticed.

“I mean, you’re certainly not trying to seduce Sirius. Or me,” he explained. That was obvious by the way she dressed - casual muggle wear, or loose robes. Nothing like the tight, short robes Jeanne seemed to favour. Which would look fine on Ginny, too, now that he thought about it.

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “I’d rather hex Sirius than seduce him! That… that man is insufferable!”

That was a little too vehement for Harry’s taste. “He’s still suffering from Azkaban.”

“Without a doubt. But he also acts as if he never grew up.” Hermione huffed. “Honestly, most of the time, you act more mature than he does!”

Harry wasn’t certain if that was a compliment. For a moment, he wanted to ask if she considered him as similarly unattractive. But he decided against it. Some things men weren’t meant to know, as Sirius would say. “Anyway. As you mentioned, I’m not at home very often...”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, wincing.

“It’s true,” he said and sat down on his new swivel chair - one of Sirius’s Christmas gifts. Leaning forward, he met her eyes. “But you’re here each day. And you have access to Sirius whenever you want. You can observe her discreetly and find out what exactly she’s planning.” It was the obvious solution to the problem.

She blinked, apparently surprised. “You want me to spy on her for you?” She looked incredulous.

Maybe it hadn’t been obvious to her, since she hadn’t been trained by Moody, Harry thought. He nodded. “Yes. We can’t be certain whether she’s a gold-digger or not without more information.”

“Have you ever thought that, perhaps, you might just be jealous of her close relationship with Sirius?”

He frowned at his friend. “Of course I considered that. But I’m not jealous of your own close relationship with Sirius, am I?”

“I don’t have a ‘close relationship’ with that… man.” Hermione almost seem to hiss the last word.

“I don’t mean that kind of ‘close relationship’,” he hastened to explain. “But you see him each day, you work together, you have a room here - you know what I mean?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And you know that Sirius is head over heels about her. If she’s a gold-digger - or, worse, a spy - he might not notice.” The Dark Lord was after Harry and his godfather, after all. And he had a lot of followers to spy for him.

“Have you spoken to Sirius about this?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want to ruin this for him. Not unless she is a threat.” He couldn’t do that to his godfather.

Hermione slowly shook her head. “Of course. But as I told you - she’s friendly with me as well. If she actually is a gold-digger, she won’t drop her facade in front of me. I don’t think I can find out much by observing her.”

“Just do your best, OK?” Harry sighed. “I wish I could ask her friend, Miss Merriweather. But she ‘returned to the New World’, as Jeanne put it, soon after Sirius started going out with Jeanne. Which is rather suspicious, too,” he added. Then he smiled as he had a thought. “Her tutor! You could ask him for a few lessons, and see if he knows anything about Jeanne!”

“Lessons?” Hermione had that incredulous expression again.

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “I know you’ve already got a tutor for the school stuff, but you could take a few lessons in etiquette and fashion, or something.” It would be the perfect cover, too, he added to himself with a glance at her rather shapeless muggle clothes.

Then he noticed that she was glaring at him. And holding her wand.

*****

“Sirius! Do you have a moment?” Harry Potter asked without opening the door to his godfather’s study completely. He’d rather not walk in on Sirius and Jeanne.

“Of course, Harry. I’ve always time for you. Come in!”

Harry smiled and entered. Sirius was alone, too - Hermione was in her own ‘office’.

“What do you need?” Sirius asked as he stood and walked over to the couch and armchair in the corner. “Sit down. Want a Butterbeer?”

“No, thanks,” Harry Potter said, sitting down. How best to explain...

“Girl trouble?” Sirius asked.

“What? No. Ginny’s fine.” They hadn’t gone to the Astronomy Tower as often as they had during term, but they saw each other every day.

Sirius nodded. “So, tell me what ails you.”

Harry briefly rolled his eyes at his godfather’s antics. “I’m worried about Hermione.”

“Hermione? Why? What happened?”

“Well…” He couldn’t tell Sirius everything, Harry knew. “I asked her if she would like to get a a few wizarding etiquette and fashion lessons, and she looked as if she wanted to hex me.”

Sirius chuckled. “You’re very lucky to be alive - not many wizards can say that to a witch and escape uncursed.”

“It’s not funny, Sirius. I’m worried. Hermione cares more about her cats than anyone else - and she’s also never had a boyfriend. She doesn’t go out either. If she doesn’t change, she’ll become a crazy cat lady.” Like Mrs Figgs, only younger.

Sirius started to laugh as if Harry had just told him the funniest joke ever. His godfather obviously still hadn’t fully recovered from Azkaban.

*****

**London, Greenwich, April 4th, 1996**

Hermione Granger finished her Charms homework - if you could call it homework when she was basically working next to her tutor - and glanced at Mr Fletcher. He was studying the notes he had received from Dumbledore, trying to find out where their next target was. But he had been doing that for hours, so she didn’t feel awkward about interrupting him. She cleared her throat. “Mr Fletcher?”

He looked up. “You know, it sounds kind of odd, at least a little, that you call me ‘Mr Fletcher’ and Black ‘Sirius’. We’re all in this together.”

“You’re my tutor,” she responded.

“And he’s your employer.”

“And he pretty much blackmailed me into calling him by his first name.” It wasn’t technically blackmail - more like calling in a favour. But it sounded better to call it blackmail.

Mr Fletcher shrugged. “Anyway, what do you need?”

She sighed. “Harry is concerned about Jeanne’s intentions towards his godfather. He asked me to spy on her.”

“He’s getting concerned about his future stepmother taking Mrs Zabini as a role model?”

She nodded. “Or that she’s a Death Eater spy. Or a gold-digger.”

He rubbed his chin. “Well, we both know that she has the skills to charm a man. And pretty much everyone among the Old Families knows that Elias Selwyn wants his daughter to marry rich.”

And Sirius was very rich. “Mr Selwyn is not fond of Sirius, though,” she said. Nor was Sirius fond of the bigot. “They haven’t met once since Sirius started dating her. No invitations. They haven’t even talked to each other in passing at events that they both attended.”

“And what did Jeanne say about this?”

“That her father didn’t control her,” Hermione answered. Or so Sirius had claimed, when she had touched on the subject once in private. “Which may not be entirely accurate, seeing as he pays her a generous allowance.” But Sirius had certainly liked that line, as far as she could tell.

“Which she wouldn’t need any more, should Sirius decide to keep her.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “So, either she is honestly in love with Sirius, or she’s doing very well at acting like she is.”

“And Potter wants you find out which is correct.”

She scoffed. “He mentioned that I could approach you under the guise of needing lessons in etiquette and fashion!”

Mr Fletcher laughed at that, despite her glaring at him.

She sniffed. “Obviously my acting has him completely fooled if he thinks that I need such lessons.” It still stung - she hadn’t dressed down that much.

“Obviously.” He had stopped laughing, but was still smiling. “So, what did you tell him?”

“I told him that I didn’t need his or anyone else’s help in that matter,” Hermione responded primly.

“The lessons, or the spying?”

“I left that open.” She sighed. “But he is correct that Jeanne might be trying to con Sirius. Or worse.”

Mr Fletcher frowned. “I don’t think that she is a spy for the Dark Lord. She would have acted differently - more sympathetic to muggleborns - if she was meant to spy on Black and others.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes.” Jeanne had pretty much ignored that topic, as far as she could remember. “But while she joked about her father’s wishes for her, she didn’t seem that opposed to them either.”

Mr Fletcher shrugged. “Being rich never hurt a wizard’s chances with the witches.”

“So, what can we do? ‘Miss Merriweather’ has returned to America and is therefore not available to subtly question Jeanne,” Hermione said. “And contrary to Harry’s expectations, ‘Mr Smith’ doesn’t know Jeanna that well either.”

“There’s not much that we can do.” He shrugged. “Even if she’s not after Black’s gold, she might tell her father that just to have him support her. We could dose her with Veritaserum and obliviate her afterwards, but that might be a little much.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. But if needed, that plan certainly would solve the issue. As long as Jeanne didn’t remember it and Sirius never knew. “I guess I’ll have to simply keep an eye on her and see if she slips up.”

“And hope she doesn’t recognise you.”

“I’ll keep my distance.” Which wouldn’t help with the observation. She sighed and changed the topic. “Did you make any progress?” she asked nodding at his notes.

“Not much,” he answered. “These are muggle police reports of missing persons - all of them last seen leaving a pub or party with a beautiful, pale woman no one knew.”

“The ‘Pale Lady Abductions’?” Hermione asked - that had been a major news story a few weeks ago. “I thought vampires didn’t have to kill their victims.” Hermione had studied them quite extensively, especially since her close encounter with Tripe. “Attracting attention like that doesn’t seem a smart idea.”

“They don’t need to. But they might want to - for a variety of reasons.” Mr Fletcher grimaced.

“Like dark rituals,” Hermione said. “Or blood magic.”

“Exactly.” He nodded with a smile, and, for a moment, she felt like a normal student again, answering her teacher’s question correctly. “This vampire might have the tomes we seek.”

She looked at the notes. She wondered how the Headmaster had managed to get the police reports on the disappearances. “These are spread almost all over Merseyside and North Wales,” she noted after quickly perusing them.

“Yes. And while vampires are very prone to falling into patterns - the source of the muggle stories about them being forced to count rice grains dropped on the floor - I haven’t found any yet.” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “This vampire is being rather smart about it.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Let me take a look. Please,” she added a moment later.

“Be my guest.” He flicked his wand and duplicated the notes.

She smiled. This was far more important than spying on Jeanne.

And far more difficult too, as she discovered quite quickly.

*****

**Hogwarts, April 5th, 1996**

Harry Potter stumbled out of the fireplace in Remus’s quarters, but didn’t even come close to falling down - he was making progress.

“Hi, Harry!” His girlfriend was giggling, though, so he still had a way to go.

“Ginny!” He took her in his arms and lifted her up until her feet left the ground and her giggles turned to gasps.

“Put me down!”

He did - and stifled further protests with a kiss.

“You’ve been waiting for me, hm?” he asked a minute or so later.

“Well, the alternative was watching Ron play chess against a portrait or serving as a tester for Fred and George’s latest invention.” She shrugged, but she was grinning as well.

He nodded with a serious expression. “I see. That must have been a hard decision to make.”

“Oh, yes. Spending time with you narrowly won out.” She narrowed her eyes and mockingly glared at him. “I can still go and watch Ron play, though, if you turn out to be a let-down.”

He beamed at her - that was a perfect opening - and slung his arm around her waist. “Have I ever let you down? We’ve got an hour before Moody arrives - and the whole school to ourselves…” There was this cozy little room that had apparently served as a music room before a renovation. He felt her grow tense under his hand and frowned.

“I’d rather take our brooms out. The weather’s fine, and we haven’t done that in a while.”

Unlike other things. In private. But she had a point, Harry thought. “Good idea. We can use the training too. Perhaps we should call Ron and the twins, so we can train dodging multiple spells.” That should be a blast, he thought.

Ginny didn’t look happy with that idea, though. “I was thinking more like just the two of us,” she said. “Without anyone else. Maybe a Seeker duel.”

He grinned. “Oh, of course. But if I win, I demand a kiss as a reward. While we’re flying.”

That got her blushing.

*****

Harry Potter won, of course - even if it was a closer race than usual. And he got his kiss, with the two of them hovering near the Astronomy Tower. If only they had more time… but Moody would be arriving soon.

“Let’s land,” he said. “We don’t want to be late.” Moody was harsh enough when you were on time; Harry didn’t want to find out how the old Auror would react to him being late.

Ginny sighed. “Another two hours of getting hexed and cursed.”

“And smashed into walls,” Harry added with a chuckle. “Ceilings and floors too.”

“It’s not funny,” she said, glaring at him.

He shrugged. “It’s necessary, though.” The Dark Lord was after him, after all.

“But lately, all we’ve been doing together is training with Moody, and snogging,” Ginny said. “You can overdo the training, you know.”

“For snogging?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner as he grinned at her.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even chuckle. “I’m serious.  You’ve spent most of the holiday so far training with Moody or with Dumbledore. You need to relax, too. And we need to do more than just snog and train together.”

“Snogging’s pretty relaxing,” he pointed out. As was sex.

“But not if it’s all we do together.” She shook her head, her ponytail whipping back and forth.

“Well, we just had a Seeker duel.” Which had been fun, too.

“Because I asked you to. And you wanted to use the opportunity to train in dodging curses.”

“I might need that training the next time a Death Eater catches me - or us.” Harry shrugged and stared at the Quidditch shed. They really needed to land now. He looked at his girlfriend. “You’ve been there. You know how it is.”

“Yes. But I’m just saying, you shouldn’t overdo it. That’s not healthy. And we should do more together than just snog, too.” She must have seen his expression, since she added: “Or have sex.”

“I can do that once Voldemort’s dead,” Harry said. He certainly wouldn’t be able to do anything if he got killed because he hadn’t trained enough.

She looked at him, then shook her head again. “Let’s land.”

“Alright,” he said. But it wasn’t. And they were late.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 6th, 1996**

Harry Potter knocked on the door to Sirius’s study. “Sirius? Are you up yet?” He thought he heard someone mutter inside, but couldn’t catch the words. Then the door was opened, and Sirius was standing there. “Morning, Harry!”

Harry saw Jeanne stowing her wand behind him. Her clothes looked impeccable. Which probably meant that they had been anything but when he had knocked. He wasn’t sorry. Much. “Morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Harry,” Jeanne said with a wide, too wide, smile.

“Ah, to be a teenager again, sleeping in during the holidays, instead of working in the morning…” Sirius sighed.

“I’ve been up training at Hogwarts until midnight,” Harry muttered. Tonks hadn’t lied - Moody _really_ didn’t like it if you were late to his lessons.

“And you’ve been sleeping until… what time is it?” Sirius asked, glancing over his shoulder at his girlfriend.

“Ten in the morning, chéri.”

“I didn’t sleep until ten; I already had breakfast,” Harry said. “Anyway, do you have a minute? I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, Harry! Always!”

“I’ll see you later, Harry, chéri.” Jeanne waved at them as she passed on her way out of the room.

“So, what do you need to talk about?” Sirius asked once the door was closed.

“Girls,” Harry answered.

“Didn’t we have that talk already?” Sirius frowned. “I distinctly remember that. I think I do, at least.”

For a moment, Harry wasn’t certain if his godfather was joking. Then he saw the man’s grin and rolled his eyes. “Not _that_ talk. But I need some advice about girls. Two specific girls.”

“Two girls?” Sirius’s grin widened even as he raised his eyebrows.

“Not that kind of… whatever.” Harry sighed. “It’s about Ginny and Hermione.”

To his mild surprise, Sirius stopped grinning. “Oh? What happened with them?”

“Nothing. I’m worried about two unrelated things. At least I don’t think they’re related.” He sighed again. “Ginny’s been acting… weird lately. She doesn’t like that I’m training so hard. And she wanted to spend time with me - not like that,” he added when he saw the grin reappear on Sirius’s face. “We had a Seeker duel. And she didn’t want me to ask her brothers to join us for a Quidditch session.” He bit his lips. “I wonder if she’s starting to act like Parvati. She always wanted me to spend time with her, and only her.”

“Well, witches don’t like it if you just snog and have sex when you’re together. I told you that, didn’t I?” Sirius frowned.

“Yes, you did. But it’s not like that.” Not entirely, at least. “I have to train so I can survive whatever Voldemort tries next. I’m not spending all of my time hanging out with my friends and only going to her for a quick snog.”

“Or a quick shag,” Sirius added. “Later at least.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his godfather again. That wasn’t the point. “I am spending most of my free time with her. A lot, at least. But I don’t want to neglect my friends either.” Which is why it would have been nice if they had been able to play together with Ron and the twins.

Sirius rubbed his goatee. “Well, she should understand that saving your life takes priority over romantic strolls along the lakeside.”

Harry frowned at him. “We’re not doing that again.” Not until Voldemort was dealt with.

“I was speaking figuratively.” Sirius waved his hand. “But I think you’ll have to tell her that she can’t completely monopolise your free time.”

“I don’t want her to monopolise my free time at all,” Harry said. That reminded him too much of Parvati’s attitude. When he saw Sirius’s expression, he quickly added: “I mean apart from snogging.”

Sirius actually laughed at that. “Harry, listen to your experienced godfather: You can’t expect a witch to just be there for you when you want to… snog her. I mean, you shouldn’t neglect your friends, but your girlfriend deserves time as well. Romantic times.”

Harry groaned. “I guess this is one of the times when being honest isn’t a good idea?”

“You’re right, Harry. Now, you mentioned Hermione as well?”

Harry took a moment to answer. “Yes. She’s been very distant this week. Leaves early, doesn’t spend much time with me… I asked her if something was wrong, and she said that she wasn’t angry at me, but simply busy. But I think she’s angry with me, even if I haven’t done anything to her. I even apologised for ‘insulting’ her cat. ”

“Well, maybe that’s the problem?” Sirius cocked his head sideways.

“The cat?” If Hermione took that so seriously, then she already was a crazy cat lady. Besides, he had just been honest.

“No, the not doing anything to her,” Sirius clarified.

“Huh?” Harry blinked, then rolled his eyes. His godfather needed to stop thinking that everything was about sex. “She’s not interested in me like that. If she were, she’d have said something. And she would have dressed up a bit.” Like Ginny had done when they had come together.

Sirius shrugged. “She might think she’s too ugly to have a chance.”

“She isn’t ugly,” Harry said. “But she really could use some fashion lessons. And a new hairstyle. And some makeup.”

“My godson, the expert on witches!” Sirius chuckled a little too loudly for Harry’s taste.

“You can’t exactly remain ignorant of such things when you have a girlfriend,” he retorted. At least not a girlfriend like Parvati. “But yes, if I didn’t know better I’d suspect that she’s deliberately dressing like that.”

“Why would she be doing that?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t want the Prophet to call her a gold-digger? I don’t know. But I want to know why she’s angry with me.”

“Well… you rejected my theory that she fancies you. That leaves us with the most obvious explanation.” Sirius grinned at Harry.

“Which is?” Harry asked through clenched teeth when his godfather didn’t go on.

“Well, she’s studying for her O.W.L.s.”

Harry stared at him, then sighed. “I’m an idiot!” Of course Hermione would be studying hard already! It was just two months until the O.W.L.s.! Then he frowned. “But she hasn’t badgered me or Ron about studying.”

“She knows that you two have more important things to worry about.”

“Right.”

Harry was both relieved and disappointed. It was good that Hermione wasn’t mad at him. But he would have liked to spend some time with her over the holidays.

*****

**London, Greenwich, April 10th, 1996**

There had to be a pattern, Hermione Granger told herself, not for the first time. Vampires fell into patterns. The police hadn’t picked it up, which meant it had to be of a magical nature. Something muggles wouldn’t think of. And it wasn’t simple or logical, or she would have solved the problem days ago.

It was a logical deduction, but it didn’t change the fact that she was stumped. She sighed and pushed the notes on the table away so she could rest her head on her arms.

“Taking a break from studying?” Mr Fletcher asked from where he was reading muggle newspapers.

“That was my break,” Hermione said, with her face buried in her arms.

“Ah.”

She glanced up. He wasn’t looking at her. Pointedly not. She frowned. “I’m going to find that pattern,” she spat.

“Alright.” He nodded.

“I mean it,” she said, scowling.

“I believe you.” He did not, she was certain. But she couldn’t call him out for that.

She sighed again. “I’m certain that the pattern is related to magic. But I haven’t found anything. The disappearances aren’t linked to moon phases, nor to constellations.” And checking that had been a pain. If only she hadn’t dropped Astronomy two years ago… She glared at Mr Fletcher. He didn’t react, other than a slight twitch of his lips. “I suspect that it is linked to blood magic - if she’s sacrificing people for a blood magic ritual, then she would pick them due to their blood. But I haven’t been able to find a pattern based on the blood type of the victims, not from the limited information in the police records - they don’t have the full blood group classifications.” If she knew more about blood magic… “But even if there were a pattern based on blood that doesn’t mean that we’d find her next victim in time to catch her. It’s not as if people publish their blood types…” She trailed off. “But if she can find her victims...”

“...then she has to have a way to search for them,” Mr Fletcher finished for her with a rather feral-looking grin.

“Blood banks. She has to have a connection to a blood bank. We need to check if the victims have donated blood, and where.” Hermione stood and smiled widely. This was it! They’d find the vampire!

*****

**Liverpool, Britain, April 12th, 1996**

“Breaking into muggle offices… this feels like barely a step above duelling a baby.” The dog was still complaining, Hermione Granger thought as she searched the records of the NHS blood processing centre for the names of the missing persons.

“You insisted on coming along, Black.” Mr Fletcher wasn’t much of a help, splitting his attention between watching for the night guard returning, and sniping at Sirius.

“I had to. Imagine if you stumble upon the vampire and I’m not here to save you from her - that’d be a bloody mess.” Black sighed theatrically.

“We can handle a bloodsucker, Black,” Mr Fletcher shot back.

“In your dreams. If she’s a practitioner of blood magic, she’ll deal with you easily.”

“So only your dark curses will be able to deal with her?” Mr Fletcher scoffed.

“Well… who killed Tripe and saved you two?” The dog sounded so smug right then, Hermione had trouble focusing on her task instead of hexing him. But someone had to take this seriously, even if it had been child’s play to break into the facility’s offices with magic.

“Emphasis on ‘killed’, Black.”

“I’m not going to spare a vampire when I’m saving Hermione. Or you,” Sirius said. “Unless you insist on it.” He even sounded hopeful!

Mr Fletcher snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.” Mr Fletcher spat.

“Hah! So much for your precious morals!” The dog’s loud triumph would have alerted the night guard if not for the spells on the door.

Hermione had had enough. “We’re on a mission!” she admonished the two bickering wizards.

Mr Fletcher looked contrite, but Sirius showed no remorse. “Haven’t you finished yet? Jeanne’s going to be wondering where I am if we take too long.”

Hermione was about to set the dog straight with a few choice remarks, but just at that moment she finally found what she was looking for. “Hah! Everyone who’s missing donated blood in the last few years. And now we have their complete records!” She turned to look at the two wizards, beaming. Her theory had just been proved!

“That’s great! Can we go now?”

Hermione glared at the dog. “Certainly not! Unless you want to copy the entire database - which we can’t do,” she quickly said when he raised his wand with an expectant look in his eyes, “since it’s in electronic form, and not printed out - we have to check for common traits in the data here.”

“What are we checking, anyway?”

“There are almost three dozen blood group systems,” she said, her attention once again focused on the screen. “This could take a while.”

“What? Three dozen blood group systems? What’s a blood group system, anyway?”

Hermione let her tutor field that question as she started another search.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 13th, 1996**

“And all the victims’ blood matched this profile.” Hermione Granger pointed at the printout on the table - formerly owned by Tripe - in Sirius’s basement.

“Ah.” Sirius peered at the sheet and nodded, but Hermione doubted that the dog understood anything about muggle classifications of human blood groups. Wizards didn’t need to, being able to simply replenish blood with a cheap potion.

“So, I ran a search, and, since the last disappearance, one new donor has been recorded with the same profile.” She put another printout down. “Rupert Hornsby, from London. Donated on a trip, apparently.”

“So, he’s our vampire’s next victim,” Sirius said, grinning.

“That’s going to be tricky,” Mr Fletcher cut in. “We need to find the vampire’s lair, which means we need to track her there. But if we foil her kidnapping attempt, she might be too cautious to head directly to her lair, and if we let her kidnap the man, we might not be able to break into her lair quickly enough to save him. Or she might take him to a ritual site, not her lair.”

“If she’s planning a ritual then she might still take her tomes with her for referencing,” Hermione pointed out. She would certainly do so.

Her tutor looked doubtful even as he nodded slowly. “It’s possible, but even so - we can’t risk the muggle’s life on such a possibility.”

“We don’t have to,” Sirius said. He was smiling and shaking his head. “You’re thinking like thieves.”

“We are thieves,” Mr Fletcher retorted.

“Yes, you are.” Sirius made a point of looking at the furniture in the room.

Hermione exchanged a grin with her tutor. Tripe had had good taste, in her opinion, and it would have been a waste not to use perfectly good furniture until you could fence it without risk.

Sirius sighed. “Anyway. This is not a mission for thieves. We don’t need to track the vampire if we can catch the vampire instead, and find out where her lair is that way.”

That made sense, Hermione thought. She nodded. “You’re right.” She’d have to check whether Veritaserum worked on vampires.

“It won’t be that easy, though,” her tutor said. “We’ll have to shadow the muggle around the clock, and we’ll have to be ready to step in at a moment’s notice. Cut off her escape and capture her. And worst case, she’s an old, experienced vampire who knows blood magic - not an easy target to capture alive, as Black is fond of pointing out.”

The dog was grinning again. “That doesn’t really matter since you won’t be the ones capturing her.”

“What?” Hermione stared at him.

“As I said, it’s not a mission for thieves.” The dog grinned. “You can leave it to people trained for that sort of thing.”

“Dumbledore’s pet Aurors.” Mr Fletcher said, sneering.

Sirius shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not - Dumbledore’s playing his cards much closer to his chest this time around. Which is a good thing.”

Hermione had to agree with that, even though it felt like a let-down to be excluded from the capture after having done all the legwork needed to find the vampire in the first place. And she was really curious about who the Headmaster would send on this mission. Perhaps she could…

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, Hermione, the answer is no,” Mr Fletcher interrupted her thoughts.

She made a mental note to work on her poker face, too. And, she added, as Sirius laughed at her, to teach the dog another lesson.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 13th, 1996**

“Sirius? I’m off to Hogwarts for the afternoon…” Harry Potter trailed off when he saw his godfather rubbing his nose while holding his wand. “Did you hurt your nose?”

“Just a scratch,” Sirius answered. “Cats can’t take jokes without getting violent.”

Harry was about to ask what cat Sirius was talking about when he heard a hiss and spotted Hermione’s stray hiding behind the desk. He shook his head. “Did you try to prank the cat?”

“No!” Sirius protested. “It was just a little joke.”

“She’s a cat, Sirius. They don’t understand jokes. Or much of anything else,” Harry said, shaking his head.

“I fully agree!” Sirius beamed at him. He was acting rather weird, Harry thought. And he had been doing so well lately.

Harry sighed and bent down. The cat was staring at him and ducked her head. “What’s she doing here anyway? And where’s Hermione?”

“Probably looking for the cat,” Sirius said, shrugging.

Harry stared at him. “And you didn’t tell her that you found her?” His friend wouldn’t be happy.

“I was about to chase her down when the beast scratched my nose.”

A grown wizard, bested by a cat… Harry shook his head. “Whatever. Can you tell Hermione that I’m off to Hogwarts?” He didn’t want to be late to Moody’s lesson again.

“I’ll tell her, don’t worry. Although she’s probably already aware - you know how she is.”

“Yes.” Harry smiled. “Good luck with the cat.”

Before Sirius could answer, the cat suddenly darted out of his study at a dead run. He beamed at Harry. “Another problem solved!”

Harry shook his head at his godfather’s antics again and left. He had a training session to attend.

He met Hermione in the entrance hall. “Harry! Don’t you need to be at Hogwarts?” she asked.

“I’m about to leave,” he said. “Are you looking for your cat?”

“She’s not my cat,” Hermione replied. “Have you seen her?”

He hesitated just a moment. “I saw her running out of Sirius’s study at top speed. I don’t know what exactly happened. You’ll have to ask him.”

“I most certainly will!” she announced, before hugging him goodbye.

That should stop his godfather’s plans to prank cats.

*****

**Hogwarts, April 13th, 1996**

“I think that is all, Harry.”

“Huh?” Harry Potter blinked. He must have dozed off in the Headmaster’s office, he realised - Moody had pressed him and his friends hard that afternoon. “I’m sorry,” he added.

“Do not be,” the Headmaster said with a smile. “I am not so old that I have forgotten how boring it can feel to a young wizard to sit still and do nothing.”

“Ah, yes.” Harry didn’t point out that the Headmaster was about the oldest person he knew. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“I think I understand now what your mother did to protect you. In principle, at least.”

“So you can duplicate it?” Harry perked up. That would mean the war was just about won.

Dumbledore’s expression told him the answer even before the old wizard had finished talking. “I am afraid duplicating her feat is currently still beyond my ability. Lily was truly an exceptional witch. And oh so brave,” he added. “But I am certain that I will not take too much longer to sort this out.”

Harry nodded. He had heard that before, though. “And what about the curse on Remus and me?”

“I should soon acquire more resources to help with that goal.”

Harry sighed. “So, there’s been no progress.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “There have been no tangible results yet, but progress has been made.”

Harry snorted. “At least training is going well. Moody’s pushing us hard, but we can see the results.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Speaking of training, I wanted to remind you that you should not focus on training to the exclusion of everything else. Some rest and recreation are needed, or even the most dedicated efforts will suffer.”

“I’ll suffer even more if I’m caught unprepared,” Harry shot back.

“That is true, but you can overdo it. I think Mister Wood’s training schedules suffered from that fault, did they not? You cannot do your best if you are exhausted - physically, mentally or both.”

Harry frowned. “I can take it.” He could.

“Most people tend to think so - until they find out, often to their great detriment, that they overestimated themselves.” The Headmaster slowly shook his head. “You should take care to let your body and mind recover and relax. It will benefit your training more in the long run - especially given the approaching O.W.L. exams.”

The O.W.L.s were the last thing - or almost the last thing - Harry was worried about. But if the Headmaster wanted him to relax, he should probably heed his advice. Especially since Dumbledore might tell Moody to take a break otherwise. “Alright, sir, I will relax more.” Some, he thought. At least Ginny would be happy; his girlfriend had told him the same several times... Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Very well, Harry. Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.” Nothing he wanted to tell the Headmaster, at least.

*****

Ginny was waiting for him in the hallway when he left the Headmaster’s office. “Hey,” she greeted him - more shyly than usual, he realised. Both her presence and manner confirmed his suspicion.

“Did you tell Dumbledore that I was training too much?” he snapped, clenching his teeth.

She looked shocked for a moment, staring at him with wide eyes and her mouth half-open. Then she narrowed her eyes and raised her chin. “And what if I did? He thinks you’re overdoing it as well.”

“He didn’t mind until you told him,” Harry spat. How could she go and complain about their relationship to the Headmaster?

“He didn’t know what you were doing until I told him!” She put her hands on her hips. “Should I have simply let you continue? Until you hurt yourself?”

“I wouldn’t have hurt myself.”

She scoffed. “So you think. Dumbledore would know better, though. And he agreed when I told him how much time you spent training!”

“What?” He stared at her. “Did you tell him everything I, we did?”

She blushed slightly, then pressed her lips together. “Only how much you were training.”

He scoffed. “Well, he told me to train less. Are you happy now?”

“Will you stop running yourself ragged then?” she shot back.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Harry snorted and shook his head. “Did you decide what I’ll be doing to relax as well?”

She bit her lower lip, like Hermione, then took a deep breath. “I was just worried about you. You’ve changed since the attack,” she said in a softer voice.

“With good reason. I almost got killed. We both almost died.” If only he had been training more before that.

“But don’t you see? You were hurting yourself with all the training. You could barely walk after today’s session.”

“Moody didn’t say anything.”

“He wouldn’t say anything if you were half-dead! That man’s crazy!” She shook her head wildly, sending her long hair flying.

“But he knows his stuff,” Harry retorted. “I need his training. You need it too.” She was improving, but she was still behind Ron and himself.

“But I need more than that.” She swallowed. “I want to do more with you than train and then snog in a cupboard before you go off again, to Dumbledore or wherever.”

“We do more than that.”

“Not that much more.” She stepped closer and put her hand on his arm. “Please…”

He sighed. “I want to do more, too.” And more than snogging, but this wasn’t the time to mention that. “But with Voldemort, and the O.W.L.s, and the curse…” He shrugged, lightly so her hand wouldn’t slide off his arm. “I can only do so much.” Why couldn’t she see that?

“Can you at least try?”

He sighed again, but nodded. Then he opened his arms, and they embraced each other.

He opened his mouth to apologise for snapping at her, but closed it again without saying anything. She hadn’t apologised for going to Dumbledore behind his back, either.

*****

 


	19. Separations

**London, Havering, April 19th, 1996**

Hornsby was a very boring man, even for a muggle, Emmeline Vance thought as she watched his flat through her Omnioculars. She’d trailed him for a week now - together with Hestia, and Kingsley when he could spare the time - and, as far as she could tell, Hornsby was always either at work or at home, watching the telly. And doting on his cat. Although it made protecting him easy if, as Dumbledore expected, the man was the target of a vampire. Which Emmeline privately doubted - unless the vampire suffered from insomnia; as Tonks had said when they changed shifts, the man’s blood must have absorbed so much boredom, it would likely put a vampire to sleep.

Chuckling at the weak joke, she took another bite out of the sandwich she had brought with her and tried to get comfortable - a Ford Anglia’s seats weren’t exactly armchairs. On the other hand, sitting in a disillusioned floating muggle car beat standing at a corner when it came to stakeouts. Emmeline hadn’t been an Auror in over ten years, but she certainly remembered how annoying and tiresome that had been. And ten yards in the air, she wasn’t at risk of getting run over by a car while disillusioned, either. According to Kingsley, that had actually happened to an Auror on a stakeout five years ago.

She shuddered at the thought and took another bite, then winced when she saw Hornsby get up and head to the bathroom. No matter how often Kingsley said that the enchantment on the Omnioculars was to ensure they could keep an eye on the muggle all the time, some things she didn’t want to watch. No, wait - he was taking a shower. At… she checked her watch… seven pm? Was the man actually going out this evening?

She quickly looked over the neighbourhood. There was no sign of a stalking vampire. That didn’t have to mean anything, of course - the vampire could be watching from a spot far outside the range of her Vampire-revealing Spell. And she might have changed her modus operandi anyway, what with even the muggles cottoning on to the fact that a woman was making men disappear.

On the other hand, vampires were not known to be very flexible when it came to their habits - that was why there were so few criminal bloodsuckers around; sooner or later their compulsive habits caught up with them. Emmeline was certain that the vampire would be approaching the man in his favourite pub.

Which, she realised, she didn’t know. “Getting sloppy in your old age”, she muttered to herself as she started the car and got ready to follow Hornsby. Who, as she saw, was dressing up in a suit again - as if he was going to work. Definitely the most boring man she knew. At least he had left the tie off… no, he was picking up a bowtie.

Emmeline wasn’t a muggleborn, but she had spent enough time in muggle London as an Auror to know that such garments had been out of fashion among muggles even fifteen years ago. At least when it came to clubbing. Not that she thought that a leather jacket would fit the man anyway.

There he was. And he was taking his car. That meant he wasn’t planning to drink. Or not much - muggles weren’t allowed to drive drunk and couldn’t sober up with a potion either. So what was he up to?

Thirty minutes later, she had her answer: Hornsby was entering a dance hall. A sign outside read ‘Latin night’. Judging by the way the porter greeted him, he was a regular here, too.

For a moment, Emmeline thought of simply staying in the car and keeping an eye on the muggle with her Omnioculars. But there were too many people inside - it would be too easy to miss the vampire. Sighing, she left the car hovering next to a streetlight so she would find it again and apparated down to the street. A glance at the dresses the muggles were wearing and a quick transfiguration later, she was on her way, using her enchanted mirror to tell Dumbledore where she was. Just in case.

*****

Hornsby could dance, she had to admit half an hour later. He wasn’t sweeping anyone off their feet - not figuratively - but he knew what he was doing. And he was popular too, Emmeline noticed - he didn’t lack partners. And yet, something was off, though she couldn’t tell what it was. Perhaps...

“Miss? Would you care for this dance?”

Emmeline forced herself to smile at the fifth man in half an hour asking her to dance. “Sorry, I’m not yet feeling up to it.”

“Alright.” The man nodded at her and went to ask the next woman.

She sighed and turned her attention back to Hornsby. Perhaps she should have gone disillusioned and risked a muggle stumbling into her. At least she wouldn’t get distracted all the time.

She watched Hornsby bow to his partner after the song ended, and then turn towards the small bar. He was finally taking a break, Emmeline noted as she shifted around a little so she could keep an eye on the man. Who was ordering a mineral water. She sighed.

Then her eyes widened. A very beautiful, very pale and very slinkily dressed woman had just taken up the spot next to him at the bar. She couldn’t hear what the woman was saying, but the way she was leaning towards Hornsby would let him look down her dress to her navel. Or her toes. If he were looking - which he wasn’t, Emmeline noted. He was barely reacting to the woman.

In fact, when she put her hand on his arm, he even pried it off. She didn’t like that, at all - for a moment, her face contorted with anger. Emmeline was moving closer, one hand on her mirror. She could call Dumbledore - but she wasn’t entirely certain that the woman was the vampire they were hunting.

And then the woman flicked a wand around, almost too fast for Emmeline to spot, and Hornsby’s polite smile turned into a dim-witted one.

Emmeline was already moving towards the doors before Hornsby had offered the vampire his arm. She pulled out her mirror. “She’s here,” she whispered as soon as it lit up.

“Very well. Please ensure she cannot apparate or use a Portkey. I shall be there momentarily,” Dumbledore replied in a voice as if he were discussing the weather and not about attacking a dangerous vampire.

But then, he was Dumbledore.

*****

Emmeline, disillusioned again, caught the moment the vampire tried to apparate with the muggle on her arm, and failed. The woman blinked, then snarled and even hissed, showing her fangs. The confunded muggle didn’t notice, of course. He kept smiling dumbly while the vampire looked around, her wand waving.

But Emmeline was outside the range of the Human-presence-revealing Spell the vampire had just cast. Not outside the range of a Stunner, though she couldn’t be certain that she would be able to hit the vampire from so far away.

And then a spell hit the vampire, who collapsed on the ground. Emmeline blinked. What had… there was Dumbledore, slipping out of an Invisibility Cloak. How had he managed to get so close? The vampire should have noticed… but it was Dumbledore.

She shook her head, ended her own Disillusionment Charm, and headed towards him.

“...a lovely night indeed. Too bad your companion left you,” she heard him say.

“Oh, it’s not a bother. I wasn’t interested in her, and would have had to let her down gently,” Hornsby said, still smiling in that manner typical of the victim of a Confundus Charm.

“It is easier this way, is it not?” Dumbledore was smiling as he stashed his wand.

The muggle nodded, and then started to walk back towards the dance hall’s entrance. Dumbledore turned to her. “Ah, Emmeline. Good work - I believe she is the woman we seek.”

“How did you manage to sneak up on her?” she blurted out.

“Very carefully,” Dumbledore said. “I jest. I borrowed a friend’s Invisibility Cloak.”

Emmeline was tempted to point out that Invisibility Cloaks didn’t hid their wearers from Human-presence-revealing Spells, but he knew that as well. Obviously, he didn’t think she needed to know. Which stung a little - but he was Dumbledore. She probably wouldn’t be able to duplicate his feat anyway.

“Let us gather our captive and be off, then.” A flick of his wand later, the vampire had been transfigured into a small puppet, which he pocketed. “If you would be so kind as to remove your jinxes?”

Emmeline nodded, annoyed that she hadn’t foreseen that request. Half a minute later, they disappeared from the parking lot.

*****

**Silloth-on-Solway, Cumbria, Britain, April 20th, 1996**

“A vampire living in a Victorian seaside resort,” Hermione Granger muttered as she approached the impressive - and Victorian, of course - house. “How much more cliché can you be?”

Sirius, prancing around, masquerading as a normal animal, barked in what was probably amusement. Her tutor, disillusioned like herself, chuckled. “According to our source,” he said, “Cecilia Payton moved into the town as it was being built in the 19th century. I gather that she found the workers from Carlisle visiting the resort easy pickings, so to speak - back then, no one would have batted an eye at a drunk man ending up in the sea.”

Hermione wondered if that was pure speculation, or also something Dumbledore had found out during the interrogation of the vampire. But this wasn’t the time to ask. They were here to break into the vampire’s lair, loot her library and other belongings, and free her captives. And, also important, Hermione would be the one to break through the wards! It wasn’t the same as breaking into the manor of an Old Family, but it was a significant step up from practice. The wards she would be facing had been placed using banned rituals.

They passed into a side alley, the dog sniffing around before barking once. They were clear, then. Hermione took a deep breath and tapped her mask, activating her spell. Then she winced - the wards looked even more impressive than she had expected. But she raised her chin - she was a trained thief. She could do this. She would do this. And Mr Fletcher would see that she was perfectly able to assist him.

She took a step closer to the fence and crouched down. The spells forming the wards were layered, but she could see where they overlapped each other as well - similar triggers and effects. It looked like Payton had simply added spells over the decades, without restructuring the whole layout. Sloppy, she thought. Maybe another result of the vampire’s compulsive tendencies.

She raised her wand, looking for a weak spot among the layers. There - two different Muggle-Repelling Charms covering the same spot, but both using the same anchor, which weakened them. If the other spells were suffering from the same mistake…

She grinned as she spotted similar, if not as obvious, weaknesses in the Anti-vermin Charms. Now if only… Her grin vanished. The core of the wards was different. Whoever had anchored those spells had been very careful. The spells were laid in a pattern where they reinforced each other, and triggering one triggered all.

For a moment, she wavered. If she made a mistake she would suffer a very powerful, possibly lethal, backlash. Then she clenched her teeth. She wouldn’t make a mistake. Those were old spells, powerful and illegal ones. But she knew how to deal with them - all she had to do was to put the theory into practice.

Taking a deep breath, she started to slowly and very carefully detach the first anchor, realigning the spells so the remaining anchors took the strain. Sweat started to run down her face, tasting salty on her tongue when she licked her lips - she should add a small enchantment to her mask to deal with perspiration. One more spell to realign. She had to steady her wand hand before continuing. If she slipped… She didn’t.

Panting, she leaned back, sitting down on the pavement.

“Hermione?”

“I’m alright,” she answered her tutor. “I opened a hole.” A flick of her wand marked the area. “We should…”

Before she could finish her sentence, the dog jumped over the fence into the small garden.

“Black, you damned fool!” she heard Mr Fletcher spit. She wholly agreed with the sentiment. “Bloody Gryffindor!”

That she didn’t agree with, of course. “Well, it seems we don’t need to test my work,” she said.

Mr Fletcher snorted. And the dog was already sniffing at the back door. At least they knew, thanks to Dumbledore, that it wasn’t trapped.

*****

“That was reckless, Black,” Mr Fletcher admonished the dog as soon as all of them were inside the house.

“Don’t you trust her?” he shot back, grinning.

Hermione Granger scowled. That was not a fair argument. “Let’s get on with this,” she said. “We have books to loot and captives to free.”

“Sometimes I wonder at your priorities,” Sirius said.

She glared at him. “That wasn’t a ranking!”

“Of course it wasn’t,” he said with that infuriating grin.

“I’ve opened the stairs to the basement,” Mr Fletcher interrupted their brewing spat. “Let’s get on with this.”

Hermione was tense as they descended into the basement - the dungeon, literally in this case, as they knew. According to Dumbledore, there were no traps or curses awaiting them, and she trusted the Headmaster’s information. But she couldn’t help worrying anyway. The stairs would make an excellent spot for a trap - dark, narrow and winding.

But they reached the bottom of the stairs without incident, and the door there didn’t stop them either.

Sirius whistled at the sight that greeted them - a room straight out of a vampire novel. A cheap vampire novel: black wood paneling on the walls, dark red curtains hanging from the ceiling and a polished stone floor, with a ritual circle etched into it.

And a door leading to the dungeon, where half a dozen men were sleeping in cells under the effects of the Draught of the Living Death. As Dumbledore had told them to expect. Hermione shivered when she looked at them - they looked dead to her. And they would have been dead as soon as Payton had caught the seventh victim she had needed for her planned ritual.

“Alright,” Mr Fletcher said. “Black, inform Dumbledore that we’re inside. Hermione, let’s get started on the books.” He swished his wand, and the red curtains were drawn back, revealing shelves upon shelves of books.

Hermione smiled widely as she drew her own wand.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 21st, 1996**

“The victims overpowered the kidnapper when the drugs she had dosed them with ran out, and managed to escape to the street, seeking help. The kidnapper died in a fire, which the police suspect she set when she realised that she couldn’t escape?” Sirius asked as he lowered the newspaper Hermione Granger had brought with her.

She nodded and pointed at the headline - ‘Pale Lady Kidnapper Dies in Fire, Victims Safe’ - which was placed right above a picture of Payton’s burning house. “That’s what happened as far as the police know.” With a slight grin, she added: “So, now you know why we had to take everything even hinting at magic from there.” Letting all those books burn would have been a crime! And they had even replaced the furniture they had taken with duplicated copies, so the muggles wouldn’t wonder why the house had been empty.

“I really need a new basement,” the dog muttered, but she ignored him.

*****

**London, Greenwich, April 24th, 1996**

Hermione Granger let her new bracelet dangle from her fingers as she studied it. It was a simple design: a fine golden chain, from which small coins dangled - a Knut, shrunk and gold-plated, for every heist she had been on. There weren’t that many, yet. But that would change, she promised herself. And she already had decided on the spots where the Knuts from the manors of the Greengrasses, Parkinsons, Davises and Bulstrodes would go. And the place of honour for the coin from Malfoy. She grinned, imagining her revenge.

Then she sighed. She wanted to go and rob those lying bigots blind, but Harry was still cursed and needed her help. Not to mention that Mr Fletcher was still claiming that she wasn’t ready to deal with an actual manor of an Old Family. Not yet. If the worst should happen, her plans would have to wait until after Voldemort was dealt with.

Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, of course - the Dark Lord was a lethal threat for her family, her friends and herself, as well as every other muggleborn and so-called blood traitor. It made sense that Dumbledore wanted her to focus on defeating the Dark Lord, even if she was certain that robbing those pureblooded liars would also harm Voldemort’s plans.

But it grated on her nerves anyway, thinking that those bigots were enjoying the gold Sirius had paid for her debts. That they were profiting from their crimes and lies, safe and smug behind their old wards. She wanted to teach them a lesson. Repay them for what they had done to her.

She sighed again.

“Something the matter?” Mr Fletcher asked. “Trouble with the Charms test?”

She shook her head, feeling her messy ponytail flap around. “No. Just thinking.”

“About what? Must be important if you’re skipping studying for it.” He was grinning, but even that joking rebuke stung her.

She didn’t want to admit that she had been dwelling on her revenge plans again. So she didn’t. “I was wondering why more wizards don’t steal from muggles. It would be very easy, after all.” Even easier than making muggle money honestly with a few choice spells.

He grinned. “What makes you think they don’t?” She frowned at him - he could be as bad with his teasing as the dog - and he held up a hand. “Don’t hex me! There are a few reasons for the apparent dearth of wizards stealing from muggles.” He sighed. “First, muggles don’t have much that we would want to steal. Gringotts and the Ministry keep a tight grip on the money supply. They know what would happen to the economy if Galleons weren’t a controlled currency. It’s a real pain to launder muggle loot, too - there’s not much demand for it, not even for precious metal since the goblins control the mint. Art would be different, but the Ministry keeps an eye on that after an incident involving the Mona Lisa.”

“They had no trouble robbing my family of all our money,” Hermione said with a scowl.

“Of course not - but that’s a drop in the bucket. You weren’t exactly rich compared to the Old Families.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. At least her family had earned their money. “But if you stayed mostly in the muggle world, you wouldn’t have to launder muggle goods into wizard money,” she pointed out. She refrained from pointedly looking around her tutor’s muggle flat, but he got her meaning.

“But then you have to launder your money muggle-style. And deal with their taxes and paper trails.”

“That wouldn’t be too hard.” She had thought about how to do that. Just in case.

“No, but it would be easier to simply conjure and transfigure what you want.” He shrugged.

“Not everyone can do that,” she retorted.

“Then they’re not good enough to last as thieves anyway.” He chuckled. “The Ministry keeps an eye out for ‘impossible thefts’. Claim they’re a threat to the Statute of Secrecy. Mostly hogwash, but it means the punishment for such thefts is much harsher than for normal theft, which scares a number of thieves off. Coupled with the work needed to keep the muggle authorities from bothering you, it’s usually not worth the hassle.”

“Usually?” She tilted her head slightly.

He shrugged. “I’m certain that there are a number of wizards living the high life as muggles. But they’re not that many. Most who have the skill for that have far greater ambitions.” He smirked at her.

She huffed. She simply wanted to teach those arrogants bigots that they couldn’t get away with their crimes. And that not even expelling her from Hogwarts would prevent her from outshining every single scion of the Old Families.

She would show them. Well, not literally - she wasn’t stupid, after all. Even if robbing the Malfoys blind would be so much more satisfying if she could also rub it in their faces.

She could dream, though.

*****

**Hogwarts, May 6th, 1996**

“...and while Nifflers are often thought to be fond of precious metals and jewels, they are, in fact, fond of anything shiny and will go to great length to find such objects. That makes them useful when digging for treasure.” Harry Potter closed his copy of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ and sighed. “We already knew that from our lessons with Hagrid.”

“Yeah. But the book doesn’t tell you that the little buggers fight tooth and nail to keep any treasure they find,” Ron added. He frowned and wriggled his left hand. “Almost lost a finger there.”

“That’s a good point,” Harry said, making a note. “If they ask about Nifflers at the O.W.L. exams, such details will help a lot.”

“If they ask about Nifflers.” Ron snorted. “I asked my brothers - neither Percy’s nor Charlie’s nor Bill’s tests included Nifflers. Charlie sent me the latest on dragons, though.” He put a roll of parchment on their table in the Gryffindor common room and duplicated it, then frowned at the result. “The copy’s letters are a little smudged.”

“Would still be a passing grade,” Harry said, “if that charm were on the list of spells we need to know.”

“It should be,” Ron retorted. “It’s very useful.”

“We almost got Moody with that avalanche,” Harry agreed, smiling.

“‘Almost doesn’t count’,” Ron quoted their trainer and both chuckled. “At least we don’t have to worry about Defence,” he added.

“Just about Transfiguration, Charms, Astronomy, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures and Potions,” Harry said.

His friend frowned at him. “No one cares about Astronomy. No one but my Mum and Percy, at least. It’s useless. And we don’t have to worry about Divination.”

“The Divination examiner might not be as easy to fool as Trelawney,” Harry retorted.

Ron snorted. “They’d have to read our minds to know we’re making it up. And we’re good at everything in Charms or Transfiguration that’s useful in a fight, so we should at least pass.”

He had a point, Harry had to admit. “There’s still Potions.”

Ron winced. “Well, the examiner can’t be as evil as Snape?”

Harry scoffed. “That ‘s not a high bar. And you know what Moody said: ‘I’m training you to Auror standards, and a N.E.W.T. in Potions is requirement to become an Auror. You wouldn’t like it if you failed your Potions O.W.L.’,” he added, trying to imitate the old Auror’s voice.

Ron sighed and hunched over in his seat. “Thanks mate. I had almost persuaded myself that the O.W.L.s wouldn’t be that bad.”

“Any time,” Harry said with a grin. After a moment, he laughed. “Look at us - we’ve got Voldemort after us, and we’re worrying about the O.W.L.s!”

“Well, I can’t fail the O.W.L.s; Mum would kill me,” Ron said. “What’s your excuse?”

“Hermione said that failing the O.W.L.s would be letting Voldemort win,” Harry said. “Something about not letting him ruin my future.”

Ron blinked. “Well, not letting him kill you is kind of the first step for that. Most important one, too.”

“Yes,” Harry said, “but I…” He saw Ginny enter the commons room - her Quidditch match must have ended. “...I think I need a break from studying right now,” he said.

Ron raised his eyebrows, then glanced at the door. “Ah.”

Harry was already up and on the way to his girlfriend. “Ginny!” He beamed at her and gathered her in his arms for a quick kiss. She had just showered; he could smell her shampoo in her hair. “How was your game?” he asked.

She smiled widely. “We won - I caught the snitch.” Then she frowned. “I hoped you’d come and watch. At least for a few minutes.”

Harry shrugged. “Sorry, but I was studying and lost track of the time. O.W.L.s.” He lowered his voice and grinned at her. “But how about we celebrate your victory? Just the two of us?”

She seemed to hesitate a moment, then shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve got homework of my own.”

“Well, once you’re done, then?” Harry smiled. “I’m free until after dinner.” And dinner was in two hours. Since Ginny wasn’t studying for her O.W.L.s she wouldn’t take that long to finish her homework.

“We’ll see,” she said. “I might also lose track of the time.”

“Oh.”

“See you later.” She was smiling, but politely. Not the kind of smile he wanted to see.

He watched her vanish up the stairs to the girls’ dorm, then sighed and returned to his and Ron’s table.

His friend looked at him but didn’t say anything. And neither did Harry.

He couldn’t wait for the O.W.L.s to be over.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, May 7th, 1996**

“You want me to teach you Defence?” The dog’s tone clearly showed that he hadn’t expected that. He had also stopped spinning around on his swivel chair.

Hermione Granger sighed. “Yes.”

“Don’t you have a tutor for that? An expert?” He was grinning now.

She clenched her teeth. “Yes. But as events have proved, you’re a better fighter than Mr Fletcher.” Not a better a thief, of course - Sirius could hardly be called a thief, in her opinion. Far too clumsy.

“Ah!” He smiled widely. “It feels so good to be acknowledged.” He sighed. “So good.”

She raised her left hand and flexed it, as if she were unsheathing her claws.

He cleared his throat. “I’m willing to teach my secretary and fellow thief, of course. Although unless you can train together with Harry, I doubt that I can spare the time to train you seriously.”

“I’m aware of that.” She didn’t have the time either, especially not with the O.W.L.s coming up. “And I’m not looking for lessons on how to fight like you do.” That wasn’t the point of being a thief. “But I would like a few lessons in escaping from people like Tripe.” She didn’t want to end up at the mercy of a vampire - or anyone - ever again.

“Ah!” He rubbed his goatee. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” His grin turned positively evil and he twirled his wand between his fingers. “We’ll start with teaching you how to dodge - as a human.”

Hermione realised right there and then that she had made a slight mistake.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, May 9th, 1996**

“Alright, we’ve got a new target,” Mr Fletcher said, using his wand to roll out a map on the table in Sirius’s basement. “Finsley’s Fine Goods. A small-time fence in Knockturn Alley, who may have recently acquired a tome on blood magic.”

Hermione Granger craned her neck to study the map. The shop was located near the entrance to the Alley - not exactly the most isolated area.

Sirius frowned. “Wouldn’t it be easier to simply buy the tome? While we’re in disguise?”

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “Books on blood magic aren’t exactly the kind of things fences sell to anyone. It’s one thing to claim that you didn’t think that necklace was stolen when you bought it, but everyone knows that even the possession of blood magic paraphernalia is illegal. He won’t admit to a stranger that he’s got such a thing.”

“We could use Polyjuice potion and pass as an acquaintance of his,” Hermione said. She could also think of a number of people who deserved to get framed.

“We would need to observe him first, see who he knows and is familiar with, and then get their hair for the potion, as well as observe them to see how they act. Easier to break into the shop straight away,” her tutor said.

Hermione nodded in agreement - that made sense. Sirius shrugged.

“We’ll have to move quickly, though,” Mr Fletcher continued. “He’ll want to get rid of it.”

“Might he simply destroy it?” Sirius asked.

“He’s too greedy for that,” her tutor answered.

“You know him that well?”

“I’ve heard enough about him,” Mr Fletcher corrected the dog. “Anyway - I checked the wards out before I came here. Nothing impressive - good enough to keep the riff-raff out, but won’t stand up to a skilled Curse-Breaker.” He looked at Hermione, who was smiling at him. “Yeah, you can deal with them. Black and I will go in while you serve as lookout.”

Hermione frowned. On the one hand, she was glad to be allowed to deal with the wards. On the other hand, this sounded as if both men wanted to keep her out of danger.

The dog rolled his eyes. “Don’t make such a face! Being a lookout in Knockturn Alley at night isn’t that safe.”

She glared at him in return. He was starting to be a little too familiar with her if he could read her mood that easily. And she still owed him for the Stinging Hexes he had used on her during ‘training’. They might be effective, but they hurt!

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, May 10th, 1996**

Glancing around as she approached Finsley’s shop, Hermione Granger had to admit that Knockturn Alley didn’t look very safe. Vampires and hags were said to prowl the Alley past midnight - although most vampires might have gone into hiding these days - and even though she was disillusioned she couldn’t help feeling as if she were attracting attention.

Seeing the dog padding in front her, his pitch-black fur almost disappearing in the shadows, helped, though. His appearance had already sent one drunk wizard running away, screaming about the Grim coming to get him. She frowned - people feared the dog, but might attack a cat. If they managed to spot her first, of course, which they wouldn’t.

But she couldn’t break through the wards as a cat. Which was why she was disillusioned instead of a cat.

She reached the walls of the shop and tapped her mask. Her tutor had been correct - not that she had doubted him: The wards weren’t as strong as on the vampire’s lair. More dangerous than the average ward on a wizard home, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She glanced over her shoulder - a floating marker showed that her tutor was right behind her, watching her back. And the dog was ahead of her in the side alley, covering the front. She nodded, even though no one could see it, and started working.

It didn’t take long - the wards had been anchored to the walls, and sloppily so. She could spot two areas where they didn’t overlap. It took her half an hour to go through them, mostly because there was a dark curse hidden behind the first layer - a nasty surprise for an overconfident thief, but again, nothing really impressive.

She tapped her mask below her ear and whispered: “Done.”

“Finally!” the dog complained - he must have changed back to human. “This alley stinks!”

“Quit complaining, Black,” her tutor shot back, “you wanted to go as a dog.” He was already at the door, and a moment later, she saw it swing open. A moment later, she saw a black dog push past and the door closed again.

Now all that was left for her was the waiting. In Knockturn Alley. At night. She took a deep breath and told herself that she was a Gryffindor. She wasn’t afraid of some dark creature lurking nearby - she could handle any of them. And, she added to herself, her tutor and Sirius were just a word away.

She still hoped that they would not take too long - staring at the shadows outside the range of the spells on her masks was more disquieting than she had expected. It was one thing to read about the hags living in this place, scorned by Wizarding Britain, but another to imagine one of them trying to sneak up on her. At least there wouldn’t be any werewolves around.

She heard a noise behind her and whirled around, wand pointed ahead. A rat froze in the middle of the alley, then sprinted towards the closest shadow. She resisted the urge to hit it with a spell, but it took an effort - rats were filthy vermin, and any self-respecting cat would kill them given the opportunity. Unless that would give her presence and position away.

“You won’t be lucky next time,” she whispered, then returned to watching the shop and its surroundings.

It felt like an hour, but it hadn’t been longer than ten minutes when Mr Fletcher and Sirius returned. “We got it,” her tutor said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Don’t know how useful it’ll be - it looks rather shabby,” the dog added.

Hermione waited until they had apparated to the rally spot in their safe house to answer. “Never judge a book by its cover.”

“I can’t - it’s missing its cover.” The dog was grinning at her.

“It wasn’t meant to be taken literally,” she explained to him.

“Well, it’s certainly not high literature.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and refrained from responding. It would only encourage the dog. Although when he turned his back to her, she banished a rolled-up newspaper at him, hitting him in the head.

“Hey!” He glared at her.

“Constant Vigilance!” she turned his own - borrowed - words back at him with a wide smile.

It was so worth the scolding from Mr Fletcher that she knew would be coming.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, May 11th, 1996**

“Hey, Hermione!”

Hermione Granger frowned at the interruption but managed not to glare at the dog standing in the door of her room - her office - at Grimmauld Place. “Yes?” Her tone clearly told him that she was busy - busy working for him, actually.

“Dumbledore is coming. He wants to talk to you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. The Headmaster, visiting her? Here? Why would he… Had something happened to Harry? No, Sirius would have been informed before her. But… “Did he tell you why?” she said, sounding calmer than she felt.

He shook his head. “No. But it must be important.”

Of course it was important - the Headmaster wouldn’t take the time to visit in person otherwise. And it concerned her. Personally.

She bit her lower lip, fighting the anxiety she felt rising inside her.

*****

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger. Sirius.” Dumbledore sounded as pleasant and composed as usual when he stepped into the entrance hall of Sirius’s home, Hermione Granger thought. That didn’t mean much, though she thought that the news he brought wouldn’t be too terrible, or he wouldn’t be smiling. Or so she hoped.

“Good afternoon, sir.” She nodded at him.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Sirius said. “Tea’s ready in my study.”

“Thank you.”

They proceeded into Sirius’s study as she listened to polite and meaningless conversation about the latest gossip from Hogwarts. Not even interesting gossip - just banal stuff about the staff’s lives. She wanted to know the reason for the Headmaster’s visit.

Waiting until they were seated inside Sirius’s study and tea had been served took another toll on her patience. She almost drew her wand to take over serving from Sirius, even though that would have been terribly rude. But the dog was just too slow.

Finally tea was served and the Headmaster put down his cup after his first sip. “Excellent, Sirius. A new brand?”

“Yes. Hermione brought some muggle tea. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do.” He smiled at her. “You have an eye for tea, my dear.”

She forced herself to smile. “Thank you, sir.”

She must have failed in hiding her impatience, though, since he sighed and went on: “But I did not visit to have tea. I bring grave news.” He slowly inclined his head. “The Dark Lord has used his agents in the Ministry to access the addresses of the muggleborn students on file.” She drew a hissing breath but didn’t interrupt him. “We had anticipated this, and tampered with the records, but there were a few we could not replace because they were not strictly related to school records, and therefore not kept in one single place, but rather duplicated in several departments.”

“Like trial records,” Hermione said. Like hers.

“Indeed.”

“My family has moved twice since the trial, though.” And she had used Sirius’s address to register for the O.W.L. exams.

“But due to your financial obligations at the time, you were tracked.” He shook his head. “While I cannot say with certainty that your family’s address is known to the Dark Lord, I do not think we can safely assume that it is not the case.”

“The Death Eaters would have had her address for years, then,” Sirius said.

“Indeed. But, until recently, the Dark Lord was not willing to attack muggleborns - yet. That would draw attention, and speculation would quickly tie the new attacks to those of the Blood War.”

“He’s moving to open war, then?” Sirius asked.

“Preparing for it, at the very least,” Dumbledore said. He looked at her. “I do not think he is ready for war, yet, but on the other hand, your unfortunate and unjustly damaged reputation would allow him to disguise an attack on your family as you having run afoul of other criminals. And it is widely known how close you are to Harry and Sirius.”

“Which makes me an ideal target.” She clenched her teeth. Malfoy’s plot was, even years after the trial, still ruining her family.

“That’s remarkably specific,” Sirius said. “There are others who are close to Harry and myself. The Weasleys. Jeanne. The Tonkses. But you wanted to talk to Hermione.” Hermione saw him narrow his eyes. “You’ve got a spy close to Voldemort, haven’t you?”

Dumbledore’s smile grew a little thinner, she thought. “Even if I had such a source, I wouldn’t endanger them by telling others.”

Sirius scoffed. “It’s not your source from the first Blood War, is it? Because I don’t think Voldemort would be as stupid as to trust that git again. Unless he’s feeding you disinformation. With or without the git’s cooperation.”

Hermione bit her lower lip to avoid gasping. There was one man Sirius regularly called ‘git’. Snape. Had he been the Headmaster’s spy during the last war? It would explain a few things. And pose even more questions.

Dumbledore stopped smiling entirely and gave Sirius a stern look. “I assure you that I am aware of that, and that I trust this warning.”

Sirius scoffed. “Since he’s still alive, I gather he hasn’t met the Dark Lord yet. So you’ve got someone else.” He held up a hand. “I know, it’s a secret. But let’s talk about we can do to protect Hermione’s family. Guards won’t cut it, unless you have far more members in the Order than I think.”

Dumbledore sighed once more, then smiled wryly at her. “Sirius is correct. We cannot spare the needed number of wands to guard your family. Both your house as well as your parents’ workplace would have to be guarded - around the clock, to prevent ambushes and traps.”

That would take a lot of people. Hermione swallowed. “Then what can we do? Make them hide?” Her parents wouldn’t forgive her for ruining their lives a second time. Even if it wasn’t entirely her fault this time.

“That would be one way to keep them safe. Having them leave Britain would be another. Combined, I think they would be both safe and at least somewhat content.” Dumbledore stuck his hand into his robe and pulled out what Hermione, to her considerable surprise, recognised as muggle travel brochures. “It will cost some money - muggle money - though.”

*****

**Hogwarts, June 3rd, 1996**

Harry Potter wasn’t quite at the point where he was reciting textbooks in his sleep - at least Ron claimed he wasn’t when Harry had asked - but he certainly felt like he was. Three weeks until the O.W.L.s started, and he had already crammed so much into his head. And so much was still left to learn.

He glanced at the Ravenclaw table. The fifth and seventh years were reading books during breakfast. He was certain that Hermione would be doing the same, were she at Hogwarts. She probably was studying during breakfast at Grimmauld Place. He wouldn’t go that far himself. Not yet, at least. Ginny wouldn’t like it. Although she hadn’t yet arrived at the Gryffindor table.

“Harry! Ron!”

He saw Luna moving towards him and his friend, waving excitedly. She sat down next to Ron and pulled out a stack of magazines - The Quibbler’s newest issue, he realised. “Here’re your copies!” Luna said, beaming at them while she handed the issues over, almost dropping one onto Ron’s plate.

“You gave me two,” Harry pointed out. His subscription only covered one.

“One is for Hermione. Her help allowed Daddy to uncover a far-reaching conspiracy and possible threat to the Statute of Secrecy, so it’s only fair that she gets a copy of the issue too!” Luna explained.

“Her help?” Ron asked. A glance showed Harry that his friend looked as confused as he felt.

Luna nodded several times. “Yes. She told me about ‘Westminster’ being a possible breeding ground for Nargles. Without her Daddy would have never thought of investigating that muggle location.”

Harry quickly unfolded his issue. There was a picture of the British parliament building on the cover. Right beneath the headline: _Muggles Hiding Nargles! Conspiracy of Silence!_

“Blimey! Your dad found Nargles?” Ron asked.

Luna frowned, scrunching her nose. “He hasn’t seen them - he wasn’t allowed inside. He told me that the muggle guards simply wouldn’t budge even though he asked nicely and told them about the dangers of a Nargle infestation.” She sighed. “The only explanation for their behaviour is that they are actively trying to hide the existence of Nargles by limiting access to them.” She nodded slowly and Harry thought her eyes were even wider than usual. “You need to warn Hermione that she has to be careful - we haven’t revealed our source, but if the muggles ever suspect her, they’ll try to silence her. They tried to kidnap Daddy, you know, but he escaped them,” she added in a whisper.

“Uh…” Harry said, wincing. If he told Hermione that… well, he’d tell Sirius in the evening, and his godfather could inform Hermione. They were getting along well, after all.

“Morning Harry, morning Ron… Luna?” Ginny had arrived.

“Hello, Ginny!” Luna said. “I’ve brought Harry The Quibbler.”

“Ah.” Ginny nodded, then bent down to give Harry a kiss - on the cheek, he noted. She sat down next to him, though

“Hello.” He slipped his arm around her waist, but she squirmed when he tried to pull her closer.

“I need to eat - I’m already late,” she said.

“Alright.” Harry nodded and withdrew his arm. “We can wake you up earlier tomorrow,” he said with a grin.

She glared at him. “Don’t you dare! I was studying late - we have exams too.”

Luna, who was still sitting next to Ron, nodded. “Yes.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s true, but they’re not as important as the O.W.L.s.” He certainly hadn’t worried that much about them last year. Nor had he studied that much.

Ginny glared at him again. She didn’t say anything, though, and continued eating. She didn’t kiss him either, when they left for class later.

*****

“Alright, I’ll tell her. But seriously… A muggle conspiracy to hide Nargles?”

“I promised Luna that I’d warn Hermione,” Harry Potter told Sirius. “Can’t hurt, can it?”

His godfather snorted. “She can’t hurt you, you’re safe at Hogwarts.”

Harry gave him a flat stare and made a point of rubbing his arm, which had been hit quite a lot during the evening’s training. “I’m certain that you can defend yourself against her.” Sirius was one of the best fighters Harry knew - not as good as Moody, but very good.

Sirius snorted again, mumbled something about cats that Harry didn’t quite catch, but didn’t contradict him. “Good evening, Harry.”

“That remains to be seen,” he retorted. It depended on whether or not Ginny was done with her homework and studying.

His godfather chuckled, then stepped into Remus’s fireplace and vanished.

Harry sighed, briefly checked that Remus was still asleep - the wizard was still exhausted from his change last night - and went back to Gryffindor Tower.

He smiled when he entered the common room - Ginny was there in a corner, listening to the wireless with her friends. He walked up to her and slid an arm over her shoulder as he sat down on the armrest of her set. “Hey! All done with your homework?” He ignored the shushing sounds and motions from her friends. He and Ginny would leave in a moment.

She frowned at him, but nodded.

Harry bent down and a whispered into her ear: “Fancy a stroll in the castle?”

He felt her tense. “It’s past curfew,” she answered in a whisper.

He grinned. “That never stopped us before.” He pulled slightly on her shoulder. Just a little nudge. They didn’t have much time left since it was late already.

Once more she hesitated, but then stood. “Let’s go then,” she said, taking his arm.

He smiled. It was a good evening.

*****

**London, Merton, June 5th, 1996**

“Australia? You want us to move to Australia?”

Her parents could have said that without sounding so shocked, Hermione Granger thought. It wasn’t as if this came as a surprise - she had told them weeks ago that they were in danger. She raised her chin, but remained seated on her chair at the dinner table. “Not moving - just traveling the country until Britain is safe for you once again,” she explained.

“And how long would that be?” her father asked.

“And why Australia?” Mum asked before she could answer Dad. “Didn’t you tell us that it was the deadliest magical country?”

“For British wizards. And pretty much every other wizard apart from the Aborigines - their shamans kill all the intruders they catch.” Hermione had told them that too, although that had been a year ago. “It’s perfectly safe for muggles.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘perfectly safe’,” her father said. “It probably has the most dangerous wildlife of all the continents.”

“Which doesn’t make it that dangerous. Millions of Australian muggles have no trouble,” Hermione pointed out. “But the Aborigines keep all foreign wizards out - you’ll be safe there from Death Eaters.”

“That also means that you can’t come with us,” her mother said with narrowed eyes.

Hermione blinked. “Yes.” She had never planned to go herself - she was needed here, after all. She noticed the glances her parents exchanged. “I’ll be safe at Grimmauld Place. The house has some of the most powerful wards in Britain.”

“We could move in with you, couldn’t we?” Mum asked. “You said it was a big house, and that you could even add magical rooms.”

Hermione struggled not to wince. Her parents, at Grimmauld Place? Kreacher would have fits. Half the portraits would be livid. And she wouldn’t be able to go on heists without trouble any more. “You wouldn’t like it,” she said. “No telly. No radio. No computer. No phones either. You couldn’t leave by yourself, since you wouldn’t be able to get back due to the wards. You wouldn’t be able to meet many people.”

“We don’t have that many friends left - real friends, at least,” Dad muttered.

“In Australia, however, you would be on vacation. You could travel where you want, you’d stay in luxury hotels and resorts, meet new people…” She beamed at her parents.

“That would cost a fortune,” Mum said.

“Sirius is covering it,” Hermione waved her hand. “He can afford it easily.” There was no need to explain to her parents that her own cut of the loot would actually cover their travels, once Mr Fletcher fenced part of the furniture they had taken so far.

Her parents looked at each other again. “We would have to depend on Mr Black’s generosity again.”

“So? You just suggested moving into his home.” Hermione frowned.

“Where you’re already living.” Dad stared at her.

“I’m his secretary.”

“We’re technically his dentists.” Mum wasn’t helping.

“You couldn’t work there either. Do you really want to spend months, maybe years, in a single house? Lie to our friends when they ask where you are? Surrounded by wizards and magic?”

“You’re asking us to leave you there, dear,” Mum said.

“I’m a witch,” Hermione said. “Please. I just want what’s best for you.”

“That should be our line,” Dad said. He was grinning wryly, though - she was making progress.

“Well, if you want what’s best for me, then not making me worry about you or feel guilty for all but imprisoning you would be a good choice.” Hermione forced herself to smile. “Please. Besides - didn’t you say that you had always wanted to travel there? Before I was born?”

“Well, not under such circumstances…” Dad was wavering, though. And the look he sent to Mum was different from his earlier ones.

Hermione grinned. “Besides, even Dumbledore himself thinks it’s the best option. And the beaches there are gorgeous! Look at these brochures!”

It took her another hour of explaining, but they finally saw reason. And without her using magic to persuade them. Which had been her last resort. She wouldn’t let her parents get hurt, or worse, for her. Not again.

*****

**Hogwarts, June 14th, 1996**

“Ginny! There you are!” Harry Potter beamed at his girlfriend when he found her at the entrance to the Hogwarts library.

“Harry.” Ginny smiled at him. A bit weakly, though - she was probably tired from studying. Like himself. “Didn’t you have a lesson with Dumbledore?”

He shook his head. “He had to leave. Something came up.”

“What happened?”

He smiled. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. It’s a secret.” He didn’t know what Dumbledore was doing. She pouted in that cute way of hers, and so he added: “If it concerned our families he’d have told us.” She didn’t look convinced, or so he thought. He beamed at her again. “But more importantly - I have two hours, and I have it on good authority that the unused classroom on the third floor is empty right now.” That was one of his favorite spots to snog. “The perfect spot to relax after all the studying we’ve been doing.”

She didn’t look as enthusiastic as he had expected - they had hardly seen each other for a week. “You mean the perfect spot to snog,” she said in a rather flat voice.

“Yes.” He frowned. That was the best way to relax, too - Sirius agreed with him as well. Heck, Hermione had said that people under stress, like soldiers, had an increased sex drive, too.

“I’m not in the mood to snog.” Apparently, Ginny wasn’t as stressed as he had thought.

“We haven’t done much all week,” he pointed out.

“We have done nothing but snog for a month whenever we had a little time for us,” she retorted.

“And we’ve had precious little free time.”

“I don’t want to just snog with you. I told you that.” She looked angry.

He swallowed his first thought. You shouldn’t push witches to snog, Sirius had told him. “Alright, if you don’t want to,” he lied, “then we can hang out with our friends.” He had trained and studied with Ron this week, but hadn’t done much else.

“So, if I don’t want to snog, you don’t want to spend time with me?” She was glaring at him now.

“No! But we can spend the time together and with our friends. I’ve told you that before.”

“Yes, you did.” That didn’t sound like she agreed with him, though. Were all witches so possessive once you started a relationship?

“And it’s true. We shouldn’t neglect our friends just to spend time with each other.” Sirius had been clear on that as well. And Harry had learned his lesson with Parvati.

“Unless it’s to snog,” she spat.

“Well, we can’t very well snog with each other in public, can we?”

“That’s not the point! I’m sick of never doing anything but snogging with you!”

“That’s because with the O.W.L.s so close, and my lessons and training, I have no time for anything else. That’ll change after the O.W.L.s, once I have more free time.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And we’ll have the holidays, too.” He smiled at her.

“Unless something more important comes up.” She was still glaring at him.

“Well, I can’t do anything with anyone if Voldemort kills me, can I?” he shot back. Why couldn’t she see that?

“I know that. I know that’s important.”

“So why are you so…” Difficult? Stupid? “...angry?”

“Because you think that spending time with me is not important unless we snog. You prefer spending time with Ron rather than with me!” Her eyes looked a little… was she crying?

He shook his head. “I want to spend time with both of you, with all my friends. I don’t want to choose between you.” Why couldn’t she understand that?

He saw her working her jaw work and her lips trembling. She looked very upset - those were tears in her eyes.

And then she bared her teeth.

“Well, then I’ll choose for you! Go snog yourself! Or Ron! We’re through!”

*****

Harry Potter kept staring after her for a while after she stormed off. She had just dumped him. Just because he hadn’t wanted to dump Ron for her. He shook his head. Just like Parvati. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t crying. Not over this. It was stupid, and he had much bigger things to worry about. Voldemort. The O.W.L.s. If Ginny was too jealous to understand that then he was better off without her.

He slowly unclenched his fists. Yes, it was better like this. No more rows and weird glances and… No more snogging. He sighed. He should get back to the common room. Ginny would be telling everyone that it was his fault.

“Harry?”

He turned. Dumbledore was standing there. How had the Headmaster managed to sneak up on him? “Sir?” he said.

“Are you well? Young people generally don’t stand in hallways staring at the library without a reason.”

“I was just thinking,” he said quickly. “Lost in thought.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore nodded, though Harry couldn’t tell if the Headmaster believed him or not. “I have been looking for you, actually.”

“You were?” What for, he wondered. Had something happened to Sirius? Or Hermione?

But Dumbledore was smiling. “I wanted to tell you the good news right away: I found a cure for your curse.”

*****

 


	20. Future Prospects

**Longford, Heathrow Airport, Britain, June 22nd, 1996**

“Be safe and enjoy your holiday, Dad!”

Gabriel Granger’s reply was interrupted by his little girl - not so little any more, he realised - hugging him. Hard. His little bookworm had become an athlete without him noticing! He knew she had been running each morning, but he hadn’t thought much of it. He heard her sniffle as he held her, and barely refrained from saying ‘there, there’.

Then she released him and launched herself at Ellen. “Mum! You too! Be safe as well!”

He smiled at his wife as she was trying to breathe, caught in their daughter’s surprisingly strong grip. “We’ll be safe, dear,” he said. “As safe as you can be in a country founded by convicts and filled with the most venomous animals and plants known to mankind.” And a country where foreign wizards disappeared, never to be seen again, according to what he had been told.

And, as he expected, his darling daughter released his wife to glare at him. “Dad! That sort of flippant remark not only ignores how wrong the practice of banishing so-called criminals was, even at the time, it’s also incorrect. The country wasn’t founded by convicts. In fact…”

He held up his hand to stop the lecture - Hermione was still overdoing her ‘research’ whenever she tackled a problem. “I know, dear. I was just kidding.”

That earned him a pouty scowl that made her look several years younger. Adorable. Not that he would say that - Hermione still had some issues with her appearance, no matter how much she denied it. Otherwise she wouldn’t always be wearing rather frumpy clothes, despite Ellen’s efforts. He patted her shoulder instead. “We’ll be fine.”

She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes.” It sounded a little as if she was trying to convince herself, though. Then she hugged him again. Then Ellen. And then she tried to hug them both together. He was tempted to make a comment about staying in Britain if she was already missing them so much, but refrained. This was already very emotional.

“People are staring,” Ellen whispered.

“Let them!” Hermione retorted.

“We’re not the only ones,” Gabriel pointed out, nodding towards a very loud group a little further away. They were the only ones flying first class, though. At least he thought so. First class… Mr Black was proving to be even more generous than expected.

Gabriel wasn’t quite comfortable with that. Hermione claimed that there was nothing behind the man’s actions other than a willingness to help his godson’s best friend and his trusted secretary, but he couldn’t help fearing that, one day, their benefactor would call in the favours owed to him.

Well, he thought, watching Hermione deal with the staff at the check-in desk, Mr Black would find out that their headstrong daughter wasn’t easily manipulated. If he wasn’t already aware of it, of course - Hermione certainly had complained about his ‘lazy attitude’ often enough, and Gabriel had had the impression that she didn’t hide her annoyance from Mr Black either.

He watched their suitcases disappear on the conveyor belt and turned to Hermione again. His little girl. “So, that’s it.” He forced himself to smile. No need to make it harder than it already was. “We’re off to sunny Australia.”

“It’s actually winter there now, so it’ll be colder than you expect,” Hermione said.

“We know, dear,” Ellen cut in. His wife’s smile was forced as well, he could tell.

Hermione nodded and bit her lower lip. “I’ll write you and call, as often as I can.”

Which, Gabriel was all too aware, wouldn’t be that often. Not with that maniac trying to kill her and her friends. He felt the by now very familiar rage well up inside him. Rage against this ‘Voldemort’ and his followers for their bigotry and cruelty. And against himself, for being powerless to protect his daughter and wife.

They hugged again while he struggled with his rage. He managed to smile at her as they left her standing at the gate. But he still didn’t feel any better by the time they entered the lounge where they would be waiting for boarding to start. And no amount of free drinks would change that. “We’re leaving her in danger,” he muttered as he sank into a leather seat in the lounge.

“We’ve talked about this,” Ellen whispered.

They had. At length. Hermione hadn’t let up until they had given in. He understood the reasons for their trip. That didn’t mean he was happy about it. “We should have taken her with us,” he whispered.

“She wouldn’t have let us,” Ellen replied.

He glanced at her. She was smiling sadly at him. He sighed. His wife was correct - Hermione wouldn’t have let them take her out of the country. She was too stubborn for her own good. Too brave, too. Unlike her cowardly parents. And, it went without saying, they couldn’t have forced her, even if they had wanted to.

Ellen elbowed him in the side. “Stop feeling guilty. It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” he whispered back. And he did. But that didn’t make it any easier to leave his little girl behind.

And that he couldn’t help thinking that she wouldn’t have let them stay in Britain even if they hadn’t agreed to leave was no comfort either.

*****

**Hogwarts, June 22nd, 1996**

Watching Sirius, Remus and Dumbledore prepare the ritual that would counter the blood curse on Remus and himself, Harry Potter felt like tapping his foot. He didn’t, of course - that would have been immature. Ungrateful as well - just because the Headmaster had found a counter-curse didn’t mean he could expect to be cured immediately.

But it had been a very long week between Dumbledore’s announcement and this evening. And not just because of the anticipation or the studying for the O.W.L.s. No, he could handle that. But dealing with his break-up with Ginny… He shook his head. It was hard enough to see her each day in the common room and the Great Hall. But to watch her talking with Parvati and the other girls, then glance at him, knowing they were talking about him, was worse. It wasn’t his fault that Ginny couldn’t understand that he didn’t have much free time and wouldn’t neglect all his friends for her! And she could at least be miserable, too!

“It’ll work, mate, this is Dumbledore.”

Harry turned his head to look at Ron, who must have misunderstood his expression. Harry almost corrected him - he wasn’t afraid, nor did he doubt the Headmaster - but decided against it. Ron had stood by him during the breakup, but it wouldn’t be fair to drag him into Harry’s issues with Ginny. So he nodded. “Yes.”

“Besides, they’re trying it on Remus first,” Ron added.

Remus had insisted on that, Harry knew, and everyone had ignored his own protests. It made sense, of course - the ritual wasn’t designed to cure two people at the same time - but it made him feel guilty anyway. Harry should have been first since Remus had only been cursed because he had been guarding him.

He didn’t want to dwell on any of this, so he nodded at Ron and then watched the preparations to distract himself. Dumbledore had a ritual circle, as the pattern formed by the silver runic etchings covering most of the polished stone floor was called, already prepared, but they still needed to place candles and censers at the right spots on its edge. Remus was doing that. Sirius was levitating a brass cauldron into the centre of the circle - it was large enough for someone to sit in it.

Someone would be sitting in it, Harry realised when Remus started to strip down. Which meant Harry would have to do the same afterward. He winced, then blinked.

“Oh…” Ron trailed off.

Harry knew why - he, too, was staring at Remus’s scars. The man had a lot of them. Gruesome ones. His arms and parts of his chest were covered by claw marks and bite marks, by the looks of it - not that Harry was an expert. But he couldn’t imagine anything else causing such wounds. “And I thought my scar was bad,” he mumbled.

Remus shot them a hurt glance, and Harry looked away, cursing himself for embarrassing the other wizard. And himself.

“I think you better leave the room,” Dumbledore spoke up. “If anything does not go as planned, you’ll be safe outside.”

Harry nodded, not feeling like protesting any more, and left with Ron.

Outside, he sighed and leaned against the wall, then slid down to sit on the ground. “Damn.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know it was that bad. He probably has more scars than Moody,” Ron agreed. “More scars than Charlie’s boss, even. That he survived so many cursed wounds…”

“Werewolves are tough. If he got them while he was changed…” Harry blinked. “Although the wounds would carry over.” They had covered that in Care of Magical Creatures. And Defence.

“Yeah.” Ron sat down as well. “How long will it take?”

“About an hour, or so Dumbledore said,” Harry answered. He remembered what the Headmaster had told him about rituals, how they took longer but made it easier to cast complicated spells.

“So long? Must be a hell of a ritual.” Ron knew as well as Harry did that it was likely a blood magic ritual. Banned in Britain, and highly illegal.

“They might simply be being as careful as possible,” Harry said. “It’s a new ritual.” For them, anyway.

Ron snorted, but didn’t contradict him.

After about a minute, Harry was sick of the silence. “Let’s quizz each other,” he said. “Name all of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration.”

“You sound as if you were already living with Hermione,” Ron said, chuckling. Then he grew serious. “I still can’t understand how she could send her parents to _Australia_ ,” he added with a visible shiver.

“They’re muggles. They’ll be safe. Thousands of muggles travel to Australia. Millions live there,” Harry said.

“Mate, you don’t understand. Entire Hit-Wizard companies vanished there, last century. Even the Dark Lord is probably afraid of travelling there.”

“Which is why the Grangers are going there,” Harry pointed out. He wasn’t certain if he believed all the stories he had heard - many sounded too far-fetched to him - but as long as Voldemort’s followers believed them, it would be alright. He didn’t think Voldemort himself would bother travelling that far to hunt two muggles.

Ron didn’t answer; he just snorted.

Harry shrugged. “Anyway, the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law?” he prompted his friend.

Ron sighed, but started to list them. “Food cannot be conjured, it can only be multiplied and…”

*****

Over an hour and a half later, it was his turn to sit in the cauldron, covered in blood. Sticky blood that wouldn’t dry over time, as he found out. The smell of it, even worse when mixed with the smoke wafting through the air from the censers, almost made him puke. Which would be bad.

The ritual worked, he told himself. He had seen Remus when the Headmaster had called him in, cleaned and clothed, but asleep. But Sirius had assured him that his friend was fine. So Harry should be fine as well. In theory - Dumbledore had said that the ritual might be painful.

Harry didn’t think that anyone would be feeling fine in his place, anyway. Not when sitting naked in a cauldron slowly filling with blood, and with Dumbledore chanting words Harry couldn’t understand but which made his scar hurt with each syllable.

How exactly had Remus passed out?, Harry wondered as his headache grew stronger. It was pulsing now. His scar might even be bleeding, he thought - not that anyone would notice, what with blood covering his entire face and dripping on his chest.

He clenched his teeth. He wanted this cure; he could endure this. He had to endure this, or he would be stuck drinking a potion every day for the rest of his life. A potion made by Snape.

He snarled, focusing on his anger. He wouldn’t give that git the satisfaction of owing him so much! No matter how much this hurt.

Dumbledore finished another chant, and the scar in Harry’s forehead seemed to be on fire, the pain was that bad. Harry ground his teeth so hard he feared they’d crack and splinter, but it didn’t help; the pain grew worse. He dug his nails into his thighs - anything to take the edge off the agonising pain in his forehead. He was panting, too, no longer bothered by the stench of blood. How much longer would he have to suffer this?

He almost didn’t notice when Dumbledore finished chanting. He didn’t see the Headmaster freeze, his wand pointed at Harry.

But he certainly felt the agony filling him right after Dumbledore completed the ritual, and, just before he lost consciousness, he felt as if his scar was searing his skull.

*****

He woke up, not in the infirmary, as he had expected, but in Dumbledore’s quarters. Or so he thought - without his glasses, his vision was rather blurry, but it definitely wasn’t the infirmary. He had his wand, though, and he was wearing clothes, he noticed. A quick Summoning Charm later, he had his glasses as well. Yes, his first guess had been correct. Dumbledore’s quarters, probably in a conjured bed.

“Are you alright, Harry?”

He turned his head. Sirius was there, too, sitting in Harry’s usual seat. He should have expected that.

“Harry?”

He blinked. “Sorry… I feel… fine.” He slowly reached up and gingerly touched his scar. It didn’t hurt. Much. Sore, and raw, he thought. It had bled recently, too - there were smudges of dried blood on his fingertips when he lifted them away from his forehead.

Sirius looked relieved. “We were worried when you collapsed.”

“Did it work?” Harry asked. That was all that mattered, after all. “Is the curse gone?”

His godfather smiled. “Yes. No trace of it is left. Neither on you nor on Remus.”

Harry smiled and closed his eyes for a moment. It was done. He wasn’t cursed any more. His life didn’t depend on Snape’s potion any longer. He slowly let out a breath. “Good.”

“It’s great,” Sirius said, beaming at him.

Harry nodded. “Was the ritual meant to be so painful, though?” he asked.

Sirius shook his head. “No. Remus said that it sapped his strength, but that there wasn’t much pain.”

Harry considered that for a moment. His scar had made the difference, then. “So… is this connection the result of blood magic, and did it react with the ritual?” He remembered something about similar spells influencing each other from his Charms revision a week ago.

“That is quite possible.”

Harry whipped his head around. He hadn’t noticed the Headmaster until the man had spoken. Dumbledore was standing near the door. Had he been there all along, or had he just entered? He focused on the problem at hand. “Sir? What happened?”

“I cannot say for certain yet.” Dumbledore smiled faintly and spread his hands. “While Voldemort is currently researching blood magic, I do not think that he used any such spell against you when he attacked you in 1981.”

“But…” Harry drew a hissing breath. “Why’s my scar reacting like this, then? Is he using blood magic to affect it through our connection?” If Voldemort was aware of their connection...

“That is a possible and worrisome explanation. However, I need to do further research to determine whether or not it is true.”

“What else could explain it, though?” Harry asked, scoffing. “Who else would be using blood magic on me?” He caught Dumbledore and Sirius exchanging a glance. “You expected this,” he said. Dumbledore slowly nodded. Harry shook his head. “You don’t mean…” His mother wouldn’t have done this. She wouldn’t have.

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “Lily was an exceptionally talented witch, and she would have done anything to protect you.”

*****

**Hogwarts, June 27th, 1996**

The waiting was the worst part of the O.W.L.s, Harry Potter thought, shifting on the bench in the room next to the Defence classroom. Studying he could handle. The tests themselves as well - Charms had been easy, at least the practical parts. The same with Transfiguration. Herbology… well, he didn’t think he had made a blunder, and, as Sirius was fond of saying, no one other than those growing potion ingredients cared about Herbology anyway. But waiting… he hated waiting. It made him think. About his parents. His mother. What she had done.

He tried to distract himself by focusing on his Defence exam, which would be starting in a few minutes. He would have to demonstrate a Shield Charm, a Disarming Charm and a Stunner to pass. Child’s play - he and Ron had mastered those spells more than a year ago. And the written part this morning… He scoffed. He had finished twenty minutes early. After his training with Moody, he probably knew more about the dangers of the Dark Arts than the examiners. And about blood magic.

He clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to think about blood magic. He had almost died because of that vampire’s curse. It had taken Dumbledore months to find a cure. Which, Harry strongly suspected, had required a blood magic ritual as well. At least there hadn’t been a sacrifice. Or so he thought. Hoped.

Whatever his mum had done to protect him, on the other hand... Dumbledore hadn’t gone into detail and Sirius had said it didn’t matter since Harry was alive thanks to it, but he had learned enough about blood magic from Dumbledore’s musings to know better. His mother had created a protection that worked against the Killing Curse and lasted until he was seventeen years old. Such a powerful spell would have required a sacrifice, and a ritual taking hours to complete.

He closed his eyes. He would rather think about Ginny than dwell on this - and he still felt a stab of pain in his chest whenever he saw his ex-girlfriend in the common room or the Hall. He suddenly snorted - for someone who had only been cured of a lethal curse a few days ago, he was feeling rather gloomy.

Then he noticed the door to the examination room opening, and shot up.

“Mister Potter?” A blonde witch in Auror robes smiled at him. “I’m Belinda Browtuckle. We’re ready for your exam now.”

“Good!” he blurted out.

Her smile grew. “Not many are so enthusiastic.”

Not many had his problems. But that wasn’t a topic he could mention to anyone except - maybe - his closest friends. So he shrugged. “Defence is my best subject.”

She nodded as he passed her. Inside the room, the other two examiners, both wizards, were waiting, sitting behind their desks - conjured or transfigured, he thought; he hadn’t seen those desks before at Hogwarts.

The oldest wizard spoke up. “Hello, Mr Potter. I’m Sebastian Selwyn.” He wasn’t smiling. His expression was closer to frowning, even. Not as bad as Snape’s whenever the git saw Harry, but still…

“I’m Bilius Brown.” The other wizard curtly nodded at him.

“Hello.” Harry remained standing as Browtuckle took her own seat.

“You’re here for your practical exam in Defence Against the Dark Arts. It’s two o’clock now. Let’s start. Please produce the best Shield Charm you can, Mr Potter.” Selwyn sounded almost bored, and rather patronising too.

Harry couldn’t resist. “What do you mean by ‘best’, sir? Strongest, fastest casting, or maybe silently cast? Anyone of those could be the best choice depending on the tactical situation,” he quoted Moody.

“‘Tactical situation’?” Selwyn scoffed. “Produce the strongest Shield Charm you can manage, Mr Potter. And don’t try to sound like an Auror at your O.W.L. exam.”

The man definitely didn’t like him, Harry thought. But he had lived through five years of Snape, and Selwyn wasn’t in the same league. He shrugged and raised his wand. “Protego!”

A shimmering field enveloped him as the three examiners peered at him. Browtuckle looked impressed. “Solid form and shape,” she said while a Dictaquill scribbled over parchment.

Brown didn’t show any reaction. And Selwyn… Harry tensed when he saw the man snarl and draw his wand. “Testing. Stupefy!”

Harry had to force himself not to dive to the side, roll behind the closest desk and come up fighting when he caught Selwyn casting. This was a test, not an attack. The Stunner splashed against his shield, causing it to briefly flicker. Harry grinned.

“Withstood one Stunner without visible degradation,” Browtuckle noted. Harry’s grin widened.

“Stupefy. Stupefy.”

Two more Stunners hit Harry’s shield, shattering it. He saw Selwyn was still casting, and jumped to the side, casting another Shield Charm as the man’s fourth Stunner missed him. Harry’s own didn’t miss, and the wizard dropped to the ground.

“Don’t…” Browtuckle, who had raised her hand, apparently trying to stop her colleague, was gaping at Harry and even Brown looked surprised.

Harry winced. “Sorry. When I noticed that he was still casting even after my shield went down, I simply reacted.”

Brown frowned at him. “That was quite an overreaction, Mr Potter. My colleague wasn’t about to harm you.” He pointed his wand at the wizard on the ground. “Rennervate.”

“You can’t assume that,” Harry shot back as Selwyn groaned on the floor. “Only a fool would let a stranger stun them without any backup.”

“Mad-Eye would love you,” Browtuckle muttered.

Harry grinned. “He said I’d make a decent Auror.”

Her eyes widened. “Did he train you?”

He probably shouldn’t have mentioned that, but what was done was done. Harry nodded. “Yes, he gave me a few lessons after I was attacked at the start of the year.”

“Merlin’s beard,” he heard her curse.

“You! You attacked me!” Selwyn had recovered his wits.

“Sorry, sir. I saw you casting at me after my shield had been shattered, and, well, my reflexes took over.” Harry shrugged. “Constant Vigilance, you know.”

Apparently, Selwyn didn’t like Moody either. But he didn’t even try to raise his wand in Harry’s direction for the rest of the exam.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 6th, 1996**

“You stunned an examiner?”

Hermione didn’t need to yell, Harry Potter thought, wincing at the volume of his best female friend. “It was a reflex - and he tried to stun me first,” he defended himself, grabbing another finger sandwich from the plate Kreacher had put down in the living room. Answering her questions about his O.W.L. exams was hungry work.

“‘Reflex’,” Hermione said, shaking her head. She had put her pen down, too, Harry noted. And she had fed her monster cat a sandwich, too! No wonder the thing thought that all food was his!

“I knew having Moody train Harry was a good idea!” Sirius chimed in, chuckling. “Not even we did that, did we, Remus?” He didn’t sound as if he was asking a rhetorical question, though, Harry thought.

“No, we didn’t,” Remus confirmed. “But you probably would have tried, if given the chance.”

“What if he fails you for it?” Hermione cut in.

Harry scoffed. “I’d like to see him try. I passed all their tests with flying colours, and as I said: He tried to stun me first. It’s his own fault.”

She pressed her lips together before answering. “That may be true, but the truth doesn’t always factor into the Ministry’s decisions.”

Harry winced again as Sirius nodded. “Very true. But in this case, I doubt that Selwyn would dare to treat Harry unjustly - not with two witnesses, one of them an Auror, and with Dumbledore known to take an interest in the exams.” Harry’s godfather grinned, showing his teeth. “I remember my parents complaining about him putting a stop to the ‘selective grading’ that had been going on before he became Headmaster. Muggleborn grades jumped that year, or so I’ve been told.”

Hermione looked relieved.

Harry grinned. “And I don’t think he wants to announce that he was stunned by a student.”

“That, too,” Sirius agreed. “Although the story has spread anyway - Tonks heard from another Auror.”

Harry sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t think to keep my training secret.” It had felt too good to show off.

Sirius waved his concerns off. “Don’t worry. People already knew that you were receiving special training.”

“They didn’t know who trained you, though,” Hermione pointed out.

Sirius shook his head. “Voldemort wouldn’t have underestimated you anyway. Not after the vampire attack.”

Harry saw Hermione frown at Sirius before she looked at him again. “But his followers might have underestimated you.”

“Hey now! They knew we were training him!” Sirius sounded affronted.

“We’re not Moody,” Remus said, smiling wryly.

“Which is a very good thing!” Sirius shuddered. “I wouldn’t have half the success with witches if I looked like Moody.”

“I remember you telling me that witches found scars attractive,” Remus said.

“That is true. Sexy scars - like yours. Or Harry’s.” Sirius nodded at them. “But missing half your nose, a leg and an eye… That’s too much.” He blinked. “Or too little?”

“Irrelevant. Let’s go back to talking about the O.W.L. exams,” Hermione said, picking up her pen.

“You mean back to interrogating me,” Harry corrected her with a grin.

She ignored his quip. “That was Defence. Now, Potions was your next exam, right?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”

She didn’t find that funny, either. Unlike Sirius. Sighing, Harry started to tell her about his Potions exam.

*****

“Isn’t this cheating?”

“What?” Hermione Granger looked up from her notes and stared at her best friend. They were alone in the living room - Sirius and Mr Lupin were meeting Dumbledore at Hogwarts. And Crookshanks had gone off to explore his new home.

“You know, grilling me about the exams,” Harry said.

She scoffed. “Certainly not. The O.W.L. tests for home-schooled students are different precisely to prevent such cheating.”

He blinked. “But if the exams are different, why did you have me talk about them for an hour?”

“The requirements to pass are the same for everyone, so there have to be some basic similarities.” That was obvious.

“Ah.” He sounded rather grumpy for a boy who had been cured of a lethal, if delayed, curse a few days ago, and who had already taken his O.W.L. exams and could therefore relax - unlike her.

“Besides, it was just an hour,” she pointed out. “You wouldn’t mind spending an hour to help me revise, would you?” He better not! He was done with school for the summer, after all.

“Of course not,” Harry said at once.

“Good!” She beamed at him. “I need some help with Potions.”

“You…”

He shook his head at her, and she grinned. She didn’t feel guilty for taking advantage of him - it wasn’t as if he couldn’t spare the time.

“Where’s ‘Jeanne’, anyway?” he asked. “Not that I’m missing her.”

“She’s visiting her father. Apparently, it’s ‘a family tradition to welcome family members returning from Hogwarts with a family gathering’,” Hermione quoted the other witch.

“That’s a lot of ‘family’,” Harry commented.

Hermione shrugged. “It’s an Old Family.”

“Speaking of…” Harry looked around, probably checking that Sirius and Remus hadn’t yet returned. “Did you find out anything about Jeanne?”

“Other than more than I ever wanted to know about what she does with Sirius in the bedroom?” Hermione asked as sweetly as she could manage.

“Yes.”

Harry wasn’t fazed. Drat. She shrugged. “No. She hasn’t done anything suspicious in my presence.” And Hermione had been too busy to do anything more… sneaky.

He sighed and muttered what was likely a curse under his breath. “I guess I’ll have to hope that she’ll let something slip during the holidays.”

“Provided that she does have such plans,” Hermione pointed out.

“Better safe than sorry,” he retorted. “Can’t be too cautious.”

Moody had a lot to answer for, Hermione thought. “Actually, yes, you can be too cautious. Or too suspicious.”

Harry frowned at her. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes. Which is why I said it.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “I know and understand your suspicions. I do, really. I’m just pointing out that Jeanne might be innocent - at least of what you fear her to be planning.”

He leaned back on his chair and sighed again. “I just don’t want her to break Sirius’s heart.”

Hermione bit her lower lip. She wasn’t certain if she should ask, but… this was a good opportunity, maybe the last before she would be busy with her own exams. “Is this because you and Ginny broke up?”

His head snapped up. “You know?”

She nodded. “Ron told me, in case I wanted to visit The Burrow.”

“Ah.” She saw his shoulders sag as he looked down at the table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hermione asked. She wasn’t certain that she wanted to talk about it, but Harry looked as if he needed to.

“I guess so… you’re a girl, after all. Maybe you can understand her.”

She pressed her lips together. Of course she was a girl! “What happened?”

He sighed. He was doing a lot of that today, it seemed. “She was acting like Parvati. Wanting me to pick her over my friends. To spend time with her alone - and not just snogging, you know. I told her that I didn’t have the time for that, not without neglecting my friends.” He was shaking his head as he talked. “I told her that we could snog when alone, and spend the rest of my free time with our friends. Play Quidditch, for example. Or hang out in the common room. That way, I wouldn’t have to neglect anyone.”

Hermione winced and spoke up before he could continue. “Let me guess: She told you that she didn’t want to be with you just for snogging?”

He stared at her, then nodded. “About that, yes. How did you know?”

She took a deep breath. “Because that’s what I would have said in her place.”

“What?” He gaped. “But you’re…” he made a helpless gesture with his hand. “You’re not like Parvati!”

“And neither is Ginny.” He was clueless, Hermione thought. Probably the dog’s fault. “No girl likes to feel that a boy just wants to snog with her, and nothing else.” Although no girl liked to know that a boy didn’t want to snog her, either. But that was another problem.

“But we were doing other things together!” Harry protested. “Just with our friends, too.”

She sighed. “That’s not the same. A girl wants to feel special. We don’t want to be just a friend who you snog in private.”

“But isn’t that exactly what Parvati did?”

She frowned. “No. Parvati didn’t want you to spend any time with friends, especially not with me, because she was jealous. Ginny wasn’t jealous.” At least Hermione didn’t think she was. “But she was probably afraid that you took her for granted, and only wanted to be with her to snog her.”

He scoffed. “But in the end, she wanted me to stop spending time with my friends and instead spend the time with her alone. Like Parvati!”

Hermione rubbed her forehead. “Yes, that may be what it sounded like, but her motivation was - probably - very different. And you could have compromised and spent a little less time with your friends, and a little more with her.”

Harry frowned. “I tried. But that doesn’t change the fact that she, too, wanted me to choose between my friends and her. And that’s something I won’t do!” He shook his head emphatically.

Hermione wasn’t certain if she should feel happy about his declaration. One the one hand, she loved knowing that Harry wouldn’t cast her aside for a witch to snog. On the other hand, if she were ever to…

She buried that thought.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, July 12th, 1996**

“Miss Granger.” Mrs Cadwaulder barely bothered to nod at her before turning around.

“Yes,” Hermione Granger replied to the woman’s back. The witch had been acting noticeably cold towards her all week. Hermione didn’t know whether this was due to her unjust conviction, the Prophet painting her as a gold-digger, or because she was a muggleborn. Probably all of it, she thought - the woman had been all but glaring at her during the four days spent on the written exams.

“Miss Granger?” An old wizard asked, blinking at her over his half-moon glasses.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Cedric Fawley. This is Mr Steinmark. You already know Mrs Cadwaulder.” His voice sounded as old as he looked, and he was reading his text off of a sheet of parchment. “You’re here for the practical parts of your O.W.L. exams. We’ll be starting with Charms, followed by Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures and finally Potions.” He looked up and blinked at her. “That’s quite a large number of subjects for a home-schooled witch. Particularly a muggleborn witch.”

“I had an excellent private tutor,” Hermione said.

She heard Steinmark scoff and a quick glance showed her that he was barely hiding his sneer. And Mrs Cadwaulder’s smile wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pouncing harpy. Hermione had expected that, though. She made a show of blinking. “Ah!” She raised her right index finger and smiled as innocently as she could. “I almost forget. Headmaster Dumbledore said he was interested in seeing how the home-schooled students fared and asked me for a copy of my memories of my exams. He said to let you know.”

Seeing the expressions of the three examiners - Steinmark’s scowl was worse than Snape’s  and Cadwaulder looked as if she had bitten into a particularly flavourful Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Bean while Fawley was blinking even more - made it really hard for her not to smirk.

These three wouldn’t be able to do a little favour for Malfoy and his cronies.

*****

Hermione Granger lowered her wand slowly as the last animated pea jumped into the tin can. Another perfectly cast charm. Not that any of the examiners would comment on it, though.

“Now demonstrate a Cleaning Charm.”

She almost rolled her eyes. Why were the examiners so fixated on household charms? She cast the charm anyway, of course - and with style, at least in her opinion, vanishing all the soap suds covering the floor with a flick of her wand after the Cleaning Charm was done. She longed to demonstrate that she had mastered a cleaning charm that worked far better, and without soap, but that would have been advertising that she was capable of erasing any trace she left on a heist.

“Ah… that was a Vanishing Spell, wasn’t it? Silently cast?” Fawley was squinting at her.

Hermione nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s very advanced,” Steinmark commented.

She forced herself to smile. “My tutor had me vanish all my failed conjurations each day.”

“Ah!” Fawley laughed. “A very good way to learn a spell.” Then he broke into a cough that lasted for a minute while everyone pretended not to notice.

“I think that covers Charms,” Fawley finally managed to say after he had taken a swig from a vial. “Now, Transfiguration.” He swished his wand, and a tea cup appeared on the table in front of him. “Please transfigure this into a rat.”

A rat! Hermione pressed her lips together as she did as ordered and turned a nice piece of fine china into vermin. At least her rat was clean, and not filthy like normal rats. She still wanted to blast it off the table, though.

“Silently cast again,” Steinmark noted.

“It’s a basic second year spell,” Hermione said.

“I see.” The wizard stared at her. She met his eyes with a smile.

*****

“That’s quite an unusual reaction.” Fawley had removed his reading glasses and was staring at the Crup, which was barking madly in its cage.

Hermione Granger glared at the dumb canine. The thing should know better than to annoy a witch - or a cat.

“They usually only act like this towards muggles,” Steinmark said. His raised eyebrow left no doubt about his words’ implication.

Another reason to put the thing out of its misery, Hermione thought. And perhaps the bigoted examiner too, for good measure. “It probably smells my cat. I have a half-kneazle familiar,” she said with a toothy smile.

“That could be it,” Fawley said. “Although this presents us with a dilemma.” He coughed for a few seconds. “You obviously can’t demonstrate how to handle the animal if it’s acting in such a hostile manner.”

Hermione smiled and twirled her wand. “I’m perfectly capable of handling an aggressive Category XXX animal.”

Steinmark scoffed, no doubt thinking of her less than stellar - by design, of course - performance in Defence. But Fawley nodded. “Please do so.”

It didn’t take her long to teach the Crup to stop bothering cats. If only that would work on Sirius, too!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 13th, 1996**

Harry Potter only stumbled a little after Sirius had side-along-apparated him to the backyard of Grimmauld Place - he was making progress. Of course, doing this twice every day for weeks would help anyone make progress. “I should travel more often by Floo,” he said as his godfather used his wand to open the back door. He still couldn’t manage to step through a fireplace as gracefully as Sirius. Even Hermione was better at it.

“It’s not as safe as Apparition,” Sirius said. “We’ve got people at the Ministry keeping an eye on the Floo Network to guard against sabotage, but it would be too dangerous to hook up the Dursleys’ fireplace - people could find their address.”

And Uncle Vernon would probably have a heart-attack, Harry though. “I didn’t mean to travel to Privet Drive,” he said, “I just meant in general - I could use the practice.”

“You haven’t been visiting The Burrow as often as last summer,” Sirius said as they entered the kitchen.

“Yes.” Harry pressed his lips together. There was no need to discuss Ginny. They were over, and he didn’t want to see her every day.

Sirius made a noise that sounded like a mix between a grunt and a sigh, but didn’t press the issue. As usual, Kreacher had prepared breakfast already, despite the early hour.

“Where’s Remus?” Harry asked. There was no need to ask where Hermione was; his best female friend used to sleep in whenever she could - and stayed up far too late, her nose buried in books. And Jeanne didn’t get up before nine as a rule.

“Still asleep. He had a long night,” Sirius said. Which meant Order business, Harry knew. And which he wouldn’t be told about.

He felt claws lightly dig into his pants and looked down. Crookshanks gazed up at him with a familiar expression. Harry sighed. “Why are you always bothering me?” he asked as he used his spare wand to summon cat food. “You never bother Sirius or Remus.”

“Because you always feed the not so little monster when he begs,” Sirius said.

“If I don’t feed him he’ll shred my shoes again.” And no matter what Hermione claimed, ‘just use a Mending Charm’ wasn’t the answer.

Sirius snorted. “Cats can sense weakness, and he can sense that you’re the weakest link in the household.”

“Hermione’s the crazy cat lady, not me,” Harry said.

“But she knows enough about cats to understand that giving in to their every whim is bad for them,” Sirius said, grinning at him over the Saturday issue of the Daily Prophet.

“And not catering to their every whim is bad for me,” Harry retorted. He wasn’t about to endanger himself to teach Crookshanks manners. Or the stray that Hermione insisted wasn’t hers - even Crookshanks deferred to that cat, and Harry had seen what Crookshanks did to other cats invading his territory back at the Grangers’.

“What would Moody say about you being afraid of cats?” Sirius grinned at him.

“I’m not afraid. I’m just cautious.” Harry finished his first croissant. “You never know if it’s an animagus.” Like Pettigrew.

Sirius coughed - he must have gotten tea down the wrong pipe. “I don’t think you could placate an animagus with food,” he said after clearing his throat. “But you can rest assured that I checked before I allowed strange cats into our home.”

He would have, of course, and thoroughly, Harry thought as he nodded - Sirius knew best how dangerous animagi were. “Good.”

“Of course, not all animagi are a threat,” Sirius went on. “Although McGonagall definitely is a threat if you anger her.” He was slowly nodding with a long-suffering expression.

“I’m not planning on angering her,” Harry said. “And I know what her form looks like.”

“But offering her catnip would be a laugh!” Sirius said, chuckling. “Imagine her reaction!”

“No catnip,” Harry quickly cut in. “Hermione said that there would be hell to pay if ‘any poor cat gets drugged in this house’.” He shook his head. “She’s really overprotective of the animals - if it were harmful to them, pet shops wouldn’t sell it.”

Sirius shrugged. “She probably simply doesn’t want to deal with a drugged cat.”

Harry snorted. “‘Nothing a Mending Charm - or an Episkey - can’t fix’,” he imitated her.

Sirius nodded. “Rather callous, if you ask me.” He took a deep breath. “But, speaking of animagi, there’s something I…” Kreacher’s arrival interrupted him before he could finish.

“Post for Master’s godson and guests,” the elf said, dropping a pair of envelopes on the table.

“The O.W.L. results!” Harry grabbed the envelopes at once, dropping Hermione’s before staring at his. This was it. He took a deep breath, held it, then opened the letter. He sighed as soon as he saw the results.

“What did you get? What did you get?” Sirius asked, leaning in with an eager expression.

“An Outstanding in Defence,” Harry replied.

“I expected that,” Sirius said with a grin. “After all, I trained you. And the rest?”

“Exceeds Expectations in Charms, Transfigurations, Care of Magical Creatures, Potions and Herbology. Acceptables in History, Astronomy and Divination.” Apparently, the examiners really weren’t as easily fooled as Trelawney.

“That’s great!” Sirius exclaimed.

Harry smiled. “But the best thing is I’ll be able to take my N.E.W.T. in Potions!” And Moody wouldn’t kill him.

Sirius blinked. “You want to spend two more years with the git?”

Harry frowned. “I don’t want to, but I’ll need a N.E.W.T. in Potions to become an Auror.”

“You want to become an Auror?” Sirius stared at him as if that was a surprise. Hadn’t he heard that Moody had said Harry would make a good Auror? His godfather was rather slow today. Probably stayed up too long with Jeanne.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’m already basically being trained as an Auror, remember? Moody said I’d be good at it, and that the Ministry needs all the good Aurors they can get.” He smiled widely. He wouldn’t let people like the Malfoys escape justice - or frame others. He’d clean up the system.

“Moody’s training you in Defence,” Sirius pointed out, still looking slightly surprised.

“And in spotting threats, and traps,” Harry said. “I’ll have to learn the procedures, but that’s not as important.” Moody had said so, and he had been training Aurors for years. “But you were about to tell me something…?”

“Nothing,” Sirius said in an offhand manner. “Just an anecdote.” He pointed at the other envelope on the table. “Besides, we need to wake Hermione. She’ll want to see her results.”

“Yes.” Harry grabbed the envelope. “I’ll get her.”

*****

“Hermione?” Harry Potter asked, knocking on her door. No answer. “Hermione?” he repeated, louder. She might have used a Silencing Charm on the door, he thought. He could simply stick the envelope to the door or slide it through the cat-flap she had installed and go back to the kitchen… but he was certain that she would want to see her results as soon as possible.

“Hermione, the O.W.L. results arrived!” he called. Still no answer. He took a deep breath and tried to open the door. It wasn’t locked. She wouldn’t have left it unlocked if she didn’t want anyone to enter, he told himself as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sirius had extended her room after she had moved in full-time, and, as expected, most of the additional space was taken up by bookshelves.

He grinned until his gaze fell on the bed. Then he stared. Hermione, still asleep, lay sprawled on her bed, her sheets kicked to the side, with her arms and legs wrapped around her pillow. Her bare arms and legs, he noted - she was wearing a thin T-shirt and equally thin shorts that didn’t hide much, especially as her T-shirt had slid up, revealing her midriff. Her hair hid most of her face, but he could see her mouth, lips slightly parted.

Her body was toned, he realised - her muscles were on a par with those of the girls in the Quidditch team; thanks to their shared locker room he could easily make the comparison. And her chest seemed larger than he had expected as well, although it was hard to tell without using his glasses’ enchantment… He swallowed. He shouldn’t be staring at her! It was wrong. He still stared, though.

And he couldn’t wake her up like this. She would be terribly embarrassed. He would be terribly embarrassed. He turned away. Best to wake her up while hiding behind the door, so she could slip on her bathrobe or something.

He turned away, then froze. Crookshanks was padding towards the bed - the cat must have followed him and Harry hadn’t noticed! Moody would curse his hide for such a lapse! He stopped berating himself, though, when he realised where Crookshanks was heading: straight towards his sleeping owner.

For such a massive cat Crookshanks was far too quick when he made the effort, and before Harry could react, the tomcat had leaped on to the bed - and on to Hermione.

*****

Hermione Granger was rudely woken up in the middle of a pleasant dream, involving a library, stacks of rare books that needed to be read and a handsome assistant whose face she couldn’t quite remember, by a sudden weight slamming into her side.

“Ooof!” She rolled on to her back while her pet slid off of her. “Crookshanks! Did they forget to feed you again?” she asked, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. Then she noticed Harry standing there, in the middle of the room, staring at her and Crookshanks. “Harry?”

He blinked, then held up an envelope. “Ah. I brought your O.W.L. results!”

She froze for a moment, then leaped out of the bed as if she was pouncing on a stupid dog trying to escape its justified chastisement. Her O.W.L.s! She barely noticed Harry taking a few steps back as she grabbed the envelope.  A second later, she had ripped it open - without even using claws! Then she unfolded the letter. And winced.

“Hermione?”

She had known that she wouldn’t excel in all her subjects. Certainly not in Muggle Studies and History of Magic, which she hadn’t actually studied, and had only crammed a few days for each. But she had still hoped she’d do better in History than ‘Acceptable’ - she had read the books, after all. But Muggle Studies…

“Hermione?”

“‘Muggle Studies’ is a farce!” she spat. “Apparently, half of the grade is knowing how wizards see muggles!” They must have done that to keep muggleborns from easily getting good grades. Or, perhaps, to stop them from correcting the Ministry answers.

“What grade did you get?”

“Acceptable,” she answered. Then she winced again. “Same in Herbology… I thought I would reach Exceeds Expectations there, at least.” But theory was only half the grade there, and she simply hadn’t had the time or opportunity to study the actual plants.

“Oh.”

She glanced at Harry. He was staring at her with a rather pitying expression. She didn’t want his pity! “Exceeds Expectations in Potions.” Take that, Snape! Claim she had no talent, would he? “Exceeds Expectations in Care of Magical Creatures.” She had been lucky there that the bigots had chosen a Crup for the practical part - she knew how to deal with uppity dogs. But if it had been another animal… well, she was familiar with most guard animals. But still… she didn’t like to depend on luck for her grades.

“That’s good. And the others?”

“Hm?” She looked at Harry. “Outstandings in Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.” Though she had been lucky again with the last two, she knew - her knowledge was more specialised than good for a test.

“That’s great!” She found herself in his arms, lifted off her feet. “Four Outstandings!”

Belatedly, she hugged him back, then winced. She hadn’t freshened up - she had jumped straight out of her bed at him! She didn’t even have her wand to quickly clean her teeth!

He set her down. “And Defence?”

“Acceptable,” she answered, looking at Crookshanks and willing him to fetch her wand from under her pillow. Her cat was ignoring her, though - he must be really hungry, the poor thing. She sighed and went back to get her wand.

“That’s unacceptable!”

What? She looked at Harry. He was now glaring at her. “What?”

“Acceptable in Defence…” He shook his head. “You’re in danger! They’re targeting you! That’s why your parents had to leave! ‘Acceptable’ won’t cut it in a real fight!”

Well, she knew that! But she couldn’t show off her real skills - which would hurt her N.E.W.T.s in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, when Curse-Breaking-related questions would be tested - without endangering her cover. “But…”

“No buts! We’ll start your training today!” He nodded at her. “I’ll tell Sirius.”

“What?”

*****

Harry Potter flicked his wand and sent a volley of Stinging Hexes at Hermione. He saw her start to move, then freeze up, and two of the hexes hit her. She yelped and dropped to the floor, rubbing her thigh.

“No, no, no!” He shook his head. “You can’t stop and think about what you want to do - you need to move and keep moving. It’s hard to hit a moving target. Think while you’re moving, and add random changes of direction so they can’t predict where you’ll be in the next few seconds.”

“I’m trying!” Hermione said, glaring at him.

He glared back. “Get up. We’re trying this again.” He didn’t like treating her so harshly, but it was for her own good. She could do it, he knew. She was smart - who else would manage so many O.W.L.s while studying at home? - and he was now very much aware that she was fit enough for this exercise as well, even if her baggy exercise clothes hid her body. Although seeing how she kept getting hit, he was tempted to use his glasses to check whether he had imagined her body this morning. He shook his head - he wouldn’t peep on his friend. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

This time he sent three hexes at her in a wide pattern so at least one would catch her when she tried to dodge.

She managed to get hit twice.

Harry closed his eyes and wondered if his teachers had ever been as frustrated with him as he was with his friend right then.

*****

Hermione Granger was in pain. Her whole body hurt, especially her thighs and her rump - Harry must have hit her there dozens of times with Stinging Hexes - and the ointment she was using on her bruised skin wasn’t helping much. And, of course, the cursed dog was enjoying her suffering! She glared at Sirius, who was seated behind his desk, but not doing any work. The wizard had barely managed to contain his laughter when he had seen the end of Harry’s training session. He wouldn’t be laughing at all if he had been hit with so many hexes, she thought. Perhaps she should demonstrate that to him. Teach him a lesson in compassion.

“Forget it!” Sirius suddenly said.

“What?”

“Whatever you were thinking,” he answered. “You had that evil glint in your eyes.” He twirled his wand between his fingers.

She huffed. “We have to tell Harry.”

“What? That you’re actually not hopeless at Defence, but screwing up so much because you are hiding your actual skill - which, incidentally, isn’t that much better.”

She glared at him. She knew that she wasn’t in his, or, as today had proved, Harry’s, league, but she was far from hopeless. “Yes. He knows Occlumency, so he won’t be a risk. And he’ll worry less about me, and so can enjoy his holidays more, if he knows the truth.” And she wouldn’t have to suffer daily torture at the hands of her well-meaning but far too harsh friend. His teachers had a lot to answer for!

Sirius sighed. “We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” She finished smearing ointment on her thighs and started on her arms.

“We would have to explain why you’re hiding your skills. Which would lead to telling him what we’re doing when he’s at Hogwarts.”

“I think the Headmaster would understand,” she said.

“Dumbledore’s not the problem,” Sirius retorted. “Harry is.”

“What?” She was saying that entirely too often today.

“He wants to become an Auror after Hogwarts. Told me so today.” Sirius sighed again. “He wants to clean up Britain.”

Hermione blinked, then frowned. Why would that… “Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’.” Sirius shook his head. “He’d be a hypocrite if he covered for a group of thieves while hunting other criminals.”

“We’re not exactly common criminals,” Hermione said. Their victims deserved it, after all.

“But we’re still criminals. He would be a corrupt Auror if he protected us while hunting others - such as corrupt members of the Ministry and the Wizengamot.” He stared at her. “I won’t ask him to sacrifice his ideals for me. Or for anyone else. He deserves better.”

Hermione met his eyes. He was serious. And, she had to admit, he was correct. She sighed. “I’ll expect compensation for my suffering.”

“What?” He gaped at her. “It’s your own fault! You should be able to fake being an average witch.”

“Harry won’t accept being average as good enough,” she pointed out. “And it’s hard to fake being average instead of being awful.”

He frowned, then shrugged. “Well, it’s only about six more weeks until he’s back at Hogwarts. You can endure for that long.”

He shielded her hexes long enough to escape the study, and with her limbs hurting, she couldn’t give chase. Not even as a cat.

Hermione hissed in frustration. She’d get him back, though. As soon as she could again move without pain.

Which, unfortunately, would not be for some time.

*****

 


	21. The Trouble with Secrets

**London, Ministry of Magic, July 15th, 1996**

“Ah, Mr Weasley. Early today?”

Percy Weasley nodded at the Hit-Wizard standing guard at the fireplaces in the Atrium of the Ministry while he cleaned the soot and ashes from his robes - high-quality, but not too high-quality; perfect for a junior member of his department. “As usual, Perkins,” he said with a polite smile. “You know how it is when you’re new.” Or when you had almost been sacked following an intrigue.

“Ah, yes, I remember.” Perkins certainly remembered the scandal that had almost cost Percy and his father’s careers, but he was polite enough not to mention it. He was a decent enough fellow - for a Hit-Wizard, as Nymphadora would say; the rivalry between the Aurors and the Hit-Wizards was a constant of the Ministry. A constant source of needless friction, Percy thought, but it wasn’t as if he were in a position to do something about it. Especially after barely surviving a scandal.

On the other hand, he was in a position to do something about other problems, which was the real reason he was always the first of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee in to work. Entering his office - barely larger than some of the broom cupboards at Hogwarts - he quickly checked whether anyone had been tampering with the spells sealing his desk and filing cabinets. There was no sign of any tampering, and the more subtle spells he had prepared to tell if anyone had entered in his absence hadn’t been triggered either.

So far, it seemed the measures he had taken to guard against another attempt to frame him were working. He grabbed a stack of forms from his desk and left his office again. He was on a mission, after all.

It didn’t take him more than a few minutes to reach the offices of the Floo Network Authority. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it would be another thirty minutes until shift change. Perfect. He schooled his features, then entered the office with a frown on his face.

“Oh, no, not again,” he heard the clerk on duty mutter as he approached the desk.

“Pardon?” Percy asked in his best no-nonsense voice.

“I said ‘morning’ - it’s been a long shift,” the clerk said quickly.

“A long shift? I wasn’t aware that the regulations governing night shifts had been amended.”

“It always feels longer at night,” the man - a Greengrass, but only very distantly related to the main branch of the Old Family - replied.

Percy sniffed. “No matter. I’m here to check up on another report of some foolish wizard stepping into a fireplace in front of muggles, and I require your assistance.” He waved a sheet of parchment in front of the man’s face.

“Err… the regular shifts starts in twenty-six minutes. They’ll be able to assist you with everything you need.” Greengrass smiled weakly. He hadn’t even looked at the report.

Percy glared at him. “This will take less than a quarter of an hour.”

“But I need to prepare the paperwork for the shift change. I can’t hold up the whole schedule for your request.”

“And I can’t wait that long!” Percy exclaimed. “I’m swamped with work - why do you think I’m here so early? Just point me at the logs and I will look for the report myself!”

Regulations forbade granting anyone from outside your department access to its records, at least unsupervised. But Greengrass had been up all night and would be too tired to care about anything other than going home - this wasn’t the first time Percy had done this.

“Alright, you know the way. But don’t accidentally destroy any records, ya hear me?”

“Pardon?” Percy didn’t have to fake his anger at the insinuation; he had been framed, and most people with any sense knew it. Not that Greengrass qualified, of course, or he wouldn’t break regulations.

“Nothing, go ahead.”

Percy sniffed and strode past the clerk, to the Records section. As soon as the door closed behind him, he summoned the scrolls covering last Friday’s Floo Network traffic. Aaron Rosier had left the Ministry at exactly five o’clock; Percy had timed the man himself. And if he had gone straight home… Percy smiled when he found the line showing the destination. Even if it wasn’t Rosier’s home it might be the home of another Death Eater.

He quickly created and shrunk a copy of the scroll, stashing it in a mokeskin purse stuck to the inside of his robes, before looking for the record related to the report he had shown to Greengrass. He already knew what he would find, of course - Percy had arranged the original incident through Dumbledore.

It would have been easier to make up a report and file it himself, but only amateurs made such mistakes with their cover. Not to mention that he didn’t want to risk any investigation into his activities revealing tampered records. Especially not when handling genuine, if arranged, incidents effectively would also help revive his career.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 16th, 1996**

Harry Potter sighed as he sat down on the couch in the living room and grabbed one of the magazines strewn around at random on the sideboard. He sighed again when he noticed that it was the latest issue of The Quibbler - he had read that one already. The next one he picked up was ‘The Journal of Arithmancy’. He hadn’t read it, and had no intention of doing so - he wouldn’t understand very much of it, anyway. It was Hermione’s subscription. If only she would show as much talent in Defence as she did in other subjects… He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Hm? What don’t you understand? Or who?” Sirius asked, looking up from the muggle bike magazine he was reading in his favorite seat.

“Hermione.” He pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t add a curse.

“Oh, that’s normal. Countless wizards with far more experience than you have tried and failed to understand witches.” Sirius grinned.

Harry stared at him. “You claim to be an expert on witches.”

“Exactly. You’ve come to the right wizard.” Sirius grinned widely and dropped his magazine on the floor as he leaned forward. “Now, what did Hermione do to confuse you?”

“It’s not what you think,” Harry said before his godfather could insinuate anything. “I don’t understand how she can be so brilliant in Charms and Transfiguration, but can’t manage to defend herself.”

Sirius grinned. “Ah.” He nodded. “Well, just because she is good at learning spells doesn’t mean she’s good at fighting. Not everyone can think on their feet.”

“We’re not talking about duelling, or making snap decisions under fire here,” Harry corrected him. “She’s barely able to dodge simple volleys. You don’t need to think when all you have to do is keep moving.” He snorted. “And I know she can move very quickly - you should have seen her jump out of her bed when I brought her her O.W.L. letter.” He smiled at the memory.

“Oh?” Sirius was leering now.

Harry held up a hand. “No joking about being quick to jump into beds, or whatever you were about to say.” He rolled his eyes on seeing his godfather pout. “I know she is smart - she catches on to things quickly. I know she can move really fast when she wants to. And I know she is more athletic than I thought. So why can’t she do better in our training?”

“You’ve peeped at her? You used your glasses on her?” Sirius sounded far more proud than alarmed, in Harry’s opinion, but at least he showed some concern.

He glared at his godfather. “No! But she was sleeping in just a T-shirt and shorts.” Short shorts.

“Ah.” Sirius nodded. “But she didn’t hex you for seeing her like that?”

“Of course not!” It wasn’t his fault, after all.

“Ah.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with that again. If Hermione fancied me, she’d have said something.” His friend certainly wouldn’t have given him advice on dating other witches.

“She might be shy. Or she thinks that you’re not interested.”

“Hermione? Shy?” Harry scoffed. His best female friend didn’t act shy at all - she gave her opinion on anything, whether you wanted to hear it or not. And whether or not he was interested… that didn’t matter. “Anyway, I need to find a way to make her improve in Defence.” Stinging Hexes obviously weren’t enough to motivate her to dodge. And only a madman would threaten her books.

“She might simply be slower to adjust to Defence,” Sirius said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take over her training when you return to Hogwarts.”

Harry doubted that Sirius would have more success - his godfather and his best friend got along better these days, but they still fought often - but it wasn’t as if he had a better idea. He’d just have to keep at it.

*****

**London, Greenwich, July 17th, 1996**

Hermione Granger cleared her throat and put down the issue of ‘Curse-Breaking Monthly’ she had just finished - with a mental note to re-read the article reporting the latest news from the City of Dead. “Mr Fletcher?”

She saw him frown slightly in response, then grin. “Yes, Miss Granger?”

She rolled her eyes. She wasn’t about to call her tutor by his first name. That wasn’t done. Not before she was an equal partner with him, at least. But she didn’t want to talk about that, and refused to be baited. “Do you think I should stop pretending to be worse at Defence than I am?”

“Ah.” His grin changed slightly. “Are you sick of getting pelted with Stinging Hexes every day?”

She scowled. “Harry’s started to vary the spells.” Stinging Hexes hurt, but getting hit by Dancing Feet or Tickling Charms was far more humiliating. “But it’s not about that.” She could handle it. She had endured far worse after her expulsion, after all. And Harry at least didn’t enjoy hexing her, unlike the dog. “I feel bad for lying to my best friend. Especially when he’s spending so much time trying to help me.”

“I see.” He wasn’t grinning any more. “Do you think you’re treating him like a mark?”

Which was something Mr Fletcher had warned her not to do, Hermione knew. “I think that we - Sirius and I - could tell him that we downplayed my actual skill in order to make the Death Eaters underestimate me.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue.

He slowly nodded. “You could do that. It’s a good excuse. And he might not be too hurt by the deception if you come clean now.” She winced at that - Harry would hate being lied to. Especially by his godfather. “However,” Mr Fletcher went on, “he will not forget that you were deceiving him by hiding your actual abilities. And that might be a problem should he actually become an Auror after Hogwarts.”

Hermione bit her lower lip, then nodded. “He might suspect that I’m hiding more than that.”

“He might make the connection between the thief with a grudge against a number of pureblood families and the sneaky witch who managed to deceive her best friend,” her tutor confirmed. “It is by no means certain that he will suspect you, but it’s a possibility we can’t dismiss out of hand.”

She sighed. Harry was smart and he was being trained by a paranoid Auror. He would suspect her if she admitted the deception. “I still don’t like lying to him.”

“It’s hard, lying to your friends and family. But it’s necessary for people like us. The more people know our secret, the greater the risk of someone revealing it - accidentally or not.” His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment as he continued. “At least you will not have to worry about your friend’s ignorance endangering him.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Potter’s being trained to deal with Death Eaters,” he explained. “Anyone trying to hurt you through him will regret it.”

“Ah.” She bit her lower lip to refrain from asking whether he was speaking from personal experience. His expression told her enough anyway. “I’ll have to improve then, enough so Harry won’t worry too much about me, but not more,” she said instead. This was not easy, as she had already found out. Especially since she also had to improve for real - Sirius wasn’t satisfied with her yet either.

Mr Fletcher smiled again. Someone who didn’t know him as well as she did wouldn’t have caught the lingering pain in his eyes. “It’ll be good training, though - if you can fool your best friend, you can fool your enemies as well.”

That should be ‘when’, not ‘if’, Hermione thought as she slowly nodded.

*****

**Wiltshire, Harnham, Britain, July 22nd, 1996**

Hermione Granger padded along the small street, sticking close to the hedgerow on the right side. Rosier’s house was ahead, past a large former farm. She ignored the dog barking like mad at her as she passed just outside the range of his leash - the stupid animal was almost strangling himself with his futile efforts to reach her.

She sat down at the corner, still in view of the guard dog, and studied Rosier’s home. Nothing had changed since her last survey. She heard someone yell at the dog behind her and darted into the hedge between the two properties - best not to draw attention from a muggle.

She crept onwards on her belly until she was at the edge of the rather neglected lawn, then dashed across it - and through the wards. She came to a stop behind the old rain barrel at the side of the house. A moment later, she was back on two feet and pulled the bug out of her pocket, putting it down on the ground. Then she changed back and picked it up in her mouth.

The barrel’s cover was old and rotten, but she was a lithe cat; it wouldn’t break under her weight. Two jumps later, she was on the sloped roof, and after a short climb, she was staring down the chimney. She couldn’t see any obstructions. Perfect.

She released the bug, which slowly floated down the shaft. If everything went according to plan then it would seek a hiding spot on the ground by itself. It was out of her hands, or paws, anyway - her job was done.

On the way back to where Sirius and Mr Fletcher were waiting, she passed the farm again, tail and head held high as the dog once more tried to strangle himself with his leash.

*****

**London, East End, July 22nd, 1996**

“That was boring,” the dog complained as soon as they were back in the safe house they were using while Harry was staying at Grimmauld Place. “I almost fell asleep.”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at Sirius. “At least we won’t be lying when we tell Harry that you just sat around and were bored while I did all the real work.” Her friend - and Jeanne - had been told that they were meeting a member of the Wizengamot today.

Mr Fletcher shook his head at her. “As if Black would actually manage to stay silent during a meeting. He likes to hear himself talk far too much.”

“He also doesn’t like hearing others talk about him as if he weren’t present,” Sirius shot back.

Hermione cleared her throat before the two could have another row. “Pointless complaints of being bored aside, is there anything relevant that we need to discuss about today’s mission?”

Mr Fletcher was about to answer when Sirius spoke up as if he wanted to prove Hermione’s tutor right. “We now know that animagi make the best burglars?”

“We already knew that if a house lacks wards against animals, an animagus can sneak in,” Mr Fletcher corrected him. “But that doesn’t help us much - almost all manors will be warded against animals, and most heists will require more than simply dropping a bug down a chimney. More than you can handle, Black.”

“I could have done this mission by myself!” Sirius said.

“A trained animal could have done it,” Hermione retorted, “provided that they could climb.” Which a clumsy dog couldn’t. She snorted - the dog would probably have broken through the rotten lid on the rain barrel.

“I bow to your far greater experience in that area,” Sirius said, his grin turning it into an insult. He actually did bow, too!

“Settle down!” Mr Fletcher said, stopping her from cutting the dog back down to size. Call her an animal, would he? But her tutor wasn’t finished. “To answer your question: No, there’s nothing of relevance to discuss. We did our job, without any trouble. And without anyone deviating from our plan,” he added with a glance at her.

Hermione frowned at the rebuke. It wasn’t as if she would have entered the house by herself, even if she had seen a way. At least not without a very good reason.

“So, can I do the next house?” Sirius asked.

“We don’t have a next target yet,” Mr Fletcher pointed out.

“I’m planning ahead.” There was that insufferable grin again.

“You’re not going on a heist by yourself, Black. You lack both the necessary training and experience,” Mr Fletcher said.

“Well, I guess I could take Hermione with me. Chasing a cat up a tree would be a good cover,” Sirius said, rubbing his goatee.

“Certainly not!” Hermione glared at him. “It would draw attention to us,” she added as an explanation, although the indignity of such a farce was reason enough to shoot it down.

His grin widened. “Well, we can use that plan as a distraction then.”

She knew he was just doing this to rile her up - at least she hoped so - but the dog was really asking for a hexing!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 24th, 1996**

Harry Potter dropped into a crouch and sent three hexes in rapid succession at Hermione - a Stinging Hex and two Paint-Splash Hexes. All of them missed since she had started moving as soon as he had begun to flick his wand, and had jumped to the side. It wasn’t a graceful jump, he noticed as he cast a Dancing Feet Charm, but she kept going despite stumbling, and even cast a Shield Charm on the move, which deflected his spell. A few more steps and a rather short slide took her behind the bench next to her.

He grinned - he had made the same mistake back when he had started getting trained by Moody. A swish of his wand later, the bench turned into water and he was shaking his head at the thoroughly waterlogged witch.

“If you’re not on familiar ground, make your own cover, don’t trust anything left by the enemy,” he said, quoting his instructor.

She glared at him as she stood up and dried herself with a quick charm. “This was supposed to be familiar ground - I live here!”

“As do I,” he retorted. “And I prepared the room for this session, didn’t I?”

“That’s what teachers do.” Hermione’s glare hadn’t lessened.

He almost blinked - him, a teacher? He hadn’t thought of himself like that. “I prefer trainer,” he said. “But the point is you can’t trust your opponent.” He snorted. “Trust me, Sirius will be even worse - I learned this from him.”

“Great.” She shook her head.

“But you’ve made progress - that was a promising start.” He smiled at her. Encouragement was good. “You just need to work on your jumps. That was a little clumsy.” He blinked when her glare grew far more intense for a moment - he was just being honest.

She huffed, then quickly conjured a few walls around her position, smiling toothily at him before the last one hid her from view. “I’m ready!”

He sighed. At least she was improving now, albeit more slowly than he was comfortable with. How could she conjure walls that easily, and yet be so slow to adapt in a fight? He pondered the question while he conjured a mattress. A quick Levitation and Banishing Charm later, it was floating above her position, where he transfigured it into water. The yelp he heard a moment later told him that she hadn’t thought of conjuring a roof.

“Hiding like that won’t help you,” he said as he started to vanish the walls. “Your goal is to escape a fight, not hunker down and hope someone will come and save you.” In the last war, such help had almost never arrived in time. “And you can’t see what your enemy is doing if you hide like that either.”

“It was just a temporary solution,” she said, still scowling as she once more dried herself off.

“And what would have been the next step?”

“Create an escape tunnel,” Hermione retorted.

Sirius would probably take exception to Hermione digging - or vanishing - a hole in his floor, Harry thought. “Can you create one quickly enough to outrun pursuit?”

“I could fill it up behind me.”

“Can you do that and dig faster than they can vanish the material?” He raised his eyebrows.

“That should be possible with a specialised spell…” she started, then sighed.

“Which you don’t have,” Harry said. “Let’s focus on tactics that use spells you know.” Judging by her expression, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if she actually learned such a spell in the future. He cleared his throat. “There’s another thing.”

“What?” She narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t take criticism that well, Harry knew. Nevertheless, they had to talk about it. He pointed at her exercise clothes. “Your clothes.”

“What about them? They don’t restrict my movement.”

“They’re rather baggy,” he said.

“They’re comfortable,” she shot back.

“They’re also prone to snagging on things when you move. An enemy - like a conjured animal - could also grapple with you more easily thanks to all that loose fabric.” There was a reason Auror and Duellist robes were close-fitting.

She hesitated for a moment, then tilted her head slightly. “Wouldn’t it be better if I trained in clothes that are similar to those I am likely to be wearing during an attack?”

“Yes,” he said, and she started to smile. “But,” he continued, “that’s why you might want to change how you dress normally, too. Maybe a tighter...” He trailed off when he saw her staring at him as if he had asked her to strip.

*****

“I think Hermione has a problem,” Harry Potter said an hour later in Sirius’s study.

“Why do you think that?” Sirius asked, glancing up from the letter he was reading; Hermione had mentioned that she had prepared his correspondence.

“I suggested that she should dress in tighter clothes - to be less vulnerable in a fight”, he added before his godfather could misunderstand, “and she looked as if she wanted to curse me, before telling me that she wouldn’t change how she dressed.” Very loudly.

Sirius laughed. “You were lucky, Harry. There’s no good way to tell a witch that her robes are ugly.”

“I didn’t say they were ugly,” Harry protested. “Even though they aren’t the most stylish clothes. But they’re a liability in combat. She would be much safer with tighter clothes.”

“I’ll have to remember that line!” Sirius said, grinning. “Well, if I wasn’t in a relationship, that is,” he added.

“It’s not a joking matter, Sirius!” Harry shook his head. “Why won’t Hermione listen to me? I don’t understand. She’s supposed to be smart and sensible.”

“Ah…” Sirius trailed off, which wasn’t a good sign, in Harry’s opinion. “She’s probably simply being stubborn. You know how she is. The more you tell her to wear something more flattering, the more she digs her heels in. Not that she would wear heels,” he added with a grin.

“Fortunately, she at least wears sensible shoes,” Harry said.

“Well, I think she would look quite nice in high-heeled boots.” Sirius was slowly nodding. “And stockings and a basque. And a leather jacket.”

“What?” Harry was about to ask how Sirius could come up with such a combination when he noticed that his godfather was actually reading an issue of ‘Bike’.

He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sirius was obviously no help with this. Remus was at Hogwarts, and no expert on witches anyway. And Harry would certainly not ask Jeanne for help. That left…

He nodded. He would have to call Tonks.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 25th, 1996**

Hermione Granger looked at herself in the mirror - a normal mirror; she neither wanted nor needed to listen to an enchanted mirror’s ‘helpful advice’, thank you very much - pointed her wand at her brown mane, held in a ponytail, and cast another charm. Immediately, her hair changed from a perfectly fine brown colour to a deep black which wouldn’t look out of place on a cat’s fur.

Nodding, she changed, landing on all four paws with her usual grace. Unfortunately, even looking with her cat’s eyes, which offered her a slightly different range of colours, she could tell at once that her fur hadn’t changed colour and had stayed brown.

She changed back and sighed. She had cast the most advanced Hair Dyeing Charm she knew - and she had thoroughly researched that family of spells - but it seemed that even specialised charms didn’t affect her other form any more than the basic Colouring Charm did.

“That would have been too easy,” she muttered. But there were alternatives, she thought as she grabbed the bottle of muggle hair dye from her dresser, even if they were not as convenient as a simple spell would have been. If only cats could use wands!

Thirty minutes later, she was looking at a rather badly dyed blonde in the mirror. Mr Fletcher would never let her get away with such a sloppy job, but it was good enough for testing. Once more she changed into a cat.

And once more, she had brown fur. And while that meant that she had an easy solution should a certain dog try to dye her hair pink again, she did need a way to change her fur colour if she wanted to keep using her cat form on heists. She could let Sirius or Mr Fletcher cast a charm on her, of course - but that would vanish should she need to change into her human form to cast a spell, like on their last job.

In a pinch, she could use a Hair-Colouring Potion, of course. But in order to drink a potion as a cat, she would need to conjure a bowl - which would be left behind. Maybe she could create a self-vanishing water bowl…

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and she quickly changed back. “Yes?”

“It’s me.” The dog.

“Come in!”

“I just wanted to tell you… what happened to your hair” He was staring at her.

She rolled her eyes and cast a quick charm to restore her real hair colour. “I’m experimenting.”

“Well, that one’s a failure!” He shook his head. “It looks like someone sprayed you with bleach. You should go black instead.”

She glared at him. He didn't need to be so blunt.  “I was testing how hair-dyeing charms affect my fur’s colour.”

He blinked for a moment. “You tried to dye your hair and hoped your fur would match it?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Could’ve told you that that won’t work. I tried that out myself, at Hogwarts.”

She felt stupid - she hadn’t even thought of asking him. She bit her lower lip. “Potions work, but I need a bowl to drink them as a cat, and I can’t easily dispose of it afterwards.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “Just conjure it for a short time, instead of trying to make it last hours.” She winced and he grinned at her. “Never overlook the lazy solution to your problem.”

“Dumping it on someone else?” she shot back.

“That works too!” he agreed, nodding several times. “I do it all the time.”

“I know,” she responded with an overly sweet smile - he did it to her, after all.

He ignored the implied rebuke and looked at the bottles and vials she had lined up on her dresser. “If Harry saw this he’d stop worrying about you,” he said, rubbing his goatee. “But if he knew you are dyeing your hair, it would endanger your disguise.”

“What?” What was Harry worrying about…? She groaned. “Did he ask you to tell me to dress in tighter clothes since you’re my nominal employer?”

“No,” Sirius said. “Even though you look better in leather.” She sighed in relief - until he went on: “He asked Tonks for help. Moony told me.”

An Auror giving her what amounted to fashion advice! Hermione clenched her teeth. Sometimes, Harry’s protectiveness was really aggravating.

Most of the time she liked it, of course.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 27th, 1996**

“Wotcher!”

Hermione Granger forced herself to smile when she heard Tonks cheerful greeting. She had been expecting this visit. She turned her head and nodded at the Auror standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Hello, Tonks.”

“So, I was dropping off something for Sirius, and I thought I should check on the most recent addition to his household, see how she’s faring,” Tonks said, stepping inside Hermione’s room. “Not too bad, looks like,” she added, nodding towards Hermione’s bookshelves.

“Harry asked you to talk to me, didn’t he?” Hermione said.

Tonks flinched, then smiled weakly at her. “Guilty as charged.”

Time to see if she could put the witch on the back foot, Hermione thought. She made a point of looking at Tonks’s clothes - combat boots, ripped leggings and an open leather robe with lots of pockets and a tattered hemline over a blouse, all of it in black. “I don’t think that the punk witch look would work for me.” Her tone indicated that it wasn’t working for the Auror either.

Tonks must have noticed, since her smile grew more teeth. “Well, I don’t know about punk, but the ‘frumpy wallflower’ look definitely isn’t working for you.”

Of course it wasn’t - that was the point of her disguise. Hermione frowned, though, and raised her chin slightly. “It’s comfortable.”

“I’m certain that we can find clothes that are both comfortable and more stylish,” Tonks said, “as well as less of a risk in a fight.”

“I don’t think I should change how I dress just to conform to someone else’s idea of how witches should look.” Hermione sniffed.

“I’d be the last to tell you that, trust me!” Tonks shook her head. “You should have heard my parents berating me about my fashion choices!”

Hermione could imagine that - not from personal experience, of course; her parents hadn’t disagreed with her choice of clothes. And she hadn’t had a rebellious phase anyway. Not an openly announced one, at least - she was certain that her parents would have a few words to say should they know that their daughter was training to become a professional thief. “So why are you here then?”

“Because you should be dressing like _you_ want...”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Hermione cut in.

“...but you should make an informed decision,” Tonks went on. “And the security risk is real, trust me - I’ve had some rather embarrassing moments when my clothes snagged on furniture.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly. “In a fight?”

“No… just daily life.” Tonks waved. “Trust me, billowing robes look cool, but they’re not really practical in cramped spaces.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hermione said, “but my clothes aren’t that bad.” She tugged at her sweater for emphasis. “I don’t see Harry or Sirius dressing in skin-tight clothes either,” she added.

“And we’re all very glad for that!” Tonks exclaimed, laughing. “But no one’s asking you to dress like that. Well, no one who knows what’s good for them.” She grew serious. “Your clothes aren’t that bad, but they could be better. Safer. You don’t fill your pockets with lead before you go swimming, do you?”

“Well, if I were to go scuba diving, I would wear a weight belt to trim myself,” Hermione said.

Tonks stared at her with narrowed eyes. “I said swimming, not diving.”

Hermione sighed. Time to try her cover story. “I don’t want to dress up,” she said, glancing at the floor and trying to sound both reluctant and honest, “or the Prophet will take it as proof that I’m a gold-digger out to seduce either Harry or Sirius. Or both.” That would hopefully be enough of a reason to keep any compromise from compromising her secret identity.

“Ah.” Tonks nodded in apparent sympathy. “Well, there’s a lot we can do without making you dress like some French tart.”

“Are you talking about Jeanne?” Hermione asked, wondering if Harry had asked Tonks’s help with that problem as well.

“Of course not!” Tonks said. “I would never say a bad thing about my dear cousin’s future wife.” She shook her head wildly for emphasis. “Even if she does dress a little… French.”

“And doesn’t have to deal with the Prophet questioning her intentions towards Sirius,” Hermione added. The Selwyns must have a lot of influence with the press. Or it was the fact that Jeanne was, although illegitimate, a pureblood and not a muggleborn. And lacked a criminal record.

Tonks shrugged, then perked up. “Anyway, let’s see what we can do with your clothes!”

Hermione once again forced herself to smile. It didn’t look like she could simply shrink her sweater and trousers until Tonks deemed them sufficiently grapple-resistant.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, July 31st, 1996**

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Thank you, Ginny.” Harry Potter’s smile was as forced as Ginny’s looked. “I’m very grateful that your parents let me have the party here again.”

“Mum insisted,” Ginny said.

Did that mean Ginny had been against inviting him? “Ah,” he said, nodding.

“It makes sense - Grimmauld Place doesn’t have that much space.” Ginny frowned at him as if that was his fault.

“Yes. And there’s no Quidditch pitch either.” He glanced at the pitch, where most of the other guests were flying. And where he had been headed until he’d almost stumbled into Ginny.

“Yes.” She seemed to hesitate a moment, then turned her head towards the table in the garden, where Hermione was talking to Bill about Arithmancy or Curse-Breaking. “Hermione’s wearing different clothes from usual.”

He sighed. “Oh, yes. And it was a pain to get her to change. She was too stubborn to admit that her old clothes were not suitable for a fight.”

“Ah.” Ginny nodded. “They look better than her old ones, too.”

He shrugged. Hermione’s current clothes - rather drab robes - were still far from flattering, in his opinion, but now she wouldn’t get caught in any hedges through which she tried to crawl.

“Well, I’m getting some more cake,” Ginny said after a moment, nodding curtly.

“I’m going to fly some more,” he replied, then turned away.

*****

Harry Potter barely noticed the Bludger headed his way as he banked left. There was a glint below him - the Snitch? No, just something shiny on the ground. He rolled to the left, the Bludger speeding past him, and started a dive. Below him, the former Gryffindor Chasers were outflying their opponents - Bill, Dean and Seamus - easily, though Ron managed to block Alicia’s throw. Team Weasley was still behind five goals.

He saw Ginny circling far above the field, and grinned. She was too stubborn to shadow him, which meant she wouldn’t get near the Snitch. Once he spotted it, Team Gryffindor would win.

Another Bludger flew towards him. The twins were focusing on him now and he couldn’t expect any help from his own Beaters - neither Hermione nor Luna were any good with the bats. And the less said about Neville’s performance as Keeper the better.

He pulled up and let the Bludger pass beneath him. It would take a few seconds to turn around, which meant he could look around again… There! A golden glint speeding across the field, close to the ground!

Harry dived. The second Bludger came at him, but from an angle. He dismissed it from consideration; it was too slow to reach him. The Snitch abruptly turned left and sped up, but Harry easily compensated, trading more height for speed. Another turn, right this time. Towards him. He pulled up and rolled at the same time, reaching out with his left hand, and he felt the Snitch slap into his palm hard enough to bruise.

But he had made the catch. Team Gryffindor had beaten Team Weasley. And he had beaten Ginny!

*****

“Hey, Hermione! That was some nice flying!”

Hermione Granger finished storing her loaned broom in the Weasleys’ shed and turned to look at Seamus. She frowned at him - her performance couldn’t honestly be called good or nice. “You are aware that Luna and I playing as Beaters was a handicap to compensate for the Chasers playing with Harry?”

The boy’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, it was nice for you. I know you don’t like Quidditch.”

“You’re actually wrong - I quite like Quidditch. I’m just not good at it,” she corrected him with a glare, hoping he would get the hint.

He didn’t - probably because he was looking at her chest, and not her face. Her new robes weren’t exactly tight, but they didn’t hide her bust as much as her old ones. “That’s great!” he exclaimed. “Who do you think will win the next championship?”

“Probably Puddlemere United,” she answered. “They improved their Chaser line again.”

He nodded. “I think you’re right. They’ve been great before, and got better. Although the Harpies might give them a run for their money.”

She was tempted to correct him - the Harpies’ Seeker had retired, and her replacement was new to professional Quidditch - but that would mean spending more time talking with a boy who was clearly still fixated on one thing - and it wasn’t Quidditch. Fortunately, she spotted Luna stepping out of the house. “Perhaps. But I need to check on Luna now.”

She left the boy. And she left him his wallet, this time - Mr Fletcher had been clear about how dangerous it was to be predictable. Even Seamus might grow suspicious if he lost his wallet twice in a row at Harry’s birthday parties. “Hey, Luna! How are you doing?”

The blonde witch smiled. “Molly fixed my arm, see?” She held out left arm. “No bruises any more.” She pursed her lips. “But we were supposed to hit the Bludgers, not the other way around.”

Hermione nodded. “We tried. And our team won.” No thanks to them, though.

Luna, though, beamed. “We did! And with a wide spread, too!” Then she frowned again - although it looked more like a pout to Hermione. “Next time, I want to be on Team Weasley, though.”

“So you can play as Chaser?”

“Among other reasons, yes.” Luna suddenly started towards the table in the garden. “Now let’s go and eat our victory cake!”

“I think that’s still Harry’s birthday cake,” Hermione said with a smile.

“That’s alright since he won the game for us!”

*****

“We could have beaten you, if Fred and George had focused on disrupting the Chasers’ formation. By trying to both hinder you and them, they achieved nothing. I told them so, but they didn’t listen.” Ron sighed before taking another forkful of cake. “But we’ll need to replace them, and Alicia and Angelina as well, this year.”

Harry Potter shrugged. “Ginny can play Chaser. And Demelza is good as well.”

“Yeah. But we don’t have any good Beaters. I’ve been keeping an eye on the pick-up games,” Ron said, frowning despite the excellent cake. “And we can’t count on you winning the games for us. Not with, you know.” He waved with his free hand at the trees in the distance. Or maybe the pond.

Harry understood, of course. They couldn’t count on him. Not with Voldemort out there. He sighed. He knew that fighting Voldemort - and surviving - was far more important than Quidditch, but it was still galling.

“Ah, there’re Hermione and Luna,” Ron said.

Harry looked up and saw the two witches walking towards them. Well, Hermione was walking. Luna was closer to running. “Has the cake gone bad in the time we were playing?” she asked. “You were frowning. You don’t frown when eating cake unless it’s bad cake. And Molly doesn’t bake bad cakes.” She gasped. “Did someone tamper with it?”

“No, no,” Harry was quick to reassure her. “I just thought of something unpleasant.”

“You shouldn’t be doing that on your birthday either,” she admonished him before taking a slice for herself and one for Hermione. Or, rather, two slices for herself - Hermione took another one. Luna could eat like Ron, when it came to cake, Harry noted.

“We were just discussing our prospects for this year’s Cup,” Ron said. “Is your arm OK?”

Luna just nodded, her mouth full of cake. She held out her arm to Ron.

“Your mum fixed it,” Hermione cut in. She was eating slowly, unlike the others.

“Good.” Ron sat back.

Luna seemed to be pouting, but it was hard to tell with her cheeks stuffed. Harry almost expected her throat to bulge like a snake’s when she swallowed before announcing: “Oh, I almost forgot: We have found even more evidence of the muggle conspiracy to hide the existence of Nargles!”

“You have?” Harry asked. He glanced at Hermione, who looked as wary as he felt.

Luna nodded several times. “Daddy tracked the Nargles to Downing Street, but he was arrested by muggle Aurors before he could find their lair. The muggles were acting on direct orders from their Minister, which proves that this conspiracy is rooted in the highest levels of muggle Britain!”

“Your father tried to break into Number 10 Downing Street?” Hermione’s voice had gone up an octave, Harry thought.

“He tried.” Luna held up a finger and lowered her voice. “The building is warded; another piece of evidence that it is a breeding ground for Nargles. We’ll be exposing everything in the next issue!”

Harry glared at Hermione. This was all her fault for cracking a joke about Westminster.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 1st, 1996**

“Hello, Harry!”

“Hello, Jeanne.” Harry Potter smiled, even though he didn’t feel like it. Sirius’s girlfriend - fiancée now in all but name, or so he understood - was still far too friendly in his opinion. And he had been looking forward to having breakfast without her. “Already up?”

“Yes.” She grabbed a croissant and sat down in what had become her usual spot. “Sirius is still asleep. He keeps working late,” she added with a sigh.

Order missions, Harry knew. Not that he would tell the witch. He shrugged.

“Like Hermione,” Jeanne went on.

“Yes.” What did she mean by that? Hermione had always worked very hard, even at Hogwarts. “She’s his secretary,” he added.

“And she lives with you.”

She didn’t say ‘us’, he noted, though he didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. “Yes. Her parents are travelling the world.”

“She’s recently been changing how she dresses.” Now the witch was smiling, rather patronisingly.

“Yes?” He took a sip from his tea. What was her point?

“Did you notice?”

“Of course I did.” He had told her to, after all.

“Ah.” Her smile widened. “Did you tell her that?”

He shook his head as he took a bite out of his own croissant. That would have been rubbing it in, and Hermione did have a temper. Unlike Sirius, he didn’t like provoking her.

She sighed. “Harry, a girl likes to be noticed if she makes the effort to dress up. You should at least compliment her, even if she still has a lot to learn about fashion.”

He winced. “That’s not how it is,” he said. “I told her to change since her old clothes were too baggy for her.”

“Oh?” She looked both surprised and amused.

“She’s not dressing like this to impress me,” he explained. “It’s for her safety.”

Judging by the way she shook her head, she didn’t believe him. “And you wouldn’t have any ulterior motives?”

“She’s my best friend. And she doesn’t fancy me, or she would have told me so.” Harry narrowed his eyes. She probably had gotten this notion from Sirius.

“That’s not a denial.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “If I fancied her, I would have told her so as well. Straight.” He was a Gryffindor, after all.

“Mh.”

Repeating his words would make him sound childish, so he didn’t. He made a point of reading the Prophet instead. And ignoring her giggle.

*****

**Hogwarts, August 2nd, 1996**

“Thank you for coming,” the Headmaster said with his usual smile. “Please have a seat.” Behind him, his phoenix familiar trilled, then went back to grooming his wings.

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione Granger sat down.

“And thank you for the memory of your exams. It was very interesting to see how the home-schooled students are treated.”

“It was my pleasure,” Hermione answered. “Although I think some of the examiners didn’t appreciate being put on the spot like that.”

“It was the least I could do.” Dumbledore’s smile grew more apologetic. “If things had gone differently, you would never have had to face them.”

“And they wouldn’t have had to test a muggleborn,” Hermione added.

“Quite.” He nodded. “You did very well, considering your circumstances.”

“Yes. Considering.” She would have done much better, Hermione was certain, had she stayed at Hogwarts. She wouldn’t be an animagus, though. Nor a thief. Still… “You mentioned that you had a question for me.” Which he apparently couldn’t ask through the fireplace - nor trust to ask at Grimmauld Place. And for her. Not for Sirius, Harry or Mr Fletcher.

“Indeed. I would like you to listen to a record, if you would be so kind.”

“A record?” She frowned. That sounded… Ah. “From one of the bugs we placed?”

“Precisely.” He smiled at her, as if she had answered a question in class. “From your latest ‘heist’, I think Mundungus called it.”

“The Rosier job.”

He nodded. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“I’ve got time to spare,” she said. Why would he want her to listen to such a record? Her eyes widened. Either it concerned herself or her family - or the Dark Lord.

He flicked his wand and an antique gramophone flew towards him, gently coming to rest on his desk. A quick tap later, the record started playing and two voices filled the room. One of them sent a cold shiver down her spine. Voldemort.

_“You promised me access to your great-aunt's library, Aaron.” She wouldn’t ever forget that voice. Nor that tone._

_“I did, milord. But Aunt Serena is stubborn und suspects the worst of everyone, even of her own family. She’s warming to me, though. I just need a little more time to gain her trust.” That had to be Rosier._

_“You said that before. This task cannot be delayed indefinitely.”_

_“I’m doing what I can, milord.”_

_“Are you?” There was a mocking and threatening undertone audible now._

_“I cannot appear too eager, or she’ll grow suspicious. Ever since the death of her husband, she has grown very possessive of his library.” Based on his wavering tone, she could imagine how nervous Rosier must have looked._

_“With good cause, Aaron. Your task is of crucial importance. Succeed, and you will be rewarded. Fail, and you will wish that I killed you instead of your family.”_

_“Yes, milord.”_

She heard a door open and close, presumably the Dark Lord leaving, and then Dumbledore stopped the record.

“That was Voldemort,” Hermione said before he could ask. “I recognise his voice.”

He nodded. “I thought so as well, based on your memory, but I needed to be certain.” He smiled, a little ruefully. “Old age affects the hearing, after all.”

She didn’t think that was the reason that he had called her. “The Dark Lord hasn’t found what he’s been looking for, then.”

She was fishing for information and, judging by the Headmaster’s smile, he knew it. He nodded, though. “Indeed. His followers have not met with much success, not least because of your own actions.” He sighed, suddenly looking years older. “But that might not amount to much if he succeeds in gaining access to that library. Ottokar Rosier was a man who did not hold with the idea that books should be banned, no matter their content.”

Hermione nodded - that was a view she shared.

He sighed again. “I believed so as well, once, but history proved me wrong.”

She tilted her head, accepting his rebuke, but nothing more. She could handle any knowledge. And, she added to herself, it wasn’t as if the Headmaster had asked her and her friends to destroy such books, but to recover them.

He went on: “Anyway... Ottokar collected a great many tomes, and among them might very well be some of the most infamous works on blood magic. Might, mind you - I would not have thought that he would go as far as that.”

“You want us to check and recover any works covering blood magic that we find.”

“Yes. One tome in particular - ‘Of Blood and Magic’.” He leaned back. “It will be no easy task. Aaron has not overstated Serena’s attitude. She suspects - not without cause, given what we just heard - that her relatives would rather inherit her estate sooner than later, and has accordingly taken precautions even Alastor might consider slightly excessive.”

“Alastor Moody?” She had heard a lot about the man. He was, in her opinion, at least partially responsible for Harry making such a fuss about her clothes.

“Yes. While Serena is not as skilled as Alastor, as the head of the Rosier family, she has access to vast resources to compensate for that. Her manor will be full of all sorts of defences, both old and new.”

Like the manors of other Old Families. Such as the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, the Davises, the Bulstrodes and, of course, the Malfoys.

Hermione smiled.

*****

 


	22. Blood and Tigers

**Hogwarts, August 3rd, 1996**

Sitting at his desk in his quarters, Severus Snape stared at the Dark Mark on his arm and pressed his lips together. It was his greatest - no, his second-greatest - mistake. If he hadn’t ruined his friendship with Lily in a moment of anger and weakness, he would never have joined the Dark Lord. And he would never have spied for that monster. Would never have told him of the Prophecy. Would never have betrayed him, only for Lily to be murdered anyway.

And would never have failed in his vengeance. The Dark Lord still lived. Thanks to his mastery of the Dark Arts, he had been reborn in a new body. And was once more working to undermine Britain, spreading his influence through the Ministry and the Old Families.

All while Severus was stuck hiding behind the wards of Hogwarts like a coward! He wasn’t even fighting the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters, like the other members of Dumbledore’s Order. “‘You cannot leave, Severus’,” he snarled at the empty air in front of his desk as he imitated Albus’s tone, “‘Voldemort knows you betrayed him and he has marked you. You would endanger your comrades - and yourself - should you leave the protection of Hogwarts.’” He scoffed, grinding his teeth. Albus had no idea - Severus didn’t care about his own life. Not any more. Hadn’t for a long time. All he cared for was avenging Lily. Redeeming himself.

But he had failed. Despite his attempts to portray himself as a coward who only switched sides after his master’s disappearance, despite positioning himself as a potentially useful spy for the Dark Lord, despite setting himself up to be punished by Albus for letting his students send that Gryffindor delinquent off, Severus hadn’t even been contacted. Or attacked. It was as if the Dark Lord was ignoring him - as if he didn’t care about Severus at all while he was hiding.

But Severus wasn’t a coward like Karkaroff, who was hiding in his own school! He wanted to fight! To hurt the Dark Lord, and his followers! To _matter_!

He abruptly stood and started to pace in his office. He didn’t matter. Not really. He had helped keep Potter’s spawn alive, after the idiot had been hurt showing off his girlfriend, but who cared? It wasn’t as if the Dark Lord had made any other attempt on the brat, and Albus’s vague words about how crucial the spoiled child was were as worthless as his assurances that Severus’s potions were needed by the other Order members. Those who actually fought.

Words as worthless as Severus himself. He should be out there, tracking down Death Eaters! Poisoning them, cursing them, even serving as bait to lead the Dark Lord into a trap. Doing anything but hiding like a coward. Even Black and Lupin were doing more than he was.

He glanced at the fireplace in his office. It would be so easy. A little powder, a simple word, a single step, and he would be there. In his mother’s home. The Dark Lord would notice. Would send his followers. Might even come in person. And Severus would be ready for them. Would have his traps prepared. Would make them bleed and die while they fought their way inside, until, at the last moment, when they thought they had beaten him, he would enact his final revenge, and destroy them all. Destroy the Dark Lord’s new body, too.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. It would be so easy. Too easy, Albus had said, and too difficult, at the same time. The Dark Lord wouldn’t fall for it. Wouldn’t send his minions. Would simply make Severus hurt through the Mark until he wanted to die - or went mad and killed himself.

And that, as much as it galled, Severus couldn’t allow. He couldn’t die in vain. Or worse, end up helping the Dark Lord. His former master believed that Dumbledore was unaware of his latest plans and didn’t know he had taken a new body. Severus acting against him would ruin that, and make the Dark Lord act more cautiously.

He clenched his teeth. If only the Dark Lord would attack openly. Once Dark Marks were floating above burning houses again, there would be no more need for secrecy and deceptions. Severus would be free to act, then. Free to fight. Free to redeem himself. He would matter again. No longer would he be reduced to brewing potions and keeping an eye on the brat.

Not for the first time, Severus thought about bringing this about. Pushing the Dark Lord into showing his hand. It would ruin Albus’s plans, perhaps - but wouldn’t it ruin the Dark Lord’s plans as well? Force him out in the open before he suborned the Wizengamot and the Ministry?

Albus wasn’t perfect. He had failed Lily. He had failed Severus, too. He had almost lost the last war. He might lose this war, too, even before it started.

But it wouldn’t be easy to push the Dark Lord into action. Severus knew enough Death Eaters who had escaped punishment after the last war to ensure that he could gain the attention of the Dark Lord - but that wouldn’t force him to act.

No, he thought as he balled his hands into fists, he had to keep waiting. Keep seeing the reminder of Lily’s greatest mistake each week. Until war finally broke out, and he could, at last, redeem himself.

*****

**Cambridgeshire, Outside Wisbech, Britain, August 3rd, 1996**

The Rosier Manor looked old, but in very good repair. It was impressive, Hermione Granger had to admit, from a purely architectonic point of view. Its wards would be even more impressive, though. She couldn’t make out any details of them from her vantage point in the closest woods - she’d need to move a lot closer to the wardline to actually analyze the spells forming the manor’s defences - but the sheer power and scope of wards that had grown for centuries… She whistled softly while she adjusted her mask’s zoom enchantment. The wards were older than those on Grimmauld Place. She hoped that they were not as advanced, at least - the Blacks’ reputation for knowing dark curses was quite understandable once you analyzed the wards on the family home. Which she had done.

“Those are old wards,” Mr Fletcher chimed in. “No telling exactly what kinds of spells were used without unraveling them. A number of the enchantments might be too old to be very effective. But most of those would have been replaced.”

“Probably used blood magic, too,” Sirius chimed in. “Even before the Statute of Secrecy, no one would have missed a muggle peasant.”

Hermione wondered if the Blacks had done the same. Grimmauld Place was far younger than this manor, but she doubted that Sirius’s family would have had any scruples when it came to their security. For all his scoffing about his relatives, Sirius didn’t have many scruples when it came to keeping his family safe either.

“Open ground all around,” Mr Fletcher went on. “Which means if we get detected while dealing with the wards, we’ll have no cover.” And with Rosier being paranoid, infiltrating while in disguise was not possible.

“We could tunnel to the underground part of the wards,” Hermione said. The manor had been built when sieges still included tunneling, so the spells would cover the ground underneath the building as well.

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “No. The wards will be set up to deal with such attempts. Might even have spells placed to detect and collapse a tunnel before it reaches the wardline. We’ll have to approach above ground.” He looked up, then grinned. “Probably have to approach from the air.”

“On brooms?” Sirius actually sounded excited.

Mr Fletcher’s grin widened. “Not exactly.”

*****

“Are you certain we can’t go faster?”

Hermione Granger pressed her lips together to refrain from snapping at the dog as she guided the floating, disillusioned platform she and the two wizards were standing on slowly closer to the wardline - or the ward bubble, in this case.

“No, we can’t, Black,” Mr Fletcher said. “We don’t know where exactly the wards start. You wouldn’t want to trigger them, would you?”

The dog grumbled something she didn’t catch, and didn’t care about in the first place. She had to focus on levitating the platform closer and closer to the manor, until the wards showed up in her field of vision. If she had been able to create a spell for her mask that projected a depiction of the dome the wards formed onto her visor… But it had already taken hours to prepare the platform they were using, what with all the spells necessary to keep it hidden and safe.

Relatively safe, she amended her thoughts - if the wards were triggered, their platform would be blasted apart. Or worse.

Another yard. Two yards. She glanced down at the ground, a hundred yards below her. She knew where the wardline was there, but even with her mask, and the light of the barely waning moon, it was hard to tell from above.

And then she was almost blinded when the wards came into range of her detection spell and lit up in her enhanced sight. The curse the dog muttered under his breath was, although crude, only too appropriate. Those were a lot of spells. Powerful spells. Very similar to Grimmauld Place’s defences, indeed. And also more powerful than The Burrow’s, she thought. But the Weasleys had the most modern scheme.

Mr Fletcher, though, didn’t sound daunted or impressed. He sounded gleeful. “Ah… there we go. Float us a little closer, I need to study these in detail!”

She swallowed, then steered the platform even closer to the - for her enhanced sight - glowing layers of spells. If she triggered one of them...

“Stop!”

She stopped, holding her breath.

“Perfect. Now get comfortable - this will take a while,” her tutor said. She released her breath and sat down. He didn’t ask her to move away. He knew better, after she had refused when they had started planning this. He needed her - he couldn’t deal with the wards and control the platform at the same time. And they needed the dog too, she added to herself, with a glance at the statues covering the lawn below, hinting at the numerous defences that awaited them once they were past the wards.

They were a team.

*****

‘A while’ turned out to be almost three hours. The dog had either fallen asleep after an hour, or had been making a very determined effort to make them think he had. Hermione didn’t care either way as long as he didn’t distract Mr Fletcher.

Her tutor sounded ready to fall asleep as well when he announced that he was done. “Had to do it the hard way for most of the wards - the spells were not layered in a pattern, just piled on each other,” he explained. “Pretty typical for such old manors, too - most people do not seem to consider more effective patterns worth the loss of all the added power the old spells have accumulated.”

That was a foolish notion, in Hermione’s opinion. What good was a powerful spell if you missed your target? If only she had been able to watch Mr Fletcher at work so she could judge just how difficult it was to break through such wards.

“Black?”

“Huh? What?”

So, he had been asleep. Hermione sighed. “We’re ready to go in,” she said.

“Finally! Took you long enough!”

“Don’t get reckless, Black,” Mr Fletcher said. “There are bound to be traps and other defences awaiting us down there.”

“Of course!” Sirius sounded almost offended at the accusation. “I would have a hard time explaining to Harry or Jeanne how I managed to get cursed while officially in a meeting with Dumbledore about a proposal for the Wizengamot.” With a chuckle, he added: “Especially since our dear Hermione is supposed to be visiting a sick grand-uncle of hers no one ever heard of before.”

She rolled her eyes at the dog’s implication, even though they couldn’t see each other. She didn’t curse the dog; she only hexed him, and never when he didn’t deserve it. “Harry already suspects that you go on Order missions. If he thought I were with you, he’d insist on coming along.”

“And we can’t have that,” Mr Fletcher said. “One untrained maverick is enough; we don’t need a wannabe Auror.”

“I just think that you visiting a muggle boyfriend of yours would have been a better cover,” Sirius said, and she knew he was grinning in that lewd manner of his.

“I’m not going to fake a boyfriend as a cover,” she said in a terse voice. She had her pride.

“You can talk about your love lives once we’re done here,” her tutor cut in. “Let’s move! Take us forward, then down to the balcony in front.”

“I don’t have a love life,” Hermione said before she took a deep breath and started to move the platform forward through wards strong enough to kill all of them in an instant. If Mr Fletcher had made a mistake… He hadn’t, and Hermione sighed with relief once her detection spell showed that they had safely passed the wardline.

“Well, you could have a love life if you wanted.”

“Shut up, Black,” Mr Fletcher snapped, “or do you want us to crash into the roof?”

She could float the platform and cut the dog down to size - verbally, at least - at the same time, but it would have been unprofessional. Hermione still clenched her teeth at Sirius’s unwanted commentary as she brought the platform to a stop on top of the balcony.

“Hold it here,” she heard her tutor say, “I’ll check for traps.”

“If Madam Rosier actually trapped her own balcony, then she would have fit in perfectly with my family,” Sirius said.

“Couple spells coverin’ the floor and door,” Mr Fletcher reported. “Hermione, disable them. Black, take over floatin’ the platform.”

Hermione nodded, despite all of them still being disillusioned. She could do this. Whether Mr Fletcher was too tired to do it himself or thought this was an easy training opportunity.

“I’ve got it,” Sirius announced. “Don’t get cursed,” he added, “Harry would never forgive me.”

She snorted as she lay down and scooted to the edge of the platform to take a closer look at the balcony below without the Disillusionment Charm on the boards interfering with her view. There were indeed spells down below - several on the floor. She didn’t know all of the spells, but she recognised a vermin detection spell, linked to an unknown curse and a Vanishing Spell. Madam Rosier must not like animals, she thought. It wouldn’t affect a human thief, though.

But the other spells would, she was certain. Curses and one of the more obscure alarm charms. Triggered by anyone stepping on the ground - she spotted the small charm commonly used for such traps. But would Madam Rosier have gone so far as to trap the balcony in a manner that would prevent her from using it without spending time and effort on disarming the traps?

Hermione doubted that. She studied the door. There was the standard pattern that allowed the door to be safely opened from the inside without triggering the curse on it. And another alarm charm. However, she couldn’t spot a spell that would suppress the traps on the ground at the same time. She frowned. Was Rosier so paranoid as to cut herself off from parts of her own home? Or… She flicked her wand, then smiled. There was another detection spell linked to the curses. Aimed at a specific object. Probably Rosier’s favorite necklace or brooch.

But fooling the spell would take too much time - it was already midnight. They’d have to use the platform to avoid touching the floor. And she still needed to open the door. “Float us closer to the door,” she whispered.

After a moment, she felt the platform move. She studied the door while they floated closer at a snail’s pace. “Stop!”

It was an old door. Sturdy, but old. Not nearly as perfectly fitted to its frame as modern muggle security doors - there was no need to, either, what with spells offering insulation and protection. But it meant that she would be able to fit a wire through the gap at the top. Or a slightly more sophisticated tool. Not that she needed much more than a wire, with the door lacking a lock.

A minute later, she had it open.

And a moment after that, she cursed. The study’s floor was glowing with spells.

“Hermione?” Mr Fletcher sounded worried.

“What did you do?” So did Sirius.

“I opened the door,” she said. “But the floor inside is covered by spells as well. It’s not safe to walk on without a key item.”

“Can you disarm them?” Sirius asked.

“I could.” Hermione bit her lower lip. “But I fear that Rosier will have covered most of the manor with such traps. She might have left a ‘public area’ safe, but certainly not her husband’s library.” Hermione certainly wouldn’t leave her own library unprotected, if she had a library worth protecting, that was. Disarming all those curses and alarm charms, room by room, would take far too long.

“We’ll make better time if we avoid the floor then,” Mr Fletcher echoed her thoughts.

“Go in through the ground floor?” Sirius asked. “That should be the public area.”

Hermione grinned. For all his claims to be born riding a broom, Sirius remained a ground-bound dog.

“No,” her tutor said, and she knew he was grinning as well, “We’ll be avoiding the floor on this floor.”

“Floating?” Sirius sounded doubtful. But then, he wasn’t a trained thief.

Hermione flicked her wand and conjured a plank next to her.

“The spell might cover more than just the floor itself. Two yards should be safe,” Mr Fletcher said.

She nodded in agreement, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes.” Then she ended her Disillusionment Charm and slid on to the plank before levitating it.

She floated so close to the ceiling, her head almost bumped into the protruding parts of the stucco, but she reached the other side in less than half a minute and stuck the plank to the wall with a Sticking Charm so she could work freely.

“We should use brooms,” she heard Sirius mutter.

Mr Fletcher shot the idea down at once. “Too unwieldy. We need a steady platform to deal with the other curses.”

“There’s nothing steady about this.”

“Be quiet,” Hermione hissed. “I’m working on the door.” And the dog’s complaining was distracting.

“Don’t rush it,” her tutor said as she saw him arrive next to her. He had dropped his Disillusionment Charm as well.

“I’m not.” She wasn’t - but the spells were the same as the ones on the balcony door. She knew how to deal with them. “It’s open,” she announced after a few more minutes.

She glanced back and saw the dog arrive, his clenched teeth visible under his mask. He didn’t complain, though. Good for him - this was how a heist went down.

The hallway behind the door was trapped as well. Hermione didn’t expect any part of the floor to be safe.

“Could we sneak into Rosier’s bedroom and steal her key?” Sirius asked, staring at the floor.

“No. We don’t know what it is, and it would only allow one of us to safely pass through the curses.” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “Let’s move. Keep an eye out for house-elves.”

The library would be in a room facing the courtyard, Hermione thought. Rosier wouldn’t want to risk anyone catching a glimpse from outside, and natural light would have been desirable at the time it was built.

“Looks like all doors are trapped. Fortunately, this isn’t the work of a professional Curse-Breaker,” Mr Fletcher commented after he had studied the closest doors. “Rosier must have done this herself.”

It still took Hermione two more minutes to get through the next door, only to discover a simple guest room - unused, and covered in dust. At least it looked like a guest room - it was far too impersonal for a room in which someone had lived. “It doesn’t look like there are elves working here,” she commented. And the furniture didn’t look valuable either.

“Don’t assume that,” Sirius whispered. “Kreacher didn’t clean the rooms he didn’t think were needed either. Old elves get… eccentric.”

She frowned, both at being corrected by the dog and at the thought of another elf like Kreacher.

“Keep an eye out then!” Mr Fletcher told him, floating towards the next door already. “I’ll take this one.” He turned his head and addressed her. “Take the next one.”

She nodded and passed him, reaching the last door before the corner. It was another dusty guest room - eerily similar to the first, down to the same pictures on the walls.

Mr Fletcher hadn’t had any luck either. “Let’s take the north side.” The rooms there would have the most light - if the windows weren’t covered with drapes. But Hermione would have preferred the evening sun shining through the windows of her library, had she lived here. That meant the library would also be close to the main bedroom.

The rooms on the north side of the courtyard were a bust as well. Abandoned children’s rooms, or so Sirius claimed. Hermione couldn’t tell - they were dusty and empty. And that had cost them more time. It was well past midnight now. Dawn was still three hours away, Hermione told herself, and rushing such work was a very bad idea. She couldn’t help feeling that they were on the clock, though. And lying on the planks was rather uncomfortable. She should prepare padded ones for the next time they were needed. Maybe enchant them in advance - keeping them floating was tiring her as well.

A large door barred the way to the east side of the building. It took Mr Fletcher ten minutes to get through the spells protecting it, too.

“I don’t like this,” Sirius muttered.

“We can’t rush this,” Hermione told him.

“Not that. It’s too easy. If Rosier really is paranoid and expects her own family to come after her, then the hallways should have been guarded by more than just the floor traps. My mother wouldn’t have trusted one set of curses - she would have used three different traps.”

Hermione was glad she had never met Walburga Black, not even her portrait. “Rosier might not have been able to do more than this,” she ventured.

He scoffed. “She would have been taught, in my family, no matter her talent.”

Which meant he had been taught as well, Hermione thought. “She’s not a member of your family,” she remarked.

“She could have been, though.” He bared his teeth. “The whole manor reminds me of home, before I cleaned it up. And we had more traps to deal with than this. Far more traps.”

“Your folks were crazy,” Mr Fletcher whispered. “Most people want to be able to live in their homes without having to dodge their own traps in every room.”

“Point,” Sirius admitted.

“Mind ya, doesn’t mean the library won’t be packed full of dark curses,” her tutor added. “Especially if it’s full of illegal books as well. Far easier to claim she had no clue what books were stored there if she can blame her late husband for the curses too.” He took a deep breath. “And we’re in.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise after she saw the hallway behind the door. The walls were covered with tapestries. Old, expensive ones. And unless she was mistaken, those were Ming vases lining the walls.

She knew that they had to stay undetected and just grab the tomes Dumbledore wanted, maybe framing Aaron Rosier for it if they couldn’t cover up the books’ disappearance, before vanishing without anyone being the wiser, but… She really wanted the other books and the furniture, too!

On second thought, seeing as every tapestry and vase in range of her spell was cursed, maybe she could skip the furniture this time.

“Don’t touch anything!” Mr Fletcher whispered. “Haven’t seen so many curses in a single hallway in a while.”

“Reminds me of home.” Sirius had to upstage him, of course.

They moved on, floating in the middle of the hallway. Hermione couldn’t see any spells on the ceiling, but the stucco there didn’t seem to be sturdy, so anyone clinging to it would likely fall to the ground with parts of the ceiling stuck to them.

They turned the corner, and Hermione once again found herself almost blinded when she glanced at the two doors facing each other there. “If that’s the library, then Rosier really doesn’t want anyone to be able to enter,” she whispered.

“And the same goes for her bedroom,” Sirius added.

“I’m clearing a way,” Mr Fletcher said. “We’re running short of time.”

Hermione bit her lower lip so she wouldn’t complain - she hated being sidelined, but Mr Fletcher was correct; she wasn’t as experienced as he was, and she would take more time to deal with the curses. At least watching him deal with the overlapping curses protecting the two doors was both interesting and enlightening.

“It’s all about the pattern,” he whispered - he must have noticed her staring. “Find it, and you can stretch or rip it.”

“Easier said than done,” the dog cut in.

Neither Hermione nor Mr Fletcher contradicted him. Her tutor was mumbling as he worked, and she could see sweat running down the parts of his face not covered by his mask; he was breathing heavily as well. She feared that he might be pushing himself too much. But they needed this tome.

By the time they floated in front of what Hermione was now certain was the library, Mr Fletcher looked like he would collapse any moment. “I’ll do the door,” she said, swallowing as she moved her wand.

“No!” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “I’ll handle it.”

“You’re close to collapsing,” Sirius cut in. “Let her open the door.”

“And exhaust herself as well? Someone will have to deal with the curses inside, and she’s the best among us.”

“I’ve been clearing out an entire house filled with curses,” Sirius said in a rather petulant-sounding voice.

“Not like this,” Mr Fletcher retorted. He closed his eyes. “I just need a moment.”

Hermione clenched her teeth, then inched forward a little. She could at least study the spells on the door. Just in case.

The moment stretched into ten minutes before Mr Fletcher felt ready to start dismantling the spells on the door. He worked quickly, though - Hermione almost missed him dealing with a rather nasty cascading curse array.

But she didn’t miss the door swinging open, revealing half a dozen shelves surrounding a desk covered with notes. The shelves were full of books.

And each of them seemed to be cursed.

*****

Hermione stared at the shelves, mind racing as she studied the curses. They had the same trigger as the curses on the floor. And they weren’t particularly hard to break. She knew how to do so. Her tutor also knew how, of course. But… around twenty books per row, six rows per shelf and six shelves was roughly seven hundred and twenty books. Few of them had their title on their spine, so in order to find the book they wanted, they would have to check almost every book, which meant they would need to break almost every curse. Even if they rushed that would take hours. Hours they didn’t have.

She bit her lower lip as she tried to find another solution. Maybe the Summoning Charm would work… The books in the Hogwarts library were protected against it - she had found that out during one of her summer visits. According to Dumbledore, this had been done so students couldn’t summon books being used by others. That wouldn’t be a concern for a private personal library - Hermione’s future library would allow her to quickly summon any book she needed. But while the curses might not be triggered if the book were summoned, they would certainly be triggered if it were touched. So she would have to summon the book in question, but end the spell before the book reached her… Provided that the curse wasn’t triggered by a Summoning Charm. And that Rosier hadn’t protected her library so the very illegal books they were seeking couldn’t easily be found. Which, seeing as the witch had cursed every single book of her library, was only too likely. She shook her head - that plan was too dangerous.

She could only see one practical solution. She glanced at Mr Fletcher. He had the most experience. Maybe he...

He sighed. “We’ll need the key item,” he answered her unspoken question. So, he didn’t see any other way either.

Sirius looked at the door to Rosier’s bedroom. “Breaking through that door seems to be more difficult than breaking the curses on the books. More dangerous too,” he added.

“We don’t have the time.” Mr Fletcher was already guiding his plank towards the door. “I’ll work on the door.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Break the curses on the floor. Just in case.”

Hermione understood. Just in case there would be a fight. She pressed her lips together and floated closer to the ground. Behind her, Sirius was muttering a few curses.

It took her longer than she had thought it would to deal with the curses on the floor - the curses on the tapestries were linked to them. But she did it. Smiling behind her mask, she announced: “I’m done.”

“Almost done too,” Mr Fletcher responded. He was sweating profusely.

And the dog was eyeing the floor as if he doubted her! Frowning, she slid off her plank and stood on the ground, baring her teeth at him. “It’s perfectly safe,” she whispered, so as not to distract her tutor.

The dog grumbled, but followed her example.

The two of them stood around with their wands out for another five tense minutes, until Mr Fletcher sighed and seemed to sag. “Curses ‘ave been dealt with,” he said. After a moment, he, too, stood up and descended to the ground. “Alright. Don’t kill her - we need her to find the key item.”

And killing Rosier would mean their break-in would definitely be noticed. Unlike if they obliviated the witch. Hermione gripped her wand more tightly as Sirius stepped up to the door.

He glanced at her, then at Mr Fletcher. “Watch our back,” he said as he took a step to the side of the door where the hinges were.

Hermione mirrored him on the other side. She looked at him, wand raised. He nodded and she pointed her wand at the lock. A flick later, the handle turned and the door slowly swung open into Rosier’s bedroom. She took a deep breath and waited, glancing at Sirius. He nodded at her, then took a step forward.

And a green spell flew through the gap, barely missing him.

Hermione gasped - a Killing Curse! Rosier was truly deranged - but her wand was already moving, and she completed her Shield Charm. Across from her, Sirius snarled and responded with a curse she didn’t recognise before pressing himself against the wall.

Mr Fletcher had thrown himself to the side, out of the line of fire, and when Hermione glanced back at him she could see that he was slow to get back up. She started to move towards him, but he waved her off. “I’m not hurt.”

Exhausted, then, she thought. She bit her lower lip and moved back to the door, taking a deep breath. More curses flew out of Rosier’s bedroom, slamming into a stone wall Sirius had conjured. Rock fragments and splinters hit her Shield Charm, causing her to flinch despite them being deflected harmlessly.

She had to support Sirius. That meant exposing herself even though her Shield Charm wouldn’t protect her against a Killing Curse. Should she go high or low? Low, she thought, crouching down. More curses flew through the doorway, from both sides. She had to act now, while Rosier was focused on Sirius. If only she was left-handed - being right-handed, her current position meant that she’d have to expose herself fully to cast at the witch inside.

Before she could move, though, Mr Fletcher yelled. “Behind us!”

She whirled around and saw that the tapestries they had passed on the way in were coming alive - tigers, lions, bears and wolves, as well as armored knights, appearing in the hallway, advancing on them.

Sirius had noticed the danger as well. “Keep the door sealed!” he yelled.

She glanced back at him as he flicked his wand, stone filling the doorway. Then she had to dive to the side as a tiger pounced on her, its claws missing her by inches as they slid off her Shield Charm. As she had trained to with Sirius, she rolled and came up with her wand already moving. “Finite!”

The tiger disappeared. But more animals and knights were appearing. She dispelled another tiger as Mr Fletcher covered part of the floor with sticky glue, halting their advance for a moment. Hermione was about to take advantage of that when the stone wall behind her started to break under Rosier’s assault. Once more she whirled, reinforcing the wall as splinters bounced off her shield. It wouldn’t hold up for long, though.

And neither would Mr Fletcher, she realised, glancing over her shoulder. He had trapped the first wave of animals, but the next wave were using them as stepping stones, clearing the area covered in glue with long leaps. Hermione caught a wolf in mid-jump with a Banishing Charm, slamming it against a knight trying to climb over a stuck bear. Both toppled over and became stuck.

But two more wolves had made it through, and one came straight at her. Her Shield Charm held, but she was pushed back. She hissed at the slobbering canine and cast a Piercing Curse straight down its gaping maw. The animal collapsed with blood pouring out its mouth, but more were coming. Mr Fletcher had managed to cast a Shield Charm himself, but he was all but buried under a lion and a bear and his spell wouldn’t hold out much longer.

And neither would she, Hermione realised, as she faced two wolves and a lion. And Rosier was battering the stone wall behind her. Sirius, under attack on the other side of the hallway, yelled about burning the animals.

The lion pounced, and she threw herself to the side - she couldn’t risk her Shield Charm against such a massive beast. One wolf jumped at her before she could get up again, and her shield barely stopped the animal from mauling her. A Banishing Charm sent it back, blocking the other wolf’s approach, but the lion had recovered, and this time she couldn’t get away in time.

Claws scraped over her shield, shattering it, and the animal crashed into her, roaring as its fangs bore down towards her face. Hermione didn’t think, she simply reacted - and changed. The lion’s fangs smashed into the stone floor when she suddenly shrank in size, and Hermione scrambled out from underneath the yowling cat. She changed back and dispelled it, but the threads into which the lion returned hadn’t even touched the ground before a wolf knocked her down. Flailing, she managed to block its jaws from ripping her throat out with her left arm, before blowing its head off with a Blasting Curse, splattering blood all over herself.

And then she screamed with pain when the second wolf bit down on her leg. She tried to curse the animal, but it shook its head with her leg still caught in its jaws, and the pain stopped any attempt at casting. She managed, mostly by accident, to kick the wolf as she once more flailed, and it let her go, its maw trailing blood - her blood - only for the animal to lunge for her throat instead.

She raised her arms to protect herself, to banish it again, but she was too slow and the wolf too fast. Instead of white fangs, though, blood and gore hit her, blinding her momentarily.

“Got it!” she heard Sirius yell. “She’s hurt! Get up!”

She wiped the wolf’s remains off her mask with a quick Cleaning Charm and was about to tell him that she was trying, but had a mauled leg, when the stone wall filling the doorway turned into a wave of blood that splashed on to the floor and rushed towards her and her friends.

A wedge-shaped dam of stone rose to meet it halfway, shielding them from the blood. Which was, Hermione realised, leaving sizzling trails on the ground as if it were acid.

“Episkey! Get up! Get up!”

The pain was… lessened. Hermione glanced at her leg. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. Sirius had mostly healed it. She rolled on to her stomach and started to stand up. Next to her, Mr Fletcher was groaning, but not moving.

But Rosier was moving - she could see the witch in the doorway, wand flashing. She flattened herself, but she wasn’t the target. Mr Fletcher was, and a curse struck him directly.

He started to scream - and stood up, moving jerkily. “She’s controlling me!” he yelled, his arms windmilling as he charged Sirius - who simply sidestepped him, and sent a curse at Rosier that missed, but sent the witch back into the bedroom.

For a moment, Hermione was frozen. Should she try to help her tutor, or Sirius? Another curse shot out of the bedroom and splashed against the ceiling, and acid blood started to rain down. Hermione darted behind the remains of the dam and flicked her wand. “Avis!”

A flock of birds appeared and flew into the bedroom, at the witch. Using the distraction, Hermione changed and raced after them, jumping over the puddles of acid on the floor. A curse missed her, blowing up part of the door’s frame, and then she was inside, skidding over the polished stone floor until her claws found purchase on a thick carpet. Another curse flew at her, and she ducked under the bed, then changed direction, as Harry had taught her.

She slid out from underneath the bed on the same side and changed back, casting as soon as her wand appeared. Her Stunner was stopped by Rosier’s Shield Charm, though, and the witch was casting as well, her wand flicking until it pointed directly at Hermione, its tip lighting up. She ducked, changing again, and the armoire behind her blew up, splinters digging into her fur and making her yowl in pain.

This time she went straight ahead, straight towards the witch, clearing the bed and leaping at Rosier, changing as she pounced - only to crash into the witch’s Shield Charm and slide off. She rolled and rolled, coming up in a crouch, and kept moving as she cast a Shield Charm of her own.

And Rosier was down, on the ground, after having been smashed into the wall behind her. Hermione glanced at the doorway. Sirius was standing there, smoke rising from where acid blood had splattered his clothes, his wand still aimed at Rosier.

*****

Ten minutes later, the situation was under control. Rosier was secured, the animals had been dealt with, and they hadn’t found any other traps. Mr Fletcher had collapsed at the same time Rosier had been stunned - after her Shield Charm had been shattered by smashing her into the wall - and Hermione Granger had spent a few minutes frantically casting spells until she was reasonably certain that whatever curse had hit him wasn’t about to kill him.

“My limbs were movin’ by themselves,” he managed to say. “’Urt like ’ell.”

Hermione nodded - he was covered with bruises. She hadn’t found any life-threatening internal bleeding, but a Blood-Replenishing Potion was advisable anyway. Just in case.

“I’ve secured Rosier,” Sirius announced. Looking around, he added: “What a mess.”

“And you’ll have to fix it,” Mr Fletcher said.

“What?” Sirius stared at him.

“We’ll interrogate the witch. Find out if she called the Aurors - not that I expect her to let anyone enter, Aurors or not - then where the books are and how to get them.” Hermione’s tutor groaned as he pulled out a vial. Veritaserum. “You need to fix the place up. We need to cover this up.”

Sirius blinked, then sighed, but didn’t argue. Not that he could have, anyway - Mr Fletcher was too exhausted to be able to focus on repairing things and Hermione was the obvious choice to recover the books they needed. That left him to clean up.

As Sirius started to fix the hallway, Mr Fletcher mumbled: “I got sloppy. Musta missed an alarm.”

Hermione shook her head. “In a manner of speaking.” She nodded at the door, then used her wand to swing it around a little until they could see the other side. “She had a string stuck to it, which would ring a bell next to her bed when the door was opened. Presumably with a spell on it to avoid alerting us.”

“Foiled by a muggle trick.” Mr Fletcher started to laugh, but ended up coughing - he wasn’t fine, despite his claims, Hermione thought. But he couldn’t rest - they had a mission to complete.

And he knew it as well. He stood. “Let’s wake her up.”

*****

Half an hour later, Hermione Granger was feeling slightly nauseous. What Rosier had revealed under the effect of the Veritaserum… She shook her head. The witch hadn’t been hiding a library her late husband had acquired to protect his reputation - she had been protecting herself. She was a practitioner of blood magic. Fortunately, not a very talented one, mostly focused on enhancing - or changing - her own body. If she had been more skilled, more experienced, if she had used blood magic in the traps outside her bedroom, then things would have gone considerably worse for the three of them.

But, even taking the fight into account, things had gone reasonably well. Hermione glanced at the - in her opinion rather too small - pile of books that they had recovered thanks to Rosier’s enchanted necklace, which neutralised the curses. If only they could have taken more of the books. Or had the time to break the spells preventing them from being duplicated. To leave poor, defenceless books in the hands of such a witch… But Hermione’s proposal to loot the entire library and cover it up with a fire had been shot down by the other two as too suspicious.

Pouting, she watched as Sirius rearranged Rosier’s memories. “It won’t be perfect,” she pointed out, still slightly resentful. “She’ll notice some discrepancies over time.” Sirius shot her a look full of wounded pride. She sighed. “No matter how good you are, Rosier will probably suspect something has happened when she suddenly can’t remember the very books she’d used to learn some of her spells.”

“She’ll probably blame Aaron, or another of her relatives,” Mr Fletcher said. He was looking better than he had half an hour previously. He hadn’t been fazed by the description of the late Mr Rosier’s actual death, either.

“Probably,” Hermione repeated, pouting. It wasn’t certain.

“Probably.” He nodded at her. “And if it happens, it’ll happen quite a long time from now.”

Too late to affect the current conflict. Probably.

Hermione sighed and stashed the books in her enchanted pocket. She hadn’t been allowed to copy them either. Even though some of the spells Rosier had mentioned during her interrogation sounded harmless and very useful. For disguises.

At least, she thought, patting her pocket, she had managed to copy the book in which Rosier had found that ‘Tapestry-to-Tigers Spell’ without anyone else noticing. And she had pocketed another Knut as a souvenir. And a few more trinkets Rosier wouldn’t miss once Sirius was done with her.

A fire would have been far more profitable, though.

*****

**Hogwarts, August 4th, 1996**

“You have done very well, Sirius, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore beamed at them. “The Tome of Blood,” he continued, looking at the old book on his desk. His smile faded. “To think Serena had delved into such matters…” He slowly shook his head. “She should have known better.”

Sirius scoffed. “That book had better be worth all the trouble we went to. Not only did Rosier almost kill us, but I had to spend hours fixing her ugly manor.”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at the dog’s hyperbole, then felt guilty for thinking ill of him - he had saved her life, twice, after all. But then, she had provided the distraction that had allowed him to take down Rosier. And they were all in this together - Mr Fletcher, Sirius, and herself. A team.

That still didn’t mean that the dog should behave like that towards the Headmaster. She glanced at her partner and nominal employer. “It was at most one hour. There wasn’t that much damage.”

“It felt longer,” he retorted.

“I bet it did.”

He frowned at that. “What do you mean?”

“It was work after all.” She smiled sweetly at him, the implications clear.

“Ah, yes!” He grinned shamelessly, acting as if her admonishment was a compliment.

Before she could tell him off, Dumbledore spoke up. “It seems that Poppy has finished examining Mundungus.”

A moment later, the door opened, and Hermione’s tutor shuffled inside. “Still not done? Just had to drop the books off.”

“I just complimented their work.”

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “Was hard enough. I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

“I daresay that even a much younger man would have been exhausted, had he been in your place,” Dumbledore said.

Her tutor grunted in response. “Are we done then?”

“With this mission, or in general?” the Headmaster asked.

“Both.”

“Yes to the first, but unless things go unexpectedly smoothly, I suspect that there will be further occasions on which your unique skillset is needed.”

“I figured.” Mr Fletcher sat down on one of the free chairs. “You goin’ to study the books, then?”

Dumbledore didn’t say anything. He simply raised one eyebrow slightly.

Her tutor snorted. “Right. It’s a secret. As if we couldn’t tell. You don’t recover books from your enemy unless you want to study them. You destroy them instead.”

Hermione thought so as well, but she also knew that Dumbledore would never admit that - it was safer that way for everyone.

Mr Fletcher stood up. “Well, let’s head home and go to bed. You’re officially still visiting your sick grand-uncle, after all.”

“You’re a good replacement - you look like you need to be nursed back to health,” Sirius cut in. Mr Fletcher didn’t bother with a reply. “I, on the other hand… Harry will suspect that I was on a mission for you,” he said to Dumbledore.

“Harry won’t be a problem,” Hermione said. “But what about Jeanne?”

Sirius shook his head. “She knows I’m working with Dumbledore. I’m not even lying. Technically.”

“All night?” Hermione had her doubts.

“It’s Dumbledore,” the dog said, as if that explained it.

Hermione hoped that he was right.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 5th, 1996**

“Good morning, Hermione!” Harry Potter tried to sound as cheerful as he could. His best female friend wasn’t a morning person. And today she seemed to be worse than usual - she looked barely awake.

“Morning,” Hermione mumbled in response and almost stumbled into the kitchen table.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked.

“Just a little tired,” she answered. “I didn’t sleep well.” She sat down and grabbed the teapot.

“It wasn’t because of our training, was it?” He had insisted that they do their daily training when she had returned from visiting her grand-uncle yesterday evening, which, in hindsight, probably hadn’t been a good idea since she had arrived rather late and he had been a little rough.

“No.” She shook her head. “Just a nightmare.” She reached for the croissants, and Harry caught her hesitating and wincing when she reached towards the blood orange juice.

So she wasn’t as fine as she claimed. Hadn’t she rolled rather hard over that shoulder yesterday evening? He suppressed a frown. Moody was fond of the saying ‘No pain, no gain’, but that didn’t mean you had to suffer after a training session. “Are you certain?”

She glared at him. “I think I would know if I were hurting.”

She would - but would she tell him? Harry hesitated. Hermione was sensible. She wouldn’t lie to him, would she? Even if she thought it would make her look weak? She was quite competitive, after all, and might conceal an injury.

He hesitated again. He could check, of course. Without her knowing. Just a little tap on his glasses. It wouldn’t be peeping. Just checking that she was alright. It was for her own good, after all - she did look bad this morning.

He waited until she was reading the Prophet, then tapped the frame of his glasses.

And he had to correct himself. She didn’t look bad at all. And she wasn’t hiding bruises under her clothes. Or anything else.

*****

 


	23. Summer’s End

**Hogsmeade, Britain, August 10th, 1996**

Standing behind the bar, Aberforth Dumbledore looked up when he heard the the front door of his inn open, then narrowed his eyes. There were few people he loathed seeing more than the one who had just entered. His brother.

“We’re closed,” he snapped. His left hand gripped the edge of the bar.

“The door was open.” Albus smiled patronisingly at him.

Aberforth raised his wand. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know.” His brother seemed to ignore his wand as he stepped closer. Aberforth wanted to curse him. “I would not have come to visit you if it were not important.”

“I don’t care. Get out!” Aberforth spat.

In response, Albus slowly drew his wand. Aberforth tensed. If he actually tried…

“I am simply ensuring our privacy.” And his brother cast a Mufflatio Charm with that patronising smile Aberforth hated so much.

“I don’t care if the whole village knows that I loathe you.” Aberforth glared at him. The whole village probably knew it, anyway.

“It is not about that.” Albus’s smile might have slipped, just a little. Then it vanished entirely. “Voldemort is back.”

Aberforth drew a hissing breath. If the Dark Lord had returned… “The blood murders?” He lowered his wand, but kept ahold of it.

Albus nodded. “Exactly.”

“You’ve known that he was back for a while, then.” And he hadn’t told him.

“Yes, I did.”

“Didn’t trust me, did you?” Aberforth scoffed. Of course Albus wouldn’t trust him, not when he was one of the few willing to defy him.

“I did not trust you to keep it a secret.” Albus inclined his head.

“You didn’t want me to warn my friends.” His brother had never cared for Aberforth’s ‘milieu’, but to go that far… Albus certainly hadn’t left his oh-so-noble and law-abiding friends in the dark.

“They might have, inadvertently or not, tipped off Voldemort that I was aware of his return,” Albus said. A likely excuse.

“And that has changed?” Aberforth narrowed his eyes.

His brother sighed. “The situation has changed. Whereas before, I expected him to go to ground if discovered, I believe now that he will intensify his efforts to conquer Britain instead.”

Aberforth snorted. “Half the Ministry will support him anyway.”

“I do not think that things are as dire as that,” Albus retorted. “But I do concede that he has enough support among certain parts of the Ministry to risk an open confrontation.”

“Which is what you want.” Aberforth knew his brother very well.

Once more Albus nodded.

“And why come to me? Are you planning to use my friends for your plots?” If he expected any of them to run to the Dark Lord, Albus would be disappointed - Aberforth’s friends didn’t like Death Eaters either.

“Not particularly. Whether or not your ‘friends’ deserve your trust will not affect my plans.”

Aberforth scoffed. “And yet you’ll use them, if you can.”

“I took their actions into account when making my plans.”

Aberforth forced himself not to lift his wand and curse his brother. To admit his callous thoughts so openly… “So why have you come bothering me, if you don’t need a few expendable gutter-rats for your plots?”

Albus sighed and leaned against the bar. “Researching the Dark Lord’s means to survive what would have killed anyone else, I found myself contemplating my own mortality.”

“You think he might kill you.”

A not quite shrug was his brother’s answer. “I would be a fool to assume that my victory was assured when facing such an accomplished enemy.”

“Like when you were facing your old love?” Aberforth smirked at the wince that caused. He could still hurt his brother.

Albus recovered quickly, though. With a faint smile, he responded. “I will not have to deal with lingering sentiments in this case.”

“But you think you might die, and you crave absolution.” Aberforth sneered at his brother.

“It has been over eighty years since she died.” Albus was pleading now.

Aberforth scoffed. “And my answer is the same as fifty years ago: Not in your lifetime, Albus! You and your plans killed her. And I’ll never forgive you for that.”

“It might have been your spell that killed her,” Albus said, then pressed his lips together as if he regretted his words.

Aberforth didn’t care. To accuse him of that, to blame him for Albus’s sins… He lifted his wand, rage filling him. “Get out, or I’ll kill you myself!”

Albus nodded and left without another word. Once the door closed behind him, Aberforth forced himself to relax and put his wand down. The nerve of his brother! Shaking his head, he summoned his own personal bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky.

He needed more than one drink after this, or he might curse the face off the next bugger who annoyed him.

*****

**London, East End, August 10th, 1996**

“It’s been a week and we haven’t received another mission!”

Hermione Granger briefly rolled her eyes, but otherwise didn’t react to Sirius’s outburst. She had studying to do - the Rosier mission, for all that it had been successful, had taught her that she still had a lot to learn before she could break into the manor of an Old Family. And not simply about Curse-Breaking to get through the wards - she suppressed a shudder, thinking at how close she had come to death at the hands of that madwoman.

“Be glad, Black. We barely survived that last mission,” Mr Fletcher said.

“Oh, please! Rosier wasn’t even close to being a skilled duellist - or a talented witch.” Sirius sneered. “She spent months casting curses on every inch of her home, and she learned a little blood magic and the Killing Curse, but she didn’t really know how to fight. If you hadn’t been exhausted from dealing with all those curses, she wouldn’t have hit you either.”

“The reason I was exhausted was that her preparations did work,” Mr Fletcher shot back. “Just like with her muggle alarm trick - if it works, it’s not stupid.”

Hermione pressed her lips together to refrain from correcting Mr Fletcher’s mangled saying. She didn’t want to get involved in the dispute, but the two wizards were glaring at each other. So she spoke up: “I think it’s rather hypocritical of a bigoted member of an Old Family to resort to muggle solutions to make up for their shortcomings.”

Both men turned to look at her. Sirius snorted. “Pureblood bigots like my family are hypocrites. If it provides them with an advantage they will use it, no matter who invented it. Why do you think my family maintained extensive business ties to muggles until mother terminated them?”

But Mr Fletcher shook his head. “We shouldn’t blame others for problems our own arrogance caused. We can’t underestimate them.” He sighed. “And we shouldn’t overestimate ourselves.”

“Speak for yourself!” Sirius retorted. “I don’t do that.”

Hermione coughed while Mr Fletcher snorted. The dog looked affronted. “You’re just jealous that I, as the most skilled fighter, had to save you again.”

“You would have been cursed by the very first trap if we hadn’t dealt with it,” Mr Fletcher told him.

“I’ve dealt with such curses before.”

“Really? I didn’t see you dealing with any of the curses there.” Mr Fletcher scoffed.

“I didn’t want to make you feel even more useless than you already did,” Sirius retorted.

Hermione hissed. This was getting too personal. “None of us would have been able to complete - or survive - the mission by ourselves.” Dear lord, she thought, that sounded so clichéd. It was true, though. “So, can you stop arguing and let me get back to studying?”

The dog pouted. “I’m still bored.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “You can go over the dossier for next week’s Wizengamot session, then.”

“I’m not that bored. You can give me the gist of it later.”

She counted to ten in her head. Then she started an impromptu Defence lesson. With a surprise attack.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 11th, 1996**

He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. Harry Potter was well aware of that. On the other hand, Harry had no doubt that Moody would never let a little guilt about seeing your best friend naked stop him from using his enchanted eye to check for ambushes. Constant Vigilance!

He tapped the frame of his glasses. Then he closed his eyes. What was he thinking? He was at home, in his kitchen. There were no ambushes in Grimmauld Place. Not any more, at least, after the last of the curses left by Sirius’s mother had been dealt with. No, he had to be honest with himself. He wasn’t checking for ambushes. He was peeping. At his best female friend.

“Harry? Are you alright?”

He jerked and found himself face to face with Hermione. “What?” She had managed to surprise him. Moody would kill him.

“You had your eyes closed and seemed to be troubled. Is anything wrong?”

“No, no. I was just a little tired.” He was lying. And peeping. But he couldn’t turn his glasses off right now. Not when Hermione was watching him so closely.

“Did you have trouble sleeping?” She was leaning forward and he could see… her hand, before she put it on his forehead.

“A little.” Technically, it was true.

She withdrew her hand. “You don’t have a fever. But you look tired.”

He blinked, and forced himself to look at her face. “Don’t you have a spell to check?” he asked with a grin. “Or did you simply want to touch me?”

She snorted. “You don’t have to use magic for everything.” But she drew her wand and cast a spell. “No fever, but your temperature is a little above normal.”

Of course it was - he was staring at her body. Hermione wasn’t the most beautiful witch he had ever seen - that was Fleur Delacour, of course - and she didn’t have the figure of... Lavender, but she had a nice body nevertheless. Certainly a better body than Ginny. Or Parvati. Probably - Parvati would have grown up a little since they had broken up. Athletic, with well-toned legs and arms. She wouldn’t look out of place in the Hogwarts Quidditch locker room, he thought.

“Harry!”

He jerked again and stared at her. “What?”

“You were spacing out again. I’m getting Sirius!” Hermione stood and turned. “Stay here!”

He nodded, looking at her backside until she left the kitchen. Then he sighed and clenched his teeth.

He wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to Sirius.

*****

Harry Potter had waited for barely more than a few minutes - long enough to finish his tea - when he heard Hermione’s voice.

“...and he was falling asleep again while I was talking to him! I don’t know what the Headmaster is doing with him, but he needs rest!”

A moment later, she entered the kitchen with Sirius in tow. His godfather’s look of concern rapidly gave way to bemusement when he saw Harry.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “The tea helped.” He pointed at the pot on the table.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and flicked her wand - she was casting another spell to check his health, he realised. The results didn’t seem to please her, though - she frowned. “You didn’t take a Pepper-Up Potion, did you? Those shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

“I didn’t!” he protested. “I just needed a little more time to wake up fully.”

“While you were eating breakfast?” Hermione sounded as doubtful as McGonagall when Harry had asked for more supplies for ‘Quidditch team building’ last year.

He had to change tack. “Well… I was preoccupied. I had some bad dreams, and…” He spread his hands. “Dumbledore isn’t pushing me, but the whole thing... it’s never far from my mind, you know? I can’t really talk about it with anyone, either.”

She nodded with such an expression of understanding that he felt a stab of guilt for lying to her. And for peeping at her. “I’m sorry,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “I was simply worried about you.”

“As was I,” Sirius cut in, but he was grinning widely behind Hermione’s back. “You know, you can always talk to me, even if you can’t go into details.”

“And to me,” Hermione was quick to add.

Harry forced himself to smile. “Thank you.”

*****

“So, what had you so distracted that Hermione thought you needed help?”

Harry Potter, sitting in the living room and listening to the wireless, winced on hearing Sirius’s question. “Don’t you have work to do?” he asked, smiling weakly at his godfather, who was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

Sirius snorted. “I pushed that on to Hermione, which also should keep her too busy to interrupt us.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “So?”

Harry sighed. “You know, I am working with Dumbledore on a secret project.” Even if ‘working’ was a little misleading when all that he was doing, other than keeping his Occlumency skills sharp, was letting Dumbledore examine his scar.

“Yes. But unlike Hermione, I am quite familiar with the expression you had at breakfast. James looked the same when he was lying.”

And here Harry had thought that Snape hating him was the worst consequence of looking like his dad.

“Can’t fool your godfather, Harry!” Sirius grinned and sat down in the seat opposite Harry’s. “So, spill! Tell your godfather what was so… distracting… that you ignored a pretty girl talking to you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “She surprised me after I had activated the enchantment on my glasses.” He didn’t have to say which enchantment.

Sirius laughed. “Ah… ogled her, did you?”

“Accidentally.” Which was true. Even if he had been planning to check her out.

“Sure, sure.” His godfather grinned. “So, finally realised she’s a pretty witch with a hot body?”

Harry glared at him. “And why would you know that?”

“From your reaction, of course.” Sirius’s grin grew wider as he leaned back. “And I saw James’s expression after we had enchanted the mirrors in the girls’ bathroom at Hogwarts and Lily took a shower.”

Harry briefly wondered if he could blame his dad’s genes for his own actions. “It’s not like that.” Sirius raised his eyebrows, and Harry sighed. “I didn’t want to ogle her like that.”

Sirius nodded. “Much too obvious. If she hadn’t been so worried about you, she might have hexed you.”

Harry clenched his teeth to suppress his guilty feelings. “Moody said to always be on your guard. To never assume that you were safe.”

Sirius beamed at him. “That’s a great excuse!”

“It’s true.” Harry glared at him. It wasn’t like that!

“Even better.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me not to abuse my friend’s trust like that?”

“You already feel guilty about it, so that would be pointless. Besides, everyone does it once they learn the Disillusionment Charm.” Sirius blinked. “Or was that James’s Cloak? Anyway, it’s basically harmless. If it weren’t, the Quidditch Team wouldn’t share a locker room.”

“So, are you telling me to just keep peeping at her?” Harry couldn’t tell if his godfather was serious.

“Of course not! Now that you know that she can ‘distract’ you, you should ask her for a date!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? She’s your best friend, she’s pretty, both of you are single and you live together - it’s the perfect setup!”

“First, she doesn’t like me like that,” Harry pointed out - not for the first time, “or she would have said something.” He continued before Sirius could once again claim that his best friend was shy instead of bossy: “And we won’t be living together once term starts in September.” He wouldn’t act like Seamus.

“You can meet during the Hogsmeade weekends.”

“Once a month?” He didn’t think that was often enough for a relationship. And they would have to rent a room... and people would know... He shook his head. “No, we wouldn’t have a future.”

“We’re talking about dating a witch, Harry. Not about marriage. Live a little!” Sirius smiled at him. “You’re too serious.”

“I won’t use her like that - she’s my best friend.” He didn’t want to risk losing her friendship after a breakup. And she probably could find some really nasty hexes in Sirius’s library.

His godfather shrugged. “If you say so. Plenty of witches at Hogwarts, right? Well, not the Slytherins - can’t trust them. Although I guess that’s a good reason for checking what they are hiding under their robes.”

In hindsight, Harry should have expected this from his godfather.

*****

Hermione Granger was sorting through the latest acquisitions to her growing magical library in its temporary home in Grimmauld Place’s basement when the dog disturbed her.

“Ah, there you are!”

She glanced at the dog as she slid another copied book into its proper spot on the shelf. “Yes?”

He looked around as if he were seeing her library for the first time. “Did you add a shelf?”

“Yes.” Of course she had added a shelf - she had to. Anyway, he could easily extend his basement.

He blinked. “You sound as if you were angry with me.”

“Really?” She put as much sarcasm into her words as possible. “And what possible reason would I have to angry with you?”

He shrugged. “Several? That’s why I’m asking.”

“Several?” And the dog was acting as if that were no reason for concern.

“You’re often angry.”

“With you.” And with good reason.

He frowned. “Shouldn’t you still be working on the latest proposal for the Wizengamot?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “I think that requires your personal touch at this point.” Try to foist it off on me, would you?

His frown deepened. “Is that why you’re angry? You’re supposed to love being able to influence the Wizengamot’s policies!”

She sniffed. “Not when it’s a blatant attempt to keep me busy.” And away from Harry.

“Ah!” He smiled at her. “Saw through that, did you?”

“Yes.” She tapped her wand on her reading desk. “What did he say?”

Sirius waved his hand. “It was just boy talk.”

“Boy talk.” She narrowed her eyes at the dog. “Really.”

“Really.” He nodded. “We talked about witches, and their bodies, and dating.”

“Oh.” She was still a little sceptical - the dog had that expression on his face he often had when he was not telling the full truth - but it made sense. Even though Harry had had two girlfriends, and should be well aware of the facts of life and relationships - she had also discussed that topic with him, after all. But he was still rather young, and his breakup with Ginny was rather recent.

“I sorted him out,” Sirius said, sitting down in her favorite armchair and crossing his legs. “He was far too serious.”

“He’s just being sensible,” she defended her friend. “Which is a good thing in his situation.” If he were acting like Seamus… she shuddered at the thought. She didn’t know why the dog was laughing at that, but she didn’t like it. “Was that all?” Had he really come to bother her just to tell her that he had had another talk with Harry?

“Ah, not exactly.” He frowned. “What was I…” Snapping his fingers, he exclaimed. “Ah! I was wondering if you had found a solution to protecting your mask against spells that can see through walls.”

She didn’t quite pout in response - she hadn’t made as much progress as she liked. “Not as much as I had hoped for,” she admitted. Wards couldn’t be made so small as to protect a single person - nor as mobile. And a Disillusionment Charm was only of limited use for a team of thieves. “The best solution seems to be changing my skin colour, and to use makeup and similar muggle means to alter how my face looks to someone using such a spell, but I still need to extensively test that.”

“You mean ‘body paint’?” He grinned. “I am available if you need someone to test your defences. Unless you prefer to use Harry for that.”

She rolled her eyes at his joke. “Any tests involving Harry would require us telling him about our heists.” Which Sirius had vetoed. She still wasn’t entirely convinced he was right, but she had to admit that telling Harry would force him to either help them and become a thief as well, or rat them out to the Ministry - which she didn’t think Harry would do. And as Sirius had put it, Harry should be the one to decide what he wanted to do with his life.

“So, that leaves me?” Sirius sounded surprised.

She sighed and nodded. She didn’t really like having the dog use such spells on her, but the only other alternative was Mr Fletcher. And asking him to check if her artificial tan looked right felt like asking a teacher to look at her naked body.

At least she could teach the dog a lesson, should he misbehave.

*****

**Hogwarts, August 16th, 1996**

“You just tried to enter my mind,” Harry Potter said - with his eyes closed, of course, to break the connection.

Dumbledore laughed. “I did indeed - and you noticed, and shut me out. A remarkable feat for a wizard with far more experience.”

Harry opened his eyes and looked at the Headmaster. Dumbledore both looked and sounded as if he were serious in his praise. “I could only lock you out by closing my eyes, though,” he said, frowning.

“Did you try to block me, or to mislead me?” The Headmaster smiled gently at him over his reading glasses.

“Neither.” He had reacted by reflex, choosing the quickest and easiest way to deal with it.

“I would wager that you would have managed either just as well. You have made remarkable progress over the summer.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry felt proud of this achievement - until he reminded himself that ‘remarkable progress’ wasn’t good enough when facing one of the most powerful and experienced wizards in the world. There was a reason so many wizards and witches trembled at the mere mention of Voldemort’s name. “And what about your own project?”

Dumbledore’s smile faded a little. “I have made significant progress as well, although while I have mastered the theory, practical application of what I’ve learned has turned out to be a little more difficult than expected.”

In other words, Dumbledore hadn’t managed to duplicate her work, Harry thought. He nodded anyway. But thinking of his mum… He took a deep breath. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

He didn’t want to know, but he had to know. “My mother used blood magic to protect me.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, without any trace of his smile left on his face.

“And she managed to protect me against the Killing Curse. A feat no one had managed before. Something everyone thought impossible. And she managed to have that protection destroy the Dark Lord’s body as well.” Harry spoke faster, to get it out before he lost his nerve. “She used a sacrifice, didn’t she?” He didn’t wait for the Headmaster’s answer. “And since it was so powerful - it’s still protecting me - she didn’t sacrifice an animal. She sacrificed a human, didn’t she?” He was on his feet, staring at Dumbledore, despite not remembering having stood.

The Headmaster sighed. “And you wonder just who she sacrificed to save you, do you not? Whose life she traded for yours?”

Harry nodded.

“Her own.”

“What?” Harry gaped. “How is that possible?” How could anyone die and still cast a spell?

“According to my research, she prepared the ritual, completed all the steps but for the sacrifice, and had her death complete it.” Dumbledore smiled gently. “No innocent blood was shed to save you, save for Lily’s own. She loved you so much, she sacrificed her own life to protect you.”

“But…” He trailed off. He had often heard that his parents had died for him, but to hear it had been literally true…

“Self-sacrificial magic is, as should be expected, very rare. Few have the will to sacrifice themselves for others, and fewer still have the skill and determination to plan their own death in advance. But such a sacrifice - one of the most selfless acts, usually at least - can be used to work truly great magic. Lily was a prodigy, one of the smartest witches I have seen in my time at Hogwarts. The things she could have done, had she lived…” Dumbledore sighed again.

And she had sacrificed everything for him. Harry pressed his lips together.

“But we should not lose ourselves contemplating what might have been. She made her decision, and we should respect that.” The Headmaster smiled at him. “I hope I have managed to assuage your fears.”

Harry nodded, although while he was relieved that his mum hadn’t murdered anyone to protect him, to know that she had used her own life instead was a burden he could have done without.

How could he live up to that legacy? What could he do that would do her sacrifice justice?

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 21st, 1996**

_Family thought to be on holiday found dead - drained of blood!_

That wasn’t a headline Hermione Granger wanted to see in the morning. Especially not when she couldn’t read the article right away because Sirius was hogging the newspaper.

“What does it say?” she asked instead. “Who was killed? And when?” Maybe if she asked enough questions, Sirius would tire of answering and hand over the Prophet.

“The Clearstones. They were thought to be on holiday in France, so they were not missed until the father didn’t return to his post in the Ministry on schedule. So, they were killed three weeks ago, before their holiday.”

Hermione glanced at Harry, who was clenching his teeth. Sirius, she noticed, did the same.

“I didn’t have a vision of another ritual three weeks ago,” Harry answered their unspoken question, a seemingly forgotten croissant in his left hand. “If I had had one, I would have told you!”

“Sorry,” she said, feeling guilty for doubting him.

“Dumbledore might have wanted you to keep it a secret,” Sirius added.

“I would have told you anyway,” Harry insisted.

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” Sirius retorted. “We’re keeping secrets for a reason.”

Harry was about to contest that, but Jeanne arrived, which made further discussion of the Order’s policies impossible unless they wanted to obliviate the French witch. Which wasn’t on the table.

“Good morning!” she greeted them, smiling - until she noticed their expression. “What happened?”

Sirius started to explain, and Hermione used the opportunity to secure the newspaper for herself with a quick Summoning Charm. Ignoring Sirius’s protests, she quickly read the article in question.

Father, mother, and ten year old son, all dead, all drained of blood. Suspected vampire attack. Some baseless speculation about Clearstone, a muggleborn, engaging in vampire hunting, and this being a retaliatory attack. And some commentary about his recent promotion being ‘controversial’.

“Bloody bigots,” she muttered, handing the newspaper back after noting the name of the journalist - Skeeter, of course.

*****

An hour later, Hermione Granger was in Sirius’s study and almost finished with his mail when she was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Yes?” She tried not to sound annoyed, even though first reading about the triple murder and then being stuck with the dog’s mail while he was off ‘checking out the latest brooms’ in Diagon Alley with Harry had left her somewhat irritated. At least the two had gone in disguise.

“Hermione? Do you have a minute?”

It was Jeanne. Hermione didn’t want to talk with the witch - there was still the danger of being recognised - but sending her away wouldn’t help. She forced herself to smile as she opened the door with a flick of her wand. “Of course. What do you need?” she asked in her best ‘secretary voice’ when the other witch entered.

Jeanne’s smile dimmed a little - Hermione wouldn’t have noticed it if she didn’t know the witch so well. She recovered quickly, though. “You’re Harry’s best friend, aren’t you?”

“Apart from Ron, yes.” Hermione liked to think she was Harry’s best friend, but he had spent much more time with Ron, even if - technically - they were living together now.

“Do you know why he’s so distant with me?”

Probably because you keep pushing yourself into their lives, Hermione thought. Like she had insisted on being called ‘Jeanne’. “I think he’s a little jealous of you,” she said instead, which was also true, even if Harry didn’t want to admit it. “Sirius is basically all the family he has left, and he hasn’t known him for as long as he should have.” And both of them knew the reason for that very well. Sirius had made a lot of progress, but he hadn’t fully recovered from Azkaban. Hermione actually doubted that he ever would. “However,” she went on, preferring not to dwell on that, “even if that wasn’t the case, he would still likely be jealous. That’s a normal reaction to a parent figure having a new partner.”

“I figured as much, “Jeanna said, sighing as she sat down on the visitor’s seat in the study.

Hermine wanted to ask her why she hadn’t said so, then, but held her tongue. Jeanne might be a risk to her cover, but she also was Sirius’s girlfriend, and she hadn’t actually done anything to support the suspicions Harry was so fond of voicing. So Hermione shrugged. “I’m certain that he’ll accept you in time.”

Jeanne nodded. “Sirius said the same.”  

“Well, he’s right.”

“Ah!” The witch sighed. “I had hoped that there was something I could do, other than simply being friendly, that is.” She crossed her legs, causing her short robe to fall open along the split up her right side, revealing her leg.

Hermione suppressed an irrational bout of jealousy. She was still growing up, and she was a cat - she was as graceful as the French witch if she wanted to be. She still found herself tugging on her messy ponytail, a stark contrast to Jeanne’s elaborate hairstyle.

And Jeanne hadn’t missed that, seeing as she suddenly smiled. “Although maybe we could do something about your hair? I know a hairstyle that would look perfect on you!”

Hermione froze for a moment. What was it with people trying to give her a makeover? “I like it like it is,” she said. “It’s practical.”

“Tsk!” Jeanne shook her head. “You think like a muggle. I’ll teach you a spell to style it in seconds, no matter how complicated!”

“I like it simple.” Hermione protested. “Like my mum,” she added.

“There are a lot of simple hairstyles. Have you ever tried a French braid? You’ll love it!”

Hermione disagreed - right now, she was feeling a rather strong animosity towards anything and anyone of French origin.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, August 21st, 1996**

Usually, Harry Potter enjoyed shopping trips. Between his childhood with the Dursleys and his years at Hogwarts, occasions to go shopping had been very rare. Visiting Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade was still an exceptional treat, in his opinion, and today’s trip was no exception.

However, he would have preferred to visit Diagon Alley in his own body, instead of wearing the body and face of an unknown teenager thanks to a vial of Polyjuice Potion. But it had been that, or calling Remus, Tonks and probably another Order member or two to protect him. And Harry hadn’t wanted to impose on them, nor take them away from more important work for the Order.

“Look at that hat? How can anyone wear such a monstrosity?” Sirius, also disguised thanks to Polyjuice, exclaimed as he pointed at a hat in a window with a two foot long point. “Anyone who buys that must be compensating for something!”

Harry mumbled his agreement. He wished Sirius would act a little less excited - the owner of the hat shop was glaring at them. But his godfather either didn’t notice, or ignored the witch. Harry thought it was the latter.

“Your mother taught me that expression, you know,” Sirius suddenly said. “When James wanted to impress her with his new broom.” He frowned. “That was our … fifth, no, sixth year!” He smiled again. “James was so horrified, he almost got rid of the broom. I had to talk to him for an hour to save the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor. Lily could pull a mean prank if she wanted to!”

Harry laughed as loudly as Sirius at that - he loved hearing such stories. Not just because he learned more about his parents, but it also meant that Sirius had regained another memory and that his recovery from Azkaban was progressing.

“Oh, Quidditch Supplies is open! Come on, Henry! Let’s check out the brooms!” And Sirius was off, headed straight towards the next shop.

“Of course, ‘Marius’,” Harry mumbled, following him at a slightly slower pace - he was still getting used to his new body. On the way, he tapped the frame of his glasses, and took a peek inside the shop - as Moody had said, the best ambushes preyed on the known habits of the target. But the shop was empty except for the clerk behind the counter.

“Look, a Sturmwind.” Sirius rubbed his chin, which was currently free of a goatee. “No matter what it said about the broom in Quidditch Weekly, I don’t think it beats the Firebolt.”

“R… my friend said it turns better, but has worse acceleration and a slightly slower top speed,” Harry said. He pursed his lips, angry at his near lapse.

“Where did he hear that?”

“There was an ad in the special edition of Quidditch Weekly,” Harry answered.

“What? Why didn’t we get that?” Sirius frowned, then glanced at the rack of magazines inside the shop.

“It’s about the Cannons.” That explained enough.

“Oh. Never mind then.” Sirius returned his attention to the broom in the window. “Worse than the Firebolt, as I said.”

Harry shrugged. He could think of situations where a tighter turning radius would be better than speed or acceleration, but it was very situational. And outside Quidditch, top speed was the most important quality of a broom - you had to be able to outpace a pursuer, or catch up to a fleeing enemy.

Movement behind them caught his eye. Two witches, leaving the shoes shop across the street. One of them wore a hat that obscured her face. Harry tapped his glasses out of reflex, just to check who she was. He didn’t recognise her face. And she wasn’t hiding anything under her robes. He looked away before he felt too guilty.

“Henry?”

“Ah, just looking to see if Fortescue’s is open already,” he quickly said.

“It should be,” Sirius answered. “Want to stop there after lunch? Or before?” he added with a grin.

“After.”

“Let’s see what’s on the menu in the Cauldron, then.”

As they walked towards the Leaky Cauldron - Sirius was a fan of the meat pie there; he said it had saved his life after his escape from Azkaban - Harry couldn’t help but wondering how long he’d have to pick between having bodyguards following him around or using Polyjuice. And what if he got a new girlfriend? He couldn’t decide what would be worse - dating with a teacher, Auror or Sirius looking over his shoulder, or dating while both he and his girlfriend were using other people’s bodies.

Although, maybe if they could pick whose hair they could use…

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 21st, 1996**

“We’re back!” Sirius yelled as soon as they returned. “And we have a surprise!” He  shook the bag containing the sweets they had bought even though neither Jeanne nor Hermione were present yet.

Harry Potter shook his head as he picked himself up from the floor and wished that the Polyjuice Potion’s effect would have already finished before he had stepped into the fireplace. It was hard enough to keep your balance while travelling by Floo powder without adjusting to a stranger’s body.

Jeanne appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the first floor. “We have a surprise as well,” she announced with a wide smile.

‘We’?, Harry thought as he saw the witch gesture behind her. Someone was hiding there, and his wand was halfway to his glasses when the person stepped forward and he recognised Hermione. Hermione with a different hairstyle and an expression usually found on Neville’s face before a double lesson in Potions.

Jeanne was either unaware of that, or was ignoring it. “Voilà! We have tamed her hair!”

Hermione seemed to hunch over. “It’s just a braid.”

“A French braid. Come on!” And with that, Jeanne tugged on Hermione’s hand, pulling the obviously reluctant girl along.

The hairstyle did look much better than her usual messy ponytail, Harry thought. She must have fought it tooth and nail, though, judging by her scowl. No wonder Jeanne was so proud. He smiled.

“It looks nice,” he said. “Stylish.” Now if only Hermione would wear one of Jeanne’s tight, short robes, or one of the ones slit up to the hips on both sides…

Before he could comment further, the potion’s effect wore off, and, for a moment, he felt as if he was melting, before he found himself back in his own body.

“Ah, finally!” Sirius, returned to his own form as well, shook his head. “Even though it’s fascinating to try out another body, I much prefer my own.”

“As do I,” Jeanne said, as she embraced him. And kissed him. The French way.

Harry looked at Hermione, then grabbed the bag with the sweets Sirius had dropped to the floor to better grope his girlfriend. “Let’s pack these away,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, let’s.”

As she led the way to the kitchen, he tapped his glasses’ frame again. Just to better imagine how she would look in different clothes.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 22nd, 1996**

“Hey, mate!”

“Hi, Ron.” Harry Potter greeted his best male friend, only slightly jealous of his apparent ability to walk out of a fireplace without stumbling. He was making progress, after all, as well. Unless Polyjuice Potion messed up his balance.

Ron looked around. “Is Hermione home?”

“She’s working in the study. We can fetch her,” Harry answered, pointing to the hallway. “You said you had a question when you called?” A question he didn’t want to ask through the Floo.

“Yes.” Ron said. “It’s about muggle customs, so I thought you two were the best to ask, having grown up among muggles.”

“Ah.” Harry had grown up among a particular family of muggles, but he didn’t think that Ron wanted to hear about them, and he didn’t want to think about them in the first place. “Is this about Muggle Studies homework? Get ready to be lectured by Hermione about not waiting until the last minute.”

“What? No, no. It’s not about homework,” Ron responded. “And the holidays aren’t over yet, anyway.”

“You know her. If you haven’t done it in the first week, she thinks you’re putting it off,” Harry said with a chuckle.

Ron nodded. “And you’re living with her.”

“Yes.” Harry glanced at him, wondering if he meant anything else by that, but they had reached Sirius’s study. He knocked and entered without waiting for an answer - Sirius was always there for him, after all. And this wasn’t Sirius’s bedroom.

“Hey!” Harry waved. “Ron’s here, and he has a question for me and Hermione, so we’ll need her.”

“Hi, Hermione!”

“Hello, Ron.” Hermione, to Harry’s surprise, stood up at once. “I’ll leave the rest to you, Sirius,” she said with an overly sweet smile. She was, he noticed, wearing her ponytail again, instead of a nicer hairstyle. And her sweater and pants wasn’t particularly tight either. At least they weren’t oversized.

Harry’s godfather grumbled, but didn’t object. Not that he could - he had taught Harry that friends came first.

They headed to Harry’s room, with a detour to the kitchen to grab some snacks and drinks. On the way, Harry explained that it wasn’t about homework, heading off Hermione’s lecture.  Once they had settled in - Ron on Harry’s chair, Harry and Hermione on his bed - Ron cleared his throat. “You know about Luna’s investigation into Nargles, don’t you?”

“Yes.” As a subscriber to The Quibbler, Harry could hardly miss it. Hermione nodded.

“She’s asked me to help her on her next fact-finding trip in Muggle England,” Ron went on. “So, I need to know how muggle journalists act and dress.” He shrugged. “I asked Dad, but… He’s not an expert on journalists.”

Hermione mumbled something that Harry didn’t catch, but thought was a little uncomplimentary about Mr Weasley’s expertise. He glanced at her, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. He nodded. “He probably knows more about technical things.” Mr Weasley could drive, after all, and had managed to enchant a car.

“Yeah.” Ron shook his head. “He gave me his Motor and Autocar collections to read, but that didn’t help. And his muggle newspapers didn’t have anything about journalists either.”

“You want to pose as muggle journalists?” Hermione asked.

Ron nodded. “Luna said they had to, so the conspirators hiding the existence of Nargles wouldn’t notice them.”

“Ron, I do not think that muggles are hiding Nargles,” Hermione told him. “There isn’t even any proof that Nargles exist. No one has ever observed them. No one reliable, at least. Invisible, intangible creatures?”

Ron shook his head. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.” Harry was about to use his glasses on him to check if he were an impostor in response to that when Ron added: “That’s what Luna said. And it makes sense, you know? Ashwinders were thought mythical for a long time, until one was observed at Hogwarts. And there are several invisible creatures which were only discovered when someone created the spells to detect them. So, Nargles could exist.”

Harry thought Ron had spent a little too much time with Luna. He glanced at Hermione, who looked like she had swallowed a lemon. His friend nodded - very reluctantly, he could tell - and said: “I suppose that’s true.”

Ron grinned, but was wise enough not to rub it in. “And it’s fun to look for them. Even if you don’t find them, you might find something else interesting.” Yes, definitely too much time with Luna, Harry thought. “So,” Ron went on, “how do muggle journalists dress and act?”

“They act and dress like normal muggles,” Hermione responded, still a little peeved, in Harry’s opinion. “They don’t have any special clothing, and they only wear press badges at certain functions.”

“Press badges?” Ron asked.

“Badges that prove that they are members of the press. Journalists.” Hermione explained.

“What do they look like?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I think it would be best if we showed you.”

“You know a journalist?” Hermione asked.

“No.” Harry grinned. “But I know a great cinema.” He wouldn’t need to use Polyjuice to hang out in muggle London, and he was certain that there would be at least one journalist in Mission: Impossible. Or in one of the trailers shown before the movie.

*****

As soon as Ron had left through the fireplace again, hours later, Harry Potter knew that he was about to be lectured.

“‘I know a great cinema.’ Really? If we hadn’t bought Ron a book on the subject, and those magazines, he still wouldn’t have a clue about journalists!” Hermione had her hands on her hips and was frowning at him.

He grinned at her. “He loved the movie. And didn’t you say that journalists dress like normal people? So it was helpful.”

“It’s an American movie. And journalists don’t act or dress like fictional secret agents.”

Harry shrugged. “He also spent hours in muggle London.” With a grin, he added: “And I didn’t hear you complaining too much about the movie.”

She sniffed. “There wouldn’t have been any point.”

“What were you writing during the movie, anyway?” he asked.

“Just a few notes. You did drag me away from work, after all,” she responded with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Harry sighed. He might have to have a word with Sirius - trying to work in the middle of a spy movie wasn’t healthy. “At least Ron had fun.” He frowned. “Although I wonder why Luna didn’t ask us for help - she knows we both grew up in muggle England.”

Hermione snorted. “She wants to spend time with Ron, not with us.”

“Oh?” Why wouldn’t Luna want to spend time with them? Had they… Harry blinked. “You think she fancies him?”

“Yes.” Hermione sounded as if that was obvious. It wasn’t.

“Ron didn’t say anything about that.”

“I don’t think he knows.”

“Should we tell him?” Harry frowned. Was it OK to leave Ron ignorant of Luna’s interest in him?

“No. Luna can tell him when she’s ready,” Hermione said in a rather final tone.

“Alright.” Harry wasn’t certain if it was the correct thing to do, but Luna was Ginny’s best friend, and offending her would offend his ex-girlfriend. And he would rather avoid that. And her.

He just hoped that Luna wouldn’t try to monopolise Ron.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 23rd, 1996**

“Hello, Hermione. Do you have a minute?”

Not again, Hermione Granger thought, putting down her pen. She still hadn’t caught up with her work after yesterday’s trip to the cinema, and her training had suffered as well - although she might be able to use an idea or two from that movie. And now Jeanne wanted to talk again, and certainly for longer than a minute. But she had a cover to maintain.

“Of course,” she lied. “What do you need?” But if this was another attempt at forcing a makeover on her...

Jeanne closed the door behind herself before continuing. “What exactly is Sirius doing with you?”

Hermione blinked. What was the witch implying? Her and the dog? “What do you mean?” she asked in her best ‘confused’ voice. “I’m his secretary. I mostly handle his mail.”

“You do more than that.” Jeanne hadn’t taken a seat. She was standing in front of Hermione’s desk, forcing Hermione to look up at her. “You also accompany him to those ‘meetings’.”

“To take minutes, and inform him of details that might have slipped his mind,” Hermione explained.

Jeanne scoffed. “Long meetings about politics, but he never complains about them - unlike Wizengamot sessions. Meetings with Albus Dumbledore.”

Hermione wanted to bite her lip. They should have trained the dog in maintaining a cover, too. Out loud, she said: “In the Wizengamot, he’s surrounded by people he doesn’t like or even hates, and has to listen to them politely. Headmaster Dumbledore is a friend of his. They work well together.”

“Do they?” Jeanne raised an eyebrow. “Sirius often brags about his successes in the Wizengamot, but they do not seem to correlate with those meetings.”

Hermione wanted to curse herself for missing that weakness in her and Sirius’s cover. “Politics take time. It’s not unusual for plans to take weeks to be put into action. The Headmaster is fond of planning ahead.”

“But Sirius isn’t.” Jeanne leaned forward, her hands on Hermione’s desk. “I remember at least one ‘emergency meeting’.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And his nightmares are always worse after such meetings.”

Nightmares? Hermione couldn’t keep the surprise off her face, then berated herself. Of course Sirius would have nightmares - she had had some herself, after all, after some of the more dangerous missions and heists. And she hadn’t fought in the last war, lost her best friends, and spent a decade in Azkaban. Feeling very guilty and ashamed at missing something that should have been obvious, and even more so for lying about it, she said: “He hasn’t yet fully recovered from Azkaban, I think. And I assume some of the topics mentioned in those meetings set him off.”

Jeanne wasn’t convinced, Hermione knew.

“And does he also get hurt in those sessions?”

“He often trains Harry in Defence,” Hermione replied quickly. “It can get rough, but nothing that lasts.” She thought Sirius would have ensured that he was fully healed before going to bed with his girlfriend. Would she have to check him for lingering wounds after a heist or fight?

“You’re going to keep lying to me, aren’t you?” Jeanne glared at her.

Of course she was. You didn’t drop your cover unless there was no other way. Especially when faced with someone you didn’t trust. “I’m not lying,” she lied.

Jeanne scoffed and left.

Hermione muttered curses she had overheard her tutor use in tense situations as soon as the door had closed behind the other witch. She need to talk to Sirius, at once - but he was currently in the Wizengamot. That left her tutor and Dumbledore. Maybe she could…

The door slammed open. Hermione had her wand drawn and aimed before she realised it was Jeanne. The witch looked scared - and not by her wand. “Hermione! Harry collapsed! He’s bleeding!”

Harry! Hermione was at the door in seconds. “Where is he?”

“Living room,” Jeanne replied.

She raced, barely managing to keep from changing and using her superior speed on four legs in front of Jeanne. Harry was hurt!

She almost crashed into him when she reached the doorway - he was standing and holding his forehead. “Harry?”

“Hermione?” He blinked at her. Blood covered his face, but his glasses were clean. “I need to talk to Dumbledore.” He seemed to sway on his feet and when she reached out to steady him, she ended up hugging him. “He has to know,” Harry said, and she felt him tremble in her arms, “he’s killed again. So much blood…”

“We’ll get you to Hogwarts at once. And call Sirius,” she told him.

Then a voice made her freeze. “Now I see.”

Hermione realised with a sinking feeling that Jeanne had seen and heard everything.

*****

 


	24. Turning Point

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 23rd, 1996**

Jeanne Dubois - she wasn’t about to change her name to Selwyn, not if she was expected to marry and take the name of her husband anyway - stared at Hermione and Harry. Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. “He’s been attacked. Hurt. Through his scar.” The two teenagers exchanged a glance. Jeanne went on: “And he’s _Seen_ something. A murder...” she trailed off. Things fell into place. The Boy-Who-Lived was a Seer, and he had had a vision about which Dumbledore needed to be told. Related to a bloody murder. Blood magic.

Her eyes widened. Blood Magic. All those ‘meetings’, all this secrecy. The attack on Harry… “You know who’s murdering people!”

Hermione hissed, and Jeanne found herself staring at the tip of the other witch’s wand. How had the girl moved so quickly? She stiffened, torn between trying to flee or casting a Shield Charm, but Harry already had his hand on Hermione’s arm.

“No.”

“But…”

Jeanne saw the two exchange another glance, Harry shaking his head. Then the girl lowered her wand - partially.

“We need to call Dumbledore,” Harry said. “And you cannot tell anyone anything about this.”

“People’s lives are at stake,” Hermione added.

Jeanne had the distinct impression that her own was among those - should she not heed their warning.

“The fireplace,” Harry said, still leaning against Hermione. “Let’s go.”

After a second of hesitation, the girl started moving.

Jeanne swallowed, then followed them. Both because she wanted to know more, and because she didn’t think the two would leave her by herself. She almost drew her wand to levitate Harry, but stopped when Harry and Hermione looked back at her, both their wands raised.

Apparently, Sirius’s boasts about how talented his godson was when it came to duelling hadn’t been too far off the mark, she thought. But then, he was the Boy-Who-Lived, trained by Dumbledore himself. On the other hand, Sirius had never boasted about his secretary being particularly talented at duelling. Something else that had been kept secret from her. Had she been trained as one of Harry’s bodyguards? No, then she wouldn’t be gone from the house so often.

They reached the entrance hall, where the fireplace was. The two teenagers hesitated, then Harry pushed himself away from Hermione and walked, somewhat unsteadily, to the fireplace while Hermione remained standing, glancing back and forth between Jeanne and the boy.

Harry didn’t fall down, but he almost spilled the cup of Floo powder when he grabbed a handful. “Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office!” As soon as the flames turned green, he stuck his head inside, propping himself up with both arms. “Sir? I need to talk to you. With Hermione and Jeanne.”

After a moment, she heard Dumbledore’s voice. “Of course. Come on through.”

Harry slowly stood up, then grabbed another handful of powder. A few seconds later, he was gone.

“After you,” Hermione said, gesturing towards the fireplace.

Jeanne pressed her lips together - she didn’t like being ordered around by a teenager - but this wasn’t the time to object. A step later, she found herself in a room filled with obscure devices, books, scrolls and a heavy desk - and facing Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard alive. And his phoenix! She barely remembered to step aside before Hermione arrived.

“Hello, Miss Dubois,” the old wizard said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Welcome to Hogwarts.” He nodded at Hermione. “Miss Granger.”

“Harry needs help!” Hermione burst out.

“I’m fine,” the boy protested. It wasn’t very convincing, seeing as he was holding his forehead.

“You’re not!”

“I have examined him, and I can assure you that he is in no immediate danger, Miss Granger.” That shut the girl up, Jeanne noticed. Dumbledore gestured, and two more seats appeared. “Let’s sit down. We should not discuss such matters while standing.”

Jeanne once more felt that objecting wouldn’t be a good idea, despite the old wizard’s friendly tone. Everyone knew that there was no wizard alive who could match him - and few countries which would dare to defy him.

Jeanne sat down, then felt a shiver run down her spine when Dumbledore looked straight at her, his eyes boring into hers. “I take it that you were witness to one of Harry’s ‘attacks’,” he said.

She couldn’t look away. “Yes, sir.”

“Based on the demeanour of our two young friends, I conclude that you have realised that there is more to this than simply someone attacking him.”

She nodded. Harry was a Seer, of a sort. Of a murder. And a murderer, whom Dumbledore - and Sirius - were hunting. “Yes.”

“You are correct. Harry is occasionally able to catch glimpses of certain events. Such as this murder by Voldemort.”

She gasped. The worst dark wizard since Grindelwald was alive? The man whose name all British wizards feared to say, was murdering people? Working blood magic? Hadn’t he been defeated? Destroyed? But it explained why Harry was in so much danger - and what Sirius was really doing. “You’re hunting him. You and Sirius,” she managed to say.

He inclined his head. “Indeed, we do - in utmost secrecy. Very few are aware of his return. And you now find yourself among them. And in danger.”

She swallowed. She hadn’t expected this. Sirius working with Dumbledore to hunt a murderer was one thing. But Voldemort? The only wizard since Grindelwald who was seen as Dumbledore’s equal? Sirius and everyone around him was in much greater danger than she had imagined!

What should she do? As Sirius’s girlfriend - and, possibly, fiancée - she would be targeted. Was already being targeted, she realised - their relationship was, after all, well known. Would she be safe if she broke it off? Did she want to break it off? Sirius was rich, handsome and charming, a good catch despite his tragic past. But this… was he worth risking her life?

She swallowed again. She liked the man, and could feel herself falling in love with him - he was exactly what her father wanted in a son-in-law, a rich pureblood wizard from an Old Family, and yet also the complete opposite: a radical, often reckless wizard who did not care about tradition unless it suited him, and with a passion few men could match - but was that enough to court death?

She heard Hermione sniff, and Jeanne pressed her lips together, suddenly angry. She wasn’t some timid British pureblood witch. She was born and raised in France! And the French didn’t run from danger - they fought! She raised her chin and scoffed. “I’ve been in danger before.”

Dumbledore smiled.

*****

**Hogwarts, August 23rd, 1996**

_The vampire was struggling, but his bindings held him fast and the slab of stone on which he lay didn’t budge. His mouth was open, long fangs visible, and he was screaming, but no sound escaped his pale lips - he had been silenced. A flick of a wand - a familiar wand - and deep cuts appeared on the vampire’s nude body. They didn’t bleed as much as one would expect and seemed to close slowly._

_A bowl floated over to the vampire’s head. His nostrils flared and he froze for a moment. Then he stretched his neck, trying to reach the bowl with his mouth. In response, it slowly tilted and red liquid - blood - dripped into his mouth. He eagerly swallowed the blood, even licking his lips. And the cuts closed._

_“Fresh blood is needed for the accelerated healing. An acceptable limitation.”_

_He saw a floating quill - a Dictaquill - write the words down._

_The wand flicked and swished, casting several spells - uncommon or exotic detection spells and healing charms. “No change discernible.”_

_Then the wand was pointed at the thick curtains behind the vampire, and they started to move to the side, revealing a window - and sunlight fell into the room, right at the foot of the stone slab._

_The vampire’s struggles intensified - it looked as if he was breaking his own limbs, trying to free himself - but the bonds, conjured ones, held. And as the curtain kept moving, the sunlight reached the vampire’s feet._

_Smoke started to rise into the air and the pale flesh darkened under the sun’s touch. Red spittle was flying from the vampire’s lips as he threw his head back and forth, and red tears filled his eyes. He had to be in agony. And yet, the movement of the curtains didn’t stop, and neither did the sun._

_His legs were dark as coal now and the sun’s rays had just reached his groin and belly when his feet erupted in flames, which quickly spread to his legs._

_By the time the sun reached his head, his feet and lower legs had burned to ashes and fire covered his chest. He was shaking his stumps, which had slipped out of their bindings, but other bonds still held him. And the voice mercilessly recorded everything._

_When nothing but a blackened skull was left of the creature, the voice stated: “Vulnerability to sunlight has been lessened, but is still fatal.”_

Harry Potter fought the urge to vomit as he once again remembered his vision. Maybe he shouldn’t have copied his memories for Dumbledore, but completely removed them. No. He shook his head. He was no coward. He could endure this.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was far softer than usual. Almost hesitant.

“Nothing. Just a few unpleasant memories.” He tried to sound casual, but neither Hermione nor Jeanne looked as if they were fooled. Not with Dumbledore currently watching his memories in his Pensieve.

But Hermione huffed and glared at him, instead of pitying him, so he chalked it up as a partial success.

“What did you see?” Jeanne asked. She hadn’t said anything since Dumbledore had left the room to use his Pensieve.

He looked at her and she flinched, then frowned. He was about to tell her that it was none of her business, but Hermione was quicker. “That’s a secret for a reason. I don’t know it, either.”

“And neither does Sirius,” Harry added. The French witch - she certainly was acting more French than British - frowned and looked doubtful.

“It’s standard practice that you only are told what you need to know,” Hermione elaborated in what Harry thought of as her ‘lecture voice’. “It minimises the risks from spies, or of captured members revealing crucial secrets.”

His friend sounded quite convincing, though Harry was certain that she wanted to know what he had seen quite badly herself - she hated not knowing something.

“And what are you and Sirius doing?”

That was a question which Harry himself wanted answered. He had known that Sirius was working for Dumbledore, but Hermione? Hermione, who hadn’t known anything about fighting a few weeks ago, and was still learning how to move in combat without exposing herself? If Sirius had been risking her…

Hermione bit her lower lip.

“She is helping me with research, the details of which cannot be revealed.”

Harry clenched his teeth. He hadn’t noticed that Dumbledore had returned from watching his memories. If Moody found out…

The Headmaster sat down behind his desk. “As Miss Granger explained, information has to be strictly controlled in this struggle, or we could lose everything to a single mishap or betrayal - as we came close to doing in the last war.”

“But if you are the only one to know everything, that is a vulnerability as well,” Jeanne retorted. Harry almost scoffed - if they lost Dumbledore they would lose the war anyway.

“I’ve taken precautions should something happen to me, even as unlikely as I deem that,” Dumbledore answered with his usual smile. “In any case, with you now part of our forces, we have to decide how your talents would be best used. I think it’s obvious that you would work best with Sirius and his group.”

Jeanne nodded. Rather curtly, in Harry’s opinion, but she didn’t protest.

He didn’t know why Hermione looked as if she wanted to protest, though. Didn’t she trust the Headmaster? He had, after all, used Legilimency on Jeanne.

*****

**London, Greenwich, August 23rd, 1996**

“...and the Headmaster said it was obvious that she would ‘work best with Sirius and his group’.” Hermione Granger pressed her lips together, controlling her annoyance, as she waited for Mr Fletcher’s reaction.

Her tutor shook his head and mumbled: “Old meddler.” More loudly, he said: “Well, it is kinda obvious. The witch’s as good as Black’s fiancée, after all, and it wouldn’t make sense to have her work with anyone else.”

“It also means that she’ll find out our secrets,” Hermione said, still frowning. She didn’t like that, even if the Headmaster trusted Jeanne - and had read her mind.

“Something Dumbledore certainly took into account. Might even consider it a good thing.” Her tutor shrugged.

“What? Why?” That made no sense. They couldn’t even tell Harry what they were doing, and now Jeanne would be informed?

“Probably thinks you need someone closer to your own age who you can talk with about what we’re doing. I’ve been thinking something like that myself, lately.” He leaned back in his seat.

She scoffed. “I could have talked to Harry about it.” If Sirius hadn’t told her not to. And if she wanted to force Harry to become a thief instead of an Auror. Which, if she was honest, wouldn’t be a bad thing - for her.

Apparently, her tutor also thought that would be the likely outcome. “Think he’d make a good thief? ’Cause that’s what tellin’ him means. He won’t stay back home any more than Black would.” He muttered something Hermione didn’t catch. Probably a curse. “And remember the rule.”

Never talk about heists to someone who’s not involved. She sighed. “He’ll be the only one in the house who won’t know about the heists.” But Sirius was insistent that Harry’s wish to become an Auror would come to pass. Anything for his godson, in other words.

Her tutor shrugged. “He knows we’re working for Dumbledore, just not what exactly. Same as we know he’s doing something other than Occlumency training with Dumbledore.”

Hermione wasn’t certain that this was the same, but telling Harry would mean revealing not just her secret, but her tutor’s and Sirius’s as well. Which would break another rule she had been taught as a thief. And she owed them too much to do that to them. “So, Jeanne’s going to help us.” Another untrained helper. And Jeanne probably wasn’t even a good fighter. And certainly not an animagus.

Mr Fletcher frowned at her. “She’ll be able to sound out marks, and you know she’s a dab hand with disguises.”

“Makeovers,” she corrected him.

“Same thing,” he said with a grin that told her she shouldn’t have complained to him about the hairstyle forced on her by the other witch. “And there’s another good thing about this, too.”

“Which would be?” Hermione couldn’t think of anything.

“She’ll be able to make Black behave.”

Hermione grinned. That was true - the dog wouldn’t be able to act as outrageously as he usually did. With his girlfriend being involved, he might even act a little less recklessly.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 23rd, 1996**

Hermione Granger had informed Sirius beforehand, of course, using her enchanted mirror. It wouldn’t have done for him to blurt out secrets neither Harry nor Jeanne were meant to know. So when the wizard arrived home after the Wizengamot session had finally ended, he faced the frowning Jeanne with a smile. “I heard Dumbledore told you.”

“Yes.” Jeanne seemed unimpressed by Sirius’s smile, Hermione thought. “And only because Harry had a ‘vision’.”

Sirius nodded, then looked at Harry. “Dumbledore handled that.”

“Yes.”

“He was bleeding and shaking,” Hermione cut in, earning her a glare from Harry.

“I’m fine now,” her friend answered.

She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t blame Harry for this - it wasn’t his fault. And she couldn’t take her anger out on him.

“So… you’re going to join my ‘cell’, then, chérie?” Sirius said.

“That’s what Dumbledore said,” Jeanne confirmed.

Hermione suppressed a sigh - they had gone over that already.

“You’ll meet the rest of the members later, then. Standard rules,” Sirius added, with a glance at Harry.

Hermione’s friend grimaced. “I know, need to know and all that.” He knew, and he didn’t like it. But it couldn’t be helped, Hermione thought.

“And I think we’ll discuss what this means for us in private.” Sirius smiled at Jeanne.

She nodded, still rather curtly. Hermione wished she could sneak in and listen to that conversation, then berated herself for it - it would be wrong to intrude on the couple’s privacy like that. Even if she really wanted to know what Jeanne thought about this.

“Well, I’ll guess it’ll be just us this evening, then.” Harry’s voice interrupted her. He was smiling at her.

Hermione took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but Dumbledore needs my help tonight.”

His face fell, and she felt a pang of guilt. He must be feeling isolated, with everyone going to their own secret Order meeting. But it couldn’t be helped.

Even if she didn’t like it, secrecy was needed if they wanted to avoid another disaster like in the last war.

*****

**London, Greenwich, August 23rd, 1996**

“Comment? Monsieur Smith? Hermione?”

At least Jeanne’s reaction to meeting the other members of their cell was satisfactory, Hermione Granger thought. The witch was even speaking in French!

“The name’s Fletcher,” her tutor said, gesturing to the seats he had arranged for them. “Smith’s just a cover.”

She gasped. “You…” then she turned to Hermione. “And you…”

Hermione grinned, then said in her best American accent: “I never left Britain. I just changed my style.”

Jeanne let loose with a number of interesting French curse words as she sat down heavily in the closest seat and glared at all three of them. “You played me for a fool!”

“No. We simply didn’t tell you the truth,” Mr Fletcher said.

“I wanted to, but I wasn’t allowed,” Sirius said. “Security, and all.” He shrugged and sat down himself.

Hermione glared at the dog. She didn’t know whether or not he was lying, but she didn’t like him blaming others for keeping Jeanne in the dark.

Jeanne blinked. “And Harry doesn’t know you’re working with Sirius,” she said to Hermione. “He thinks you’re working with Dumbledore.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied.

“This is worse than some of the novels I read in school!” Jeanne complained. “Why can’t you tell him? More ‘security reasons’?”

“Yes,” Mr Fletcher said. “But let’s talk about what we can tell you, instead of what we can’t tell to whom.” Jeanne didn’t look mollified, but she nodded.

“In short, we’re thieves,” Sirius cut in.

“We’re working as thieves,” Mr Fletcher corrected the dog. “Black’s not really a thief. More like an amateur robber.”

“‘Amateur robber’?”

“Would you prefer ‘hired wand’?”

“Yes, I would!”

Hermione sighed, then smiled apologetically at Jeanne, who was gaping again. “Now do you understand my reluctance to change my hairstyle?”

Jeanne blinked again, then started to smile. “Oh, it’s part of your cover.”

“Yes.” Finally she understood, Hermione thought.

Then Jeanne started to laugh, shaking her head, and Hermione pouted. It really wasn’t funny. She narrowed her eyes, then changed and jumped, landing on the witch’s lap.

The resulting shriek was eminently satisfying.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 24th, 1996**

Sirius was late, Harry Potter thought as he pushed around his empty teacup on the breakfast table. Everyone was late, actually, but for him. He frowned as he looked at the unused dishes and silverware on the table surrounding him - it felt as if he were alone in his home.

Sirius and Jeanne had returned from their meeting with the other members of Sirius’s cell close to midnight last night, and had headed straight to their - Sirius’s - room. Hermione had arrived a little earlier, but had looked quite tired, and so he hadn’t tried to talk to her. And Remus was ‘busy at Hogwarts’, or so he had claimed. Probably off doing Order work as well - Harry was certain that Remus was part of Sirius’s cell.

So he had spent the evening alone, and it looked like he’d spend the morning all by himself too. Kreacher was nowhere to be found, but that was no surprise - the crotchety old elf was probably hiding in the walls again. And he had read the Prophet already - although having the newspaper to himself was a small consolation for eating alone. Well, almost alone, he added with a glance at the floor.

“Looks like it’s just the two of us,” Harry told Crookshanks, but the ugly tomcat didn’t even raise his head in response, ignoring him in favor of emptying another bowl of food.

“You know, the stray is much more sociable,” Harry said, “and doesn’t even eat half the amount of food you do.”

That earned him a half-lidded, rather dismissive glance from Crookshanks while the cat licked his lips.

Harry slumped and rested his head on the table. Today wasn’t a good day.

The sound of steps in the hallway interrupted his brooding. One person, long strides… Sirius! Harry leaned back on his chair and greeted his godfather with a glare.

“Hello, Harry! What a wonderful morning!”

It looked like it was ‘ignore Harry day’. “You slept through most of it,” Harry said.

Sirius laughed as he sat down and grabbed a croissant. “I can assure you that I did not,” he said with a distinct leer.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Where’s Jeanne?”

Sirius shrugged. “She decided to sleep in.”

“Ah.”

“It was a long day for her - finding out that we’re waging a shadow war was something of a shock.”

Harry would have liked to show Sirius how he felt about eating alone in his home, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. “Speaking of,” Harry said, “Hermione only came home a little before you did.”

Sirius nodded, buttering up his croissant while the teapot filled his cup. “She is a hard worker.”

“Do you know what she’s doing for Dumbledore?” He wasn’t hurt that she hadn’t told him - a little, maybe; she could at least have told him _that_ she was working for Dumbledore, security be damned, since she knew that he was working with or for Dumbledore as well.

“I only know what my cell does, not what others do for Dumbledore.”

So Hermione wasn’t in his cell, Harry thought. And she certainly wouldn’t tell him what she was doing. “I worry,” he said.

“Huh?” Sirius looked at him, then swallowed the bite he had taken out of the croissant. “What?”

“About what Dumbledore has her doing.” Harry shook his head. “He claimed that she’s helping him with research, but while she’s very smart, she’s only just finished her O.W.L.s. What can she do for him?”

Sirius shrugged. “She can find and file things - like books, notes and such. And she can read through books and look things up - she’s a very quick reader.”

“You think she’s working as his librarian?” Harry asked.

“Well, I can personally attest to the fact that she’s good at that kind of work. Although as I said, I only know what my group does.”

Harry couldn’t really see the Headmaster letting Hermione reorganise his personal library, as Sirius had let her. But what else would make sense? Dumbledore wouldn’t drag a witch who was at best half-trained into combat. At least Harry didn’t think so. He was about to speculate further, but a headbutt to his shin from Hermione’s monster interrupted his thoughts. He glanced down at the pushy cat. “You’ve had your fill.”

In response, Crookshanks miaowed pitifully. Harry smirked - that wouldn’t work on him.

“What are you doing to Crookshanks, Harry?”

But it would work on Hermione. He winced before turning his head. He hadn’t heard her entering the kitchen either.

Before he could explain she was already kneeling next to her cat. “Oh, Crookshanks! Your bowl is empty! Didn’t anyone feed you?” She glared at Harry and Sirius.

“I did!” Harry protested while Sirius simply shrugged.

“Probably not enough,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “The poor thing is starving. Come on, Crookshanks, let’s get you some food!”

Harry sighed. His best female friend was hopeless when it came to cats.

*****

**London, King’s Cross Station, September 1st, 1996**

“Mate!”

“Hi, Ron,” Harry Potter said, waving from his seat at the window. “I saved us a compartment.” As expected, the Weasleys had arrived on platform 9¾ in the last few minutes before the Hogwarts Express departed.

“Move it, Ron, we’re blocking the corridor!”

That was Ginny, pushing her brother inside. Harry nodded at her. “Hello, Ginny.” Just a normal greeting. Nothing to it.

“Hello, Harry.” She looked tense. At least the way her lips seemed to thin a little suggested that, in Harry’s opinion.

“Hello, Harry!” Luna exclaimed as she appeared next to Ron.

“Hi, Luna.” Harry smiled at her. She was wearing glasses not even Elton John would wear, not that he’d tell her that.

She leaned forward and twisted her head back and forth. “It’s free of Nargles too!” she announced. “Good choice!”

Ron nodded in apparent agreement.

“I thought you couldn’t see Nargles?” Harry asked.

“You can’t. But with the right spells, you can see the aetherical tracks they leave,” Luna explained. “And this compartment has no tracks.”

“Unlike the Prime Minister’s home,” Ron commented as he stashed his and the girls’ trunks overhead.

Harry froze. “The Prime Minister’s home?” They wouldn’t have…

“Yes!” Luna nodded. “We had to talk to a portrait of my great-grandfather on my mother’s side, so it would talk to the portrait in the Prime Minister’s office, which then could talk to the man himself, but it worked! We managed to talk to him. Face to face, I mean.” She nodded sagely. “Once he realised that we were wizard journalists he was very receptive to our warnings of the dangers invisible magical creatures pose to muggles.”

“To be fair, he was more concerned about Dementors than Nargles,” Ron added.

Luna pouted. “Those are not as dangerous as Nargles since at least wizards and squibs can see Dementors.” Then she perked up. “But he has sent an official request for help to deal with either to the Minister! That means the Nargles will soon lose their breeding grounds at Westminster!”

Harry didn’t know if he should be amused or concerned about this news.

“And it’s all thanks to your and Hermione’s help, mate!” Ron said with a rather sappy smile as Luna slipped off her shoes and put her feet up on the seat, leaning against him.

Concerned, Harry thought. Definitely concerned.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 3rd, 1996**

“Alright, Albus’s latest mission sounds like a doozy. We just have to steal the purse of a Death Eater low-life named ‘Emile Fawker’ and replace it with one filled with leprechaun gold.” Sirius smiled and put down a few pictures of a disreputable-looking man on the table in his - their - basement.

He sounded far too confident, in Hermione Granger’s opinion. Even if it did sound like a comparatively easy assignment. Easier than breaking into the manor of an Old Family, at least. Although she wondered what its purpose was and whether the Headmaster had leprechaun friends. And if she would be allowed to keep the gold they stole.

“Fawker?” Her tutor scoffed and slid forward in his seat. “He’s a well-known thug in Knockturn Alley. He’s not an easy mark at all. Not that you’d know that, Black.”

“ _I_ for one have full confidence in Jeanne and Hermione,” Sirius shot back.

“We’ll do our best,” Jeanne chimed in, though she was looking slightly nervous, in Hermione’s opinion.

“So, we’ll be doing this in Knockturn Alley?”

“Aye,” Mr Fletcher confirmed. “Fawker favors the Drunk Pixie, a tavern in the middle part of the Alley. A dive full of cutthroats and worse. Not a safe place for two girls.”

“They’ll be with me,” Sirius said. “Even in disguise, I’ll scare off the riff-raff. Might have to make an example out of one of them, but that’s no great loss.”

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “Really? You have no idea. Two pretty witches with a ‘protector’? They’ll think you’re a pimp. And the Pixie’s regulars don’t like that kind of competition.”

“But wouldn’t they also mind seeing two whores by themselves?” Jeanne asked. “If the tavern’s controlled by a pimp.”

“They would try to recruit you,” Mr Fletcher said, “which is why you won’t be dressing as whores.” He grinned. “You’ll pose as hired wands from France, fresh to these shores.”

“Ah.” Sirius sounded almost disappointed, Hermione thought. “And you’ll be our native guide?”

Her tutor shook his head. “No. I’ll be around and keeping an eye out for trouble, but I won’t associate with you.”

“Can we pose as mercenaries?” Hermione asked. Her skill in Defence, while not as low as her O.W.L. result would indicate, wasn’t up to fighting a typical gang of thugs in Knockturn Alley. And she doubted that Jeanne was any better at fighting. Unlike Harry, she thought, trying not to feel jealous. Her friend was a natural at Defence, duelling, fighting in general. Sirius had often said so, and after several weeks of being trained by Harry, Hermione was inclined to agree.

“As long as you don’t try to duel the real hired wands, yes,” Mr Fletcher said. “Make that ‘as long as you don’t duel’, actually. If there’s a fight, focus on defending and dodging, and let Black massacre the enemies. It’s all he’s good for, anyway.”

“Hey!” Sirius sounded affronted. “I can pose as a criminal much better than anyone else here - I’ve been in Azkaban!”

“That’s nothing to be proud of,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “Anyway - don’t lose your nerve, and you’ll be fine. As long as you look like you can take care of yourself, the scum won’t bother you. Just don’t appear too arrogant or you’ll have all the local toughs trying to gain a rep by taking you down.”

Hermione didn’t like the way Sirius grinned at hearing that.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, September 3rd, 1996**

Hermione Granger had thought the way the purebloods at the Smith’s ball had looked at her had been bad, but walking through Knockturn Alley in the evening, even dressed for fighting - in tight and low-cut duelling robes made out of dragon leather, slit in the front and back to reveal leather tights and knee-high boots - instead of in provocatively cut dresses, was much, much worse. The pureblood scions of the Old Families had seen a young and pretty witch from the New World who wouldn’t have the backing to create a scandal should she end up seduced by a rich young wizard. The denizens of Knockturn Alley, however… She suppressed a shudder. They looked at her as if she were a piece of meat. Literally, in some cases - like the hags hiding in a side alley and the man she suspected was a werewolf, judging by the scars on his face.

“Our robes might be a little too tight,” Jeanne remarked in a strong French accent.

“Not at all,” Sirius retorted. “We’re here to make an impression, after all.” His own robes matched theirs.

Hermione couldn’t help feeling that they looked a little too daring, and not dangerous enough, but Jeanne had assured her that the French duellists were renowned for looking like that.

She still thought that the only reason no one had tried to attack them so far was that by the time someone made up their mind whether they were as dangerous as they appeared, or simply too stupid to realise the danger they were in, they were already past the next corner, out of the line of sight of the would-be assailant. She hadn’t spotted Mr Fletcher yet, even though she had seen his disguise - rather shabby, tattered robes - earlier at home. But he had said he’d be nearby and she trusted him.

Another wizard with patched robes - didn’t he know the Mending Charm? Or was this a conscious style choice? Maybe the patches were enchanted - stared at her, his hood not hiding how he licked his lips. She forced herself to stare back until he looked away, flashing her wand to show she was ready to curse him.

She hated that she couldn’t see as well in the dark as she was used to when wearing her mask, or as a cat. She needed to enchant some prop glasses for these occasions. Glancing upwards, at the slanted roofs overhead, she wondered if she should have come as a cat, instead of as a hired wand. She dismissed the idea - she wouldn’t have been able to do much, and would probably have attracted even worse attention, judging by the kind of grilled meat a street vendor was offering despite the late hour.

“There’s the Drunk Pixie,” Sirius said, pointing ahead at a rather shabby looking house. A crude picture of a pixie diving into a wine glass hung above the entrance.

A man stumbled out of the tavern, holding his stomach. For a moment, Hermione feared that he had been cursed, but then he emptied his stomach on the cobblestones next to the door and staggered away.

“We best watch what we drink here,” Sirius said.

Hermione nodded as she straightened, pushing her chest out. She couldn’t look afraid or nervous. She was a hired wand, ready to curse anyone who crossed her. Not a nervous thief about to steal from a thug.

She hoped she could fool others more easily than herself.

******

Hermione Granger’s first thought upon entering was that the inside of the tavern made the Leaky Cauldron look like a high-class restaurant. Her second thought was that it made the alley outside look safe. She counted about two dozen wizards and witches in the tavern, in various states of intoxication, and most of them were staring at her and her friends. She forced herself to stare back, twirling her wand between her fingers. She was posing as a hired wand from France - and the French had a reputation.

“Très pittoresque, à mon avis,” Jeanne said, looking around.

Sirius laughed loudly, then strode towards the bar as if he were alone in the tavern. Hermione followed him, a step behind Jeanne. Disgusting was a better description than colourful, she thought as she walked through a puddle of what looked like ale - or urine. Couldn’t anyone here cast a cleaning charm? If she had come as a cat, with her fine nose, the stench alone would probably have rendered her unconscious. Unlike the dog, of course - dogs thrived in such environments.

The bartender, a wizard who looked like he had some hag ancestry, looked at them as they reached the bar, neither greeting them nor asking what they wanted to order. Sirius wasn’t discouraged, of course. “Your finest wine, mon ami!”

“Est-ce qu’on doit s’accaparer une table?” Jeanne remarked. Hermione tensed up. There wasn’t a free table - would Sirius want to start a fight so they could take one? It would certainly serve as the distraction Mr Fletcher said he might need - but she hadn’t yet spotted her tutor...

“Non.” Sirius shook his head, his freshly dyed ponytail swinging back and forth. “On ne doit pas se mettre à dos les indigènes.” Hermione hoped no one in the tavern understood French.

“Five Sickles. Each!” the bartender barked as he levitated three glasses of wine to their corner of the bar.

Sirius flicked a Galleon at him. “Keep the change.” He swished his wand over the glasses in what Hermione recognised as a Poison Detection Charm. A sip later he grimaced. “Mon dieu! Quelle horreur! Si ca c’est le meilleur vin qu’on a trouvé ici ...” He shuddered.

Jeanne didn’t even bother to hide her distaste. “Dégueulasse!”

Seeing their reaction to the wine, Hermione decided not to actually drink from her own glass, but fake it instead as she searched the room for their mark and Mr Fletcher. She spotted their mark first. Fawker was seated at a corner table, with a hulking brute of a man who strongly reminded her of Goyle.

She couldn’t see his purse, though. Which meant she needed to cast several detection spells and get close enough to deal with whatever alarm charms Fawker had used. That meant she needed a table close by. Or… She nodded. The bathroom would do. “Je dois aller aux toilettes.”

“Ne touches à rien sans d'abord le nettoyer,” Jeanne said.

Hermione had no intention of touching anything, cleaning charm or not. On the way she noticed a very hairy thug who loudly sniffed the air as she passed - a werewolf? She couldn’t see any scars, but those could and usually would be hidden. She glared at him - werewolf or not, he certainly acted like a canine, and no self-respecting cat would let that go - and scoffed. Let him smell her perfume - her natural scent was masked.

He chuckled in response, but didn’t look away until she entered the bathroom. It matched the tavern, she noted with a shudder, then started to cast. Cleaning charms, first - several of them. She needed to be able to work without fearing for her health. A See-Through-Walls Charm followed as she turned in the direction of Fawker’s table.

It took her a few seconds to focus her enhanced vision on the mark - she saw much more of his companion than she had ever wanted to see - but once she’d managed, she easily spotted not just his purse, stuck to the insides of his robes, but also its contents. Too many Galleons for a wizard of his talent, at least as Mr Fletcher had described him. He had to be in the Dark Lord’s pay. Shaking her head, she pulled out one of the purses the Headmaster had given to Sirius and altered its appearance to match Fawker’s, before adjusting the number of gold coins inside.

Now she just had to deal with the charms on the mark’s purse. And she couldn’t study them without direct line of sight. She checked whether anyone was looking at the wall, then ended her charm. After shaking her head to readjust to her normal vision, she raised her wand and started casting.

Drilling a hole in the wall was child’s play. Placing a lens into the hole so she could see Fawker wasn’t that much more difficult. But dealing with the alarm charm - the alarm charms - on Fawker’s purse through her contraption was anything but easy.

Fortunately, Fawker’s charms were not the best, nor the most difficult. They would sound an alarm if anyone other than him touched his purse and prevented anyone from moving it with magic. Standard spells. It still took her several minutes to disable them, working at this distance, and she was sweating when she had finished.

A Switching Spell later, she held Fawker’s purse in her hand. Smiling, she stashed the stolen purse in her enchanted pocket and fixed her appearance. Mission accomplished. Now all they had to do was leave without Sirius starting trouble.

Or, Hermione added to herself as she found her way back to her friends barred by the canine ruffian, without getting into trouble herself.

The thug bared his yellow teeth in a parody of a smile. He had elongated canines, Hermione noticed, and she flinched, remembering how Tripe had almost killed her. But the ruffian was also deeply tanned, and his eyes were yellow, not red. Not a vampire, then, but probably a werewolf.

“Afraid, lil’ witch?” he drawled, his smile turning into a leer. “I thought you French liked it rough.”

Hermione couldn’t tell if the man was trying to start a fight or if he was trying to flirt with her - French witches had, at least among some British wizards, another kind of reputation as well. That he reeked of cheap alcohol didn’t help. But, ultimately, it didn’t matter - there was only one possible response to such a query from a dog. She sniffed, then hissed: “Vas te faire foutre!”

Apparently, the man understood that French obscenity - no surprise; he had probably heard it every time he’d accosted a French witch - and roared in response, his wand rising.

But Hermione was already moving, jumping to her right and casting a Shield Charm. That put a table of three other ruffians between herself and her attacker. Unfortunately, the thug was either too enraged to stay his casting - or too drunk to aim. A yellowish curse hit one of the three seated lowlifes in the back and sent him to the floor in convulsions. His screams silenced the whole room for a moment.

A sort of pain curse, Hermione thought as she ducked low. Not the Torture Curse, but she didn’t want to find out first hand if her Shield Charm could deflect it. What was Sirius doing?, she thought as another curse passed over her head. Dropping to the floor, she rolled further to the right as the two remaining thugs jumped up and started flinging curses of their own.

“Bouge-toi!”

That was Sirius’s voice! She glanced towards the bar just in time to see another thug fly through the air and crash on to a different table, the dog twirling his wand as Jeanne motioned to her.

Hermione glanced to her left. Her assailant was under attack by the two friends of the still screaming thug he had hit. But their aim seemed to be even worse than his. Nevertheless, this was an opportunity to rejoin her friends.

She took a deep breath, then jumped on the table in front of her. She ignored the startled yells from the two witches occupying it, took two quick steps, then leaped on the bar - and promptly slipped on the mirrored top, sending half a dozen glasses and bottles to the floor before joining them herself.

Cursing the sloppy bartender and glad that her shield had kept the broken glass on the floor from slicing her up, she jumped to her feet. Two men were between her and Sirius and Jeanne, one of them turning towards her. She sent him to the floor with a quick Stunner and Sirius’s next curse flung the other up against the ceiling. He crashed down on to the bar, crushing a few more glasses - without a Shield Charm to protect him.

“Allons-y!” Jeanne yelled, sending a Stunner towards the door. Sirius nodded and flicked his wand. Alongside the path to the door, the tables suddenly turned into wolves. That sent most of the riff-raff not already fighting - Fawker among them, she noticed - fleeing, and the three used the distraction to reach the door.

At the door, held open by Jeanne as Sirius covered the room, Hermione glanced back. The suspected werewolf had just finished smashing the last thug into the ground and was glaring at her. She sneered in response. Predictably, he roared again and came charging straight at her.

Her Stunner caught him in the chest before he had covered half the distance between them and he dropped to the ground.

“Quel chien stupide,” she mumbled as she left the dive.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 3rd, 1996**

“I’m beginning to think that Black’s mere presence causes fights to start,” Mr Fletcher said half an hour later, when all of them were back home.

“What?” Sirius frowned. “It wasn’t my fault! She started it!” He pointed at Hermione.

Hermione Granger glared at him. “The dog started it. The other dog,” she clarified when she saw Sirius’s expression. “I think he was a werewolf.”

“He certainly acted like one,” Jeanne said.

“Yellow eyes, enlarged canines and a rabid attitude? Yes, that brute was a werewolf,” Mr Fletcher said.

Hermione pursed her lips. She didn’t like the stereotypes being thrown around, but that dog certainly had acted like the worst werewolf cliché.

“In any case, it wasn’t my fault,” Sirius said. “I didn’t start the fight - I finished it.”

“Technically, Hermione did, by casting the last spell,” Mr Fletcher pointed out. “But it doesn’t matter. Good work with Fawker’s purse.” He nodded at her.

“Thank you.” She smiled, even though she was a little irked that he had spotted her without her noticing.

Mr Fletcher nodded. “Woulda been better if you had left without starting a brawl, but that couldn’t be helped.” It hadn’t been her fault, Hermione thought. “I took the liberty of distracting the bouncer when the trouble started,” he went on.

So that was why the brawl had broken out without any security intervening. Hermione slowly nodded.

“What exactly was the purpose of this mission?” Jeanne asked. “Any member of an Old Family could easily replace the amount of gold Hermione stole.” Like Malfoy, Hermione thought.

“It will probably wreck one of Voldemort’s plans. Make him lose confidence in Fawker, or Fawker’s associates? Cause a rift - either between the Dark Lord and Fawker, or between Fawker and those he’s since paid? Hurt the tavern’s reputation?” Sirius shrugged. “Albus didn’t tell me much. But he wouldn’t have sent us to steal that purse if it wasn’t important.”

Mr Fletcher snorted. “Fawker’s rather important in Knockturn Alley. Losing the Dark Lord’s gold will rile him up. And Albus wanted his purse not just stolen, but delivered to him, right?”

Sirius nodded. “I dropped it off at Hogwarts before coming back here.”

Hermione’s tutor scoffed. “Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s already a cutpurse from a rival gang spending that gold in the Alley and bragging about pulling one over on Fawker.”

“Albus’s starting a gang war?” Sirius sounded both surprised and envious.

“Maybe.” Mr Fletcher shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Gang wars start for other reasons too.”

Hermione wasn’t sure whether or not she wanted to know if she had just helped to start a gang war. Or whether the Headmaster was ruthless enough to set one up.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 8th, 1996**

“Good evening, Harry. Please have a seat.”

“Good evening, sir,” Harry Potter replied as he sat down.

“You look like something is bothering you,” Dumbledore said, offering him some sweets, which he declined.

Harry was tempted to say it was nothing. He didn’t want to bother the Headmaster with his concerns, not when Dumbledore must have been very busy this week - Harry hadn’t seen him since the Welcoming Feast. Before he could say anything, though, Dumbledore went on: “Or should I say distracted?”

Harry sighed. “Yes, sir.” He licked his lips, trying to find the right words. “I was wondering if you had trained Hermione in Occlumency. Seeing as she’s helping you with your research.” The Headmaster wouldn’t let her help him with his research if she couldn’t even spot, much less protect herself against Legilimency, would he? Unless her research was meant to be leaked.

“Ah, do not worry. While Miss Granger is not trained in Occlumency, she is nevertheless adequately protected against Legilimency attacks.”

“What?” Harry stared at him. “There are other ways to protect your mind?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Dumbledore steepled his hands and leaned back. “They wouldn’t have been enough for you, given your special situation.” His connection to Voldemort, in other words, Harry thought. “But,” the Headmaster went on, “Legilimency is a rare skill. Few are proficient enough to use it without being obvious about it - which, given that such an act is as illegal as the unauthorised use of Veritaserum, serves as a quite effective deterrent for most. And even those who have mastered it require prolonged eye contact.”

“So, Hermione will avoid looking others in the eyes?” Harry didn’t think that would work well, given his best friend’s character. On the other hand, she rarely ventured out into Wizarding Britain by herself, and if she was with Sirius in the Ministry, few would look at her. That was his impression, at least.

“More or less.”

Harry pressed his lips together. That sounded both far too easy, and far too dangerous. But if the Headmaster thought it was enough… He nodded.

“Was that all that bothered you?”

“Not exactly.” Harry took a deep breath. “Have you found out what Voldemort is planning? All those murders, the blood magic… you saw my memories.”

Dumbledore nodded. “The clues I have gathered - many of them thanks to you - have allowed me to deduce at least two of his aims with some degree of certainty. First, he continues to undermine the Ministry. His agents are spreading his influence in many departments. My friends and I are opposing them, of course, but we do not know all of his followers. Not everyone who shares his views on muggleborns is one of his agents, after all.”

Harry didn’t think that that mattered much. Either way, they were helping Voldemort. But he already knew about that. “And the second? The ritual?”

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore sighed again. “Unless your last vision was set up to deceive me - which I do not think likely - then Voldemort is searching for another way to gain what he considers immortality.”

“Isn’t he already immortal?” He had survived being blown to ashes, after all.

“That is a matter for debate. Or would be, were this known. He has not rendered himself immortal so much as he has prevented his soul from passing on to the afterlife. Instead, upon the destruction of his body, he turns into a shade. It requires a lot of effort for him to regain a body.”

Harry frowned. “He seemed to be able to possess people rather easily.”

“Possession is at best a short-term solution. A possessed body will not last long. Sooner rather than later, it will decay.”

Harry shuddered. The poor souls who had died like that, serving Voldemort… “But he made a new body, didn’t he?”

“Indeed, he has created an artificial body. From the looks of it, it is far more resistant to decay. However, I do not think it will last too long either - the laws of magic are harder to break than those of the Ministry.” Dumbledore smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, it seems Tom has found a way around this - or rather, a potential solution to his problem. Vampirism.”

“Oh.”

The Headmaster nodded. “A vampire’s body does not decay, despite being a possessed corpse.”

“He wants to become a vampire? Or possess one?”

“I think, given your last vision, that the drawbacks of vampirism - the vulnerability to sunlight chief amongst them, but also the hunger for blood; Tom would hate being a slave to his instincts, even though I suspect he already suffers from that to some degree - are unacceptable to him. He wants to be a vampire without any of the drawbacks.” He chuckled, once. “Many would be content with having solved a problem thought insurmountable. Not him, though. He would want a perfect solution. And ‘perfection is the enemy of good enough’, as the saying goes.” Dumbledore smiled. “We’ll have time to prepare his defeat while he tries to outdo himself. That is why I asked to speak to you this evening. As you know, I have spent considerable time researching your mother’s protection.”

Harry nodded, grimacing slightly - he was all too aware of that fact.

“And you also know how I was unable to move the blood wards on your aunt’s home.”

“Can you move them now?” Harry leaned forward. If they could further improve the protection of Grimmauld Place...

“I could. However, since your protection will end the day you turn seventeen, it would not serve any purpose. You do not need to spend any more time at your relatives’ home anyway, and Grimmauld Place is already protected.”

Harry pressed his lips together. What good was this breakthrough if it came too late?

“But that doesn’t change the fact that your mother’s protection is the key to defeating Voldemort. The Boy-Who-Lived is the only one who ever defeated him - or so he thinks.” Dumbledore shook his head. “I have to confess that I am at least partially responsible for your fame - I wanted to protect Lily’s reputation. A little child resisting the Dark Lord is a miracle. But a young muggleborn witch managing to defeat the Dark Lord with an unknown ritual?” He spread his hands.

Harry pressed his lips together. People would talk about her using the Dark Arts. And, as much as he hated to admit it, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. She had used blood magic, after all. He shook his head. “So I’ll be serving as bait, then, and hoping he’ll personally try to kill me again?” He could handle that.

“Not exactly.” Dumbledore’s smile looked almost cruel, Harry thought. “I’ll be teaching you how to use your blood protection to attack and defeat him.”

*****

 


	25. Complications

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 10th, 1996**

Saul Croaker prided himself on his ability to focus on his work no matter what was happening outside the Department of Mysteries. As the Head Unspeakable, he knew his duty, and unless something affected the research conducted by his department or the numerous artefacts safeguarded in its vaults, it didn’t concern him or his department. Ministers had disagreed in the past, but the Department was independent for a reason - you couldn’t trust politicians to treat its secrets with the caution and respect they deserved. As a rule, the short-sighted fools only saw an easy way to solve whatever problem they couldn’t deal with themselves.

But every rule had its exceptions - in this case, Albus Dumbledore. The Chief Warlock was one of the few wizards outside Saul’s department whose knowledge of magic surpassed his own. Who knew what Alchemy would look like today if Dumbledore hadn’t wasted his talents running Hogwarts and trying to reform Wizarding Britain. Merlin’s beard, the man had worked - worked! Not studied, worked! - with Flamel! If only he had joined the Department instead of becoming a teacher! But Saul’s predecessor either hadn’t been convincing enough or had - and justly so - suspected that Dumbledore would have replaced him in short order. Unspeakable Parkinson had always been more of a politician than a researcher. If it had been the other way around, he might not have made that fatal mistake when testing a new spell.

Saul shook his head. His thoughts were wandering again. But he didn’t even try to focus on his work. Not when Dumbledore was coming to ‘discuss a matter of some importance’. The last time he had done that, two Unspeakables had been revealed as Death Eater spies. And Dumbledore had revealed why he had been the one to defeat Grindelwald.

Saul winced at the humiliating memory. He had almost lost his position over that. That Dumbledore had missed a third spy, Rookwood, who was only revealed after Voldemort’s defeat, was no consolation. He should have been more attentive.

He had been more attentive afterwards, of course, although his methods might not have met Dumbledore’s approval - might. For all his principles, the man was ultimately rather pragmatic when it counted - but at least Saul was certain that there were no more spies among his staff. Almost certain. Which was why he was slightly nervous about the upcoming meeting.

As if on cue, the charm on his desk announced that his visitor had arrived. Saul pushed the unread reports and correspondence away and straightened in his seat.

“Good afternoon, Saul.”

“Good afternoon, Albus. Please have a seat.”

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice.” Dumbledore sat down, smiling as if Saul had had any choice in the matter.

“I always have time for the Chief Warlock.” As long as he was called Albus Dumbledore.

“Thank you. Your predecessor was not as hospitable.”

For a moment, Saul wondered - not for the first time - if Parkinson’s accident had actually been an accident. But then he told himself that Dumbledore wouldn’t have needed to go that far to get rid of an Unspeakable. So he simply nodded. “You wished to discuss a matter of importance?” Saul had no stomach for making pleasant conversation while that loomed over this visit.

“Straight to the point - something many members of the Wizengamot would do well to imitate.” Dumbledore’s smile grew wider for an instant, then vanished. Saul refrained from swallowing dryly. “I bring dire news. Your office is secure?”

“Of course.” Saul wanted to frown - to ask if his office was protected against eavesdroppers! Not even the Death Eater spies had managed to get that far.

“I trust that you are aware of the recent string of murders.” Dumbledore nodded.

“The ones the public thinks are related to vampires? Yes. Blood magic rituals, according to our investigation.” Saul allowed himself to smile. If Dumbledore had just come to warn him of that…

“Blood magic, indeed. But I would not have bothered you if we were dealing with a simple practitioner of that most questionable art,” Dumbledore said and Saul froze. The Chief Warlock leaned forward. “It is Voldemort, Saul. He is back.”

Saul narrowed his eyes. “He’s been back for years. You told me four years ago to tighten security around the Hall of Prophecies.”

“I did, and you managed to improve its defences significantly. A testament to the skill of your department.” Dumbledore sighed. “Which is why I have come today. I would like you to adjust its defences.”

“Adjust?” Saul frowned. Dumbledore had inspected the security measures the Department had added four years ago himself and had told him, in private, that they would give even Voldemort pause. So what adjustments could he… He drew a hissing breath. “You want to use the Prophecy as bait.”

Dumbledore nodded with a wry smile. “Yes. Voldemort has been busy researching a blood magic ritual and spreading his influence inside the Ministry. While the situation is not as dire as it was twenty years ago, I would rather stop him now than let him continue.”

“He will suspect a trap.” Voldemort hadn’t almost brought the country to its knees by being stupid.

“He might, but I will endeavour to convince him otherwise. Since he does not know that I am aware of his plans, I think he might take the chance, provided he learns of this new ‘weakness’ through channels he trusts.”

“Spies you mean,” Saul spat.

“Not in your department,” Dumbledore said, but Saul could almost hear the unsaid ‘this time’. “Since anyone who is the subject of a Prophecy can enter the Hall, it should not be too difficult to set up a visit by someone Voldemort can safely interrogate once the spies in the Ministry inform him.”

Saul narrowed his eyes. “A disposable stooge who just happens to be the subject of a Prophecy?” That would be very convenient. Too convenient.

Dumbledore smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a very familiar looking sphere.

“You faked a Prophecy Sphere?” Saul was almost as appalled as he was intrigued.

“Not exactly. I repurposed a blank one,” Dumbledore said.

Of course, he would be able to get his hands on what Saul had believed to be exclusive to the Department! “Everything has been set up already, then?” he asked.

Dumbledore inclined his head, still smiling.

And Saul knew that if he didn’t accede to this scheme, his successor would. “I hope you know what you are doing, Albus,” he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“So do I, Saul.”

“And what if he doesn’t take the bait?” Saul asked.

“Then I will have to resort to a more dangerous scheme.”

*****

**Hogwarts, September 12th, 1996**

When he heard the faint noise of footsteps, Harry Potter immediately stopped in the middle of the corridor leading to Dumbledore’s office and tapped his glasses. At once, his vision changed, and as usual, it took him a moment to adjust to suddenly being able to see through walls - and clothes. He had to focus his eyes in a certain way to actually see what was behind a specific wall, instead of being blinded by overlapping glimpses of everything in sight. But he was getting used to that, thanks to his constant practice. Constant Vigilance, of a sort, he thought as he looked through the wall to his left, into the corridor to the courtyard. Two witches - two Slytherins - were walking there. Greengrass and Davis. He frowned. They weren’t moving as if they were planning to attack him or anyone else - they weren’t even holding their wands - but it was late, close to curfew.

He changed his focus, peering into the satchel Davis carried. It was filled with plants. Perhaps they had gathered a few ingredients in the greenhouses since it was the night of the new moon. He refocused his sight anyway, to check if they were hiding anything under their clothes - he wasn’t a prefect himself, but if Slytherins were smuggling things into the school, then it would be his duty to inform Neville and Lavender. And if they were smuggling anything dangerous…

They weren’t, as he found out. He also found out that their reputations, at least as far as their bodies were concerned, were slightly overblown. Not that Harry was interested in them anyway - even if Sirius hadn’t taught him that witches from Old Families were bad news, doubly so if they were in Slytherin, those two had framed Hermione and gotten her expelled.

They were almost at the intersection, and he quickly and almost silently cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself. While it wasn’t a real secret that he was receiving special lessons from Dumbledore, he’d rather not have Slytherins know his schedule. Even if they were not Death Eaters themselves, their parents might be - and all of them were far too close to the Malfoys.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Someone whispered.”

“It was probably just a ghost.”

When the two girls slowly stepped around the corner with their wands drawn, Harry was tempted to scare them - a few hexes Sirius had taught him would do it -  but that would expose him. And probably cause some trouble for Dumbledore, should they go tattling to their parents. Malfoy had been rather quiet for months now, and Harry didn’t want to risk changing that just for a lark.

So he watched them pass, smirking at their nervous expressions, and didn’t move until they had turned the corner to the stairs. A few minutes later, he reached the Headmaster’s office.

*****

“Learning how to use the protection your mother left you deliberately, and for things other than what she designed it for, will not be easy.” Dumbledore looked straight at Harry Potter with a very serious expression. “Nevertheless, it is crucial to defeating Voldemort. We cannot count on him trying to personally kill you as he tried and failed in 1981 and 1992. He might yet risk a third defeat; his arrogance and need to prove his supremacy is impressive from a certain point of view, but he is no fool.”

Harry nodded. He already knew that. Fool me once, and all that.

“So, since your mother used a ritual, you will have to learn how to use one yourself, if not her particular one, so you are familiar with the fundamentals. Then you will need to learn what your mother did to protect you. Only then you will be ready to use its power for yourself.”

“And all before my seventeenth birthday. No pressure.” Harry forced himself to smile.

Dumbledore chuckled. “I am confident that you will manage it, and with quite some time to spare. I have taken measures to slow his research down.”

“What if he takes so long that I lose my mother’s protection before he is ready to move?”

“He is acting more cautiously than in the past, but between his arrogance and pride, and since he believes himself to be immortal and is in need of impressing his followers to strengthen their resolve, he is likely to take more risks than would be prudent, if presented with a tempting opportunity.”

“You mean a trap,” Harry said.

“Precisely.” Dumbledore beamed at him.

“With me as bait.” Harry nodded. Voldemort wanted him dead anyway; better to use that against the Dark Lord than hiding from him.

“No.” The Headmaster shook his head. “Your courage does you credit, but after his two failures, Voldemort is unlikely to attack you personally. He already sent an assassin after you, after all. And that means that you have to be even more cautious, lest his next attempt succeeds.”

Or others might die - Remus and Ginny had almost been killed by the vampire trying to kill him. Harry pressed his lips together. He didn’t want more people risking their lives for him while he cowered behind the wards of Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place. “What else will tempt him out of hiding?”

“The prophecy tying your two fates together.”

“The what?”

“Did you never wonder why Voldemort tried to murder a baby? Why your mother created a ritual to protect you at the cost of her own life?” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

Harry had assumed that the Dark Lord had simply been trying to murder his parents and their entire family for fighting against him, as he had done so often in the last war. But if the Headmaster was asking like that… “He needed me for a ritual?” Harry guessed.

“No. There was a prophecy by a Seer, before your birth.” Dumbledore cleared his throat. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…” he started to say as Harry listened with rapt attention.

*****

“...will be born as the seventh month dies.”

Harry Potter’s thoughts were racing when the Headmaster finished retelling the prophecy. This was the reason his parents had been murdered. “So… we’ll be duelling? Me and the Dark Lord?”

Dumbledore frowned slightly. “Prophecies do not work like that, no matter what some people believe. As you may have noticed, the prophecy is rather vague. Easy to misinterpret - or to fit to events after they have already happened. Ultimately, a prophecy is only as powerful as the belief in it.”

“But it does fit. I do have that power. I already defeated him twice.” Harry didn’t remember the first time, but he wouldn’t ever forget the second time. Seeing Quirrell die slowly from the poison the Dark Lord had struck him with, the stench of burning flesh when Harry had jumped their possessed attacker, too late to save the teacher…

“You did, but you only received the power because Voldemort attacked your family. If he had ignored you Lily’s ritual wouldn’t have been completed. One could say that only Voldemort’s belief in the prophecy made it happen.”

“But if he already knows the prophecy, why would that be good bait for a trap?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore smiled. “Because he does not know the full prophecy. The spy who overheard it was discovered before the Seer had finished, and had to flee. And so Voldemort will have wondered for years what else the Prophecy said about him - and about you. Wondered whether it also held the key to defeating you. Wondered if he would have been able to kill you had he known the full prophecy.” He leaned back. “I do not think he will be able to resist the opportunity to get his hands on the entire prophecy.”

“And how long will that take?” Harry asked. How much time did he have to master this power?

“Do not worry. I have just started to set things in motion. There are several steps yet to be taken, all of them under my control.” Dumbledore smiled. “Keep in mind that he is not aware that we know about him, and about his plans. He is already at a serious disadvantage. Now let us get started with learning about rituals.”

Harry nodded. The faster they started, the faster they would be ready.

But he couldn’t help wondering if the Dark Lord would actually be fooled. And what they would do should Dumbledore’s plan fail.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 19th, 1996**

Hermione Granger stared at her reflection in the full body mirror, turning slightly and looking over her shoulder. After a few - more than a few - attempts, she had finally managed to get an even artificial tan.

“That doesn’t seem like it would fool anyone. It’s just you, with a tan. And not even a deep tan.”

She didn’t glare at Jeanne. The other witch was correct - using a spray tan wouldn’t alter her skin tone enough to suffice as a disguise. There were other muggle methods - using full body makeup - but applying those would be even more time-consuming than using a spray tan.

“I don’t know why you even try these muggle methods.” Jeanne snorted. “Just use a Skin-Colour-Change Charm.”

“That is a known charm - if not as common as the Hair Dyeing Charm - and so people might check for it.” Which was why she was planning to use muggle disguises. They were far harder to use, but wouldn’t vanish after a single Dispelling Charm.

“A good cleaning charm would still strip all the makeup off your skin.”

She pressed her lips together. “Yes. Which is why I’m researching ways to combine muggle and magical methods.” Even though she hadn’t made much progress.

“You haven’t had trouble so far and your ‘catsuit’ covers you from head to toe,” Jeanne pointed out.

“It’s better to be prepared for all eventualities,” Hermione shot back. “And I can’t wear my suit when I’m posing as a debutante from the New World. I’d rather not lose my disguise in the middle of a ball.”

“Attempting to remove any kind of charm from a witch at such an event would be incredibly rude.” Jeanne sniffed. “Duels have been fought over less.”

“I don’t think I can count on that,” Hermione retorted. The sort of witches who had framed her as a thief wouldn’t be above ‘accidentally’ ruining a foreign upstart’s robes and makeup.

“I guess you are correct - I’ve encountered a number of very rude wizards and witches in Britain. But trying to expose a witch like that…” Jeanne shook her head. “That would never happen in France.”

Hermione doubted that, but she would certainly not try to defend the Old Families of Wizarding Britain. Not after what they had done to her. “So, I need to find a way to change my appearance that is not easily reversible, and yet easy to apply and remove when needed. It looks like I’ll have to find or create a potion to achieve that effect.” And she didn’t think she could feasibly create such a potion without spending an inappropriate amount of time on it.

Jeanne nodded in agreement. “You might need a discreet potioneer. Sirius certainly could afford the expense.”

Hermione glanced at the French witch - was that a barb aimed at the amount of gold he had spent on her debts? Probably not, judging by Jeanne’s expression. She nodded. “But finding someone who will not betray me, willingly or not, might be a little tricky.” The Weasley twins were certainly skilled enough for such a task, having opened their own joke shop in Diagon Alley immediately after taking their N.E.W.T.s, but Hermione didn’t know if they could be trusted not to spill her secret if they thought she simply wanted to play Cinderella or prank someone with a disguise. And to reveal everything to them… She shook her head.

Jeanne sighed. “I know. Sirius wants me to learn Occlumency, but finding a tutor who has the time to teach me and can be trusted is nigh impossible.”

Hermione shrugged. “As long as you avoid their eyes and maintain some mental discipline, you will be fine. And given the kind of robes you like to wear, I do not think too many men will be looking at your eyes.” She almost winced at her own words - she hadn’t meant to sound like a jealous witch.

Fortunately, Jeanne laughed. “Indeed. However, not everyone is susceptible to such distractions. Like Dumbledore,” she added with a frown.

Hermione shrugged. Of course, the Headmaster would check if Jeanne could be trusted. “There are not too many people like him.”

“But it only takes one of them - and they can disguise themselves as well.”

Hermione knew that also - if the Dark Lord had been a little more suspicious of a cat’s presence that time… “Yes. But we can only do so much.”

“We haven’t had another mission in a week, though.”

Hermione frowned at the other witch. “You sound like Sirius.”

“Perhaps.” Jeanne smiled widely. “He could have been born French. He is certainly brave enough. And passionate enough.”

Hermione tried not to frown and bit her lower lip. She was in no mood to hear more details about Sirius and Jeanne’s relationship. Not when her own love life was nonexistent.

Unfortunately, Jeanne hadn’t missed her reaction. “Oh, don’t be like that! You could find a lover of your own, with little effort.”

Hermione scoffed. “The frumpy muggleborn? Not even my closest friends think I’m attractive!” Of course, she had done all she could to make that happen, but still…

“I’m certain that they would change their opinion at once, should they see you right now,” Jeanne retorted with a grin.

Hermione glared at her and summoned her robe to cover herself. Or as much as the robe - a gift from Jeanne - managed. “They can’t. It would ruin my secret identity.”

“But you could easily have a lover in your secret identity. Miss Merriweather was very popular, as I recall. And you’re an adult witch now.”

Hermione scoffed again. “That wouldn’t be much of a relationship.” And she didn’t really feel any different now that she was an adult in the eyes of Wizarding Britain. Just another birthday spent without her best friends. And without her parents.

“Perhaps. On the other hand, many wizards might like an affair without many strings.” Jeanne smiled at her. “I think you might enjoy it as well, and learn a few things that will be very useful once you start a real relationship.”

Hermione glared at her, but the other witch simply kept smiling at her.

Much like Sirius, she thought. Far too much like the dog.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 26th, 1996**

“Ron! Harry!”

Harry Potter watched Luna walk towards the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. She was waving a letter - opened, so the odds of it being cursed were low, or she’d have been the first victim. He still tensed slightly - the last session with Moody had focused on traps, and Harry had been checking pretty much everything with his glasses since.

“Luna!” Ron put his glass of pumpkin juice down and glanced at Seamus, who quickly scooted a little to the side, freeing the spot next to Harry’s friend. “Have a seat!”

Harry refrained from commenting that the two had been talking to each other right before breakfast - not even ten minutes ago - and so there was no need to act as if they had been separated for weeks. Especially since they weren’t a couple. Not yet, at least. But they didn’t deserve such comments from him. And doing so would make him look jealous, as Ginny would certainly be quick to point out.

So he took another bite out of his sausage - he already missed the croissants Jeanne had introduced at home - and listened to what Luna had to say.

“Daddy wrote me, look!” She put the letter down on the table and smoothed it out, almost toppling Seamus’s teacup in the process. The other student scooted a little further away in response. “He’s been in correspondence with the Prime Minister, you know.”

“Yes. You told me.” Ron smiled, rather sappily. He hadn’t told Harry that. At least Harry couldn’t remember being told.

“Yes. And now the Prime Minister has informed him that he has had both Westminster and Downing Street protected against Nargles and started an anti-Dementor task force. He wants Daddy on it since he’s the foremost expert on invisible creatures in Britain!”

“Great!” Ron looked like he wanted to hug her, Harry thought, but didn’t realise it.

He made an agreeing noise himself and finished his sausage.

Luna nodded several times. “But the Ministry is dragging their feet. They claim that the Dementors are under control and no threat to muggles and that there is no need to spend money on taking precautions.”

Ron scoffed. “Fools.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “They should destroy those monsters.” What they had done to Sirius…

“Impossible, mate.” Ron shook his head. “Can’t kill Dementors.”

“Daddy says we might simply not have found out their secrets yet,” Luna said. “But nothing is truly immortal.”

Harry certainly hoped that that was the case with Voldemort.

“Dumbledore supports the initiative as well,” Luna went on. “He said so in the Wizengamot.” She smiled. “The Chief Warlock’s support means a lot to us! People are finally taking The Quibbler more seriously!”

Harry doubted that, but he didn’t say that either. Although he didn’t doubt that the Headmaster had good reasons to support this ‘task force’. If the Dementors ever got out of control… He shuddered.

*****

**Hogwarts, September 27th, 1996**

_...and then stir five and half a times counter-clockwise until the liquid’s colour changes from turquoise to dark blue._

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter closed his eyes and pushed the Potions book away. What would happen if the colour didn’t change after stirring it five and a half times? The book didn’t say, but Snape would ask. The git always asked questions as if he expected Harry to fail at every attempt to brew a potion. He frowned. He wasn’t actually bad at Potions, no matter what Snape claimed. Certainly not as bad as, say, Neville, who had dropped Potions after the O.W.L.s. Harry was about average for the N.E.W.T. class in his own estimation - if he took Snape’s favouritism for the Slytherins into account. Still… “Why do you need a N.E.W.T. in Potions to become an Auror? Do they expect us to brew our own potions for work?”

He hadn’t expected an answer, but Ron looked up from his essay and gave him one anyway. “Percy told me when I asked him in summer. When the Auror corps was founded, you were expected to brew your own potions because the Ministry wouldn’t pay for them - they could save gold that way. But, as Aurors began to need more complicated potions, they had to drop that policy since an Auror couldn’t spend weeks brewing a potion. But the requirement stayed out of tradition.”

“I should have known it was something stupid like that,” Harry said.

Ron shrugged. “It’s not as if you need to have an Outstanding in Potions - an Acceptable is enough. Although knowing Potions can be useful if you’re investigating a case, or so I heard.”

“It’s still two more years with Snape,” Harry retorted, and smiled when he saw his friend wince - since Ron was planning to become an Auror as well, he would have to suffer through the same.

Movement on his side - he sat with the back to the wall, of course - drew his attention. He surreptitiously glanced over and saw that a witch from fourth or fifth year had just taken a seat at the table closest to his and Ron’s. She wasn’t looking at the book in front of her, though, but at him. That was suspicious.

“Do you know the witch to my left?” he whispered, leaning forward as if to ask Ron something about the text he was reading.

“Huh?” Ron glanced over. “Romilda Vane, I think. Ginny once complained about her.”

“She’s in Ginny’s year then?”

“No, fourth year.”

Vane didn’t look like a fourth year witch, Harry thought. He tapped his glasses. And she didn’t dress like a fourth year witch under her robes, either. That looked more like the lingerie Jeanne owned, actually.

And she was smiling at him.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, September 28th, 1996**

Hermione Granger slowly walked down Diagon Alley as the sun went down over London. Her mark would soon finish his work and, according to what they had been told, head to his favourite pub, the Bent Unicorn, to drink a pint before heading home. But she didn’t want to get there too soon and then have to spend a long time waiting on the street outside the pub.

She reached ‘Quidditch Supplies’, and, as she had expected, the dog stopped following her in favour of staring at the broom on display. She gave his leash a sharp tug - they weren’t here to stare at brooms, no matter how nice the latest Cleansweep looked, and if someone started to wonder why a dog was interested in Quidditch, their carefully chosen disguises would be for naught.

The dog whined and glared at her, but she scoffed in return and scolded him. “Bad dog!” She had to use her wand to clean his now grubby snow white fur again and wondered how he had managed to get it dirty without slipping his leash - it looked like he had rolled on the ground in a side alley!

A young man chuckled at the sight, then smiled when he noticed her looking at him. He was rather attractive, Hermione noticed. And his humour didn’t seem to be aimed at her, just at her situation. But she was on a mission, and a friendly bystander could ruin their plan. So she glared at him, huffing, and then focused on cleaning the dog until the man had walked away.

They walked passed four more shops until they reached Gregor’s Gloves next to the pub. She wasn’t particularly interested in the shop’s wares, but this was the right location to wait for their mark. Predictably, the dog made his lack of interest in gloves very clear by lying down and pretending to sleep, but she could safely ignore him while keeping an eye out for their mark. Mr Fletcher and Jeanne, both disguised, were around as well, one opposite the pub checking the vegetables on display there, the other at a street vendor stand, eating a snack. Just in case.

Hermione had spent a few minutes in front of the display window, earning a few glances from the owner inside, when she spotted their mark walking down the Alley. Trevor Dicklebury, thirty-four years old, just old enough to have possibly fought in the last war before entering the Ministry, would be passing her in a minute on his way to the pub.

Or rather, she corrected herself, he would be passing her once he stopped staring at the new Cleansweep in the window. She ignored the dog’s growl - they couldn’t have known he would do that, and a dog looking at brooms was simply too suspicious.

Still, when Dicklebury finally tore himself away from the display, she almost sighed with relief. Showtime!

When the man was about ten yards away, she dropped the small object she had concealed in her hand to the ground. As planned, the transfigured mouse ran straight at Dicklebury. The man’s puzzled expression turned into a terrified one when Sirius started chasing the apparent mouse - straight towards him. Dicklebury managed to yell an instant before the massive dog crashed into him, throwing him to the ground, before continuing to chase his prey.

Hermione gasped and rushed to the man’s side. “Bad dog! Bad dog!” she yelled, then bent down to help Dicklebury up. “I’m so sorry - I don’t know what got into him. He’s usually such a well-behaved dog!” she lied. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?” she asked, holding on to his arm.

He shook his head, blinking. “No… I think not…”

“Really?” She sighed in apparent relief and smiled at him, pushing her chest into his arm. “But your robes got dirty! Let me remedy that!” She had her wand out and was casting before he could reply. And, as planned, she used the distraction caused by her casting several different cleaning charms to slip an enchanted Knut into his pocket.

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine now, Miss…?”

“Bennett, Betty Bennett,” she answered with a wide smile. “And you are?”

“Trevor Dicklebury.” He was smiling as well - and staring at her bust. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the dog returned with the mouse in his mouth.

“Snuffles!” she scolded him. “Drop that at once! You already ate! And you know what the Healer said about your weight.” She turned to Dicklebury. “I’m sorry, but I have to take care of my dog now - who knows where he found that rat!”

“I think it looks more like a mouse, actually,” Dicklebury said, taking a step towards the dog.

In response, the dog dropped the mouse on the man’s shoes and barked. Wincing, Dicklebury took a few steps back. The dog followed as Hermione grabbed the leash. “Bad dog! No biting nice people or you won’t get any supper!”

That made the dog growl and Dicklebury all but flee into the pub. Hermione shook her head and started to drag the dog away, berating him until they were out of sight and could duck into a side alley to apparate.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 28th, 1996**

“Another successful yet simple mission anyone else could have done easily!”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at Sirius’s pronouncement. The mission hadn’t been too difficult, that much was true, but it had still required some training. And the fact that Sirius was a dog animagus had certainly helped. “You sounded as if it were a lethal risk when we prepared for this.”

“It was! If anyone had recognised my disguised form, I would have died of embarrassment!”

“I thought you looked rather adorable,” Jeanne said while pulling off her wig and restoring her rather drab robes to their usual daring style.

Sirius huffed. “I’m not supposed to look adorable!” And yet he was smiling.

“Not even to me?” Jeanne asked, stepping closer to him.

“Well....” He wrapped his arms around her.

“That’s our cue to leave,” Mr Fletcher, who hadn’t bothered to remove his own disguise yet, muttered. “Unless you have something to report.”

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing. Everything went according to plan.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow then. Tutor Smith’s!” The fireplace flashed green and he was gone.

Hermione glanced at the couple, lost in a passionate kiss, as she left the entrance hall. She had some reading and studying to do. And she needed to feed Crookshanks. She had no time to waste on romance, much less on a mere ‘affair without strings’, no matter what Jeanne said.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 1st, 1996**

Vane was watching him again, Harry Potter noticed as he glanced at her. Just as she had done at every opportunity during the last few days. And she was still wearing lingerie under her school robes, unlike the other girls with her. She had the body for it, too, despite her age. At least he thought so. And long, slightly curly, black hair, dark eyes and full lips.

She must have noticed him as she suddenly looked away, then started whispering and giggling with her friends. Harry must have been too obvious. But he didn’t have a magical eye that kept spinning around and could look behind him. And he didn’t want one, either, if it meant giving up one of his own eyes. Even if it would make spying - checking on possible threats - without getting caught much easier. And peeping on girls.

“She fancies you.”

Harry whipped his head around and stared at Ron. “What?”

“Vane.” Ron twitched his head in the direction of the fourth year and her friends.

Harry pressed his lips together - he had thought Ron was busy with his homework. At least they had, as usual, cast a privacy spell before starting their essays.

“She’s a pretty one, but rather flighty, you know? At least that’s what Ginny says. A little boy-crazy. Or boy-who-lived-crazy,” Ron went on.

Harry frowned. “I don’t think that Ginny’s a fair judge of character.” They had broken up for a reason.

Ron shrugged. “Well, it’s what I heard.” He paused. “Do you fancy her?”

Did he? “She’s pretty.”

“She’s a fourth year, though. Younger than Ginny,” Ron pointed out.

“She doesn’t look like a fourth year,” Harry retorted. And she didn’t dress like a fourth year. Or fifth year. “And Ginny was a fourth year last year.”

“Ah.” Ron sounded as if Harry had just said something that wasn’t obvious. “You gonna ask her out?”

Was he? She fancied him. At least she acted like it. All the staring and giggling with her friends. But he was training to face Voldemort. Between the sessions with Moody and Dumbledore’s special lessons, he had even less time for a girlfriend than before his O.W.L.s. He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He could do without another pushy, demanding witch trying to monopolise him. On the other hand, having a girlfriend was nice. He missed the snogging. And the flying together. “Maybe.” He sighed. “But she could be a spy, too, couldn’t she?” It would be a good cover. And both Moody and Sirius had taught him about ‘honey traps’, although from slightly different perspectives.

“You think so?” Ron took another glance at the witch in question. “Have you told Moody or Dumbledore about her?”

“Not yet.” Moody might overreact. And Dumbledore… Asking the Headmaster to check out a potential girlfriend felt wrong.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 2nd, 1996**

Harry Potter clenched his teeth and held his breath. This was the trickiest part of the ritual. The candles were lit, the incense was burning, but the freshly cut oak twig was still whole. He raised his wand and focused on the movements he had studied earlier. It wasn’t like casting a spell, not at all - slowly weaving complicated patterns with your wand instead of quickly swishing and flicking felt sluggish.

But he managed it, finishing the ritual with a figure of eight - according to Dumbledore symbolising eternity - and saw the twig crumble to dust - or ashes. And, an instant later, he felt wide-awake and energised. “Whoa!” He shot to his feet.

Dumbledore smiled at him. “Well done, Harry. You completed your first successful ritual.”

He smiled, then blinked. “I could have brewed a cauldron’s worth of Pepper-Up Potion in half the time this ritual took.”

The Headmaster chuckled. “And there you have the reason rituals are rarely used any more - for the vast majority of them, there are far more convenient and effective alternatives. However,” he went on, “for some, unfortunately often nefarious, purposes rituals are still the most effective, or even only, option.”

“Like the worst of the Dark Arts.”

“‘The worst’ is a matter of opinion,” Dumbledore said. “Ranking the horrors which the Dark Arts allow their practitioners to unleash upon their victims is a rather tasteless academic exercise. What purpose would it serve to argue about whether it is worse to use the Imperius Curse and force a father murder his children or to use the Torture Curse on him? None at all. But I digress. I chose this ritual for a reason: Since it works similar to a Pepper-Up Potion, you will have an easier time harnessing and redirecting the ritual's power than with other rituals.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. “So… what now?”

“Now you redo the ritual a few more times to better familiarise yourself with it before we take the next step.”

Harry almost groaned. “I would think that I’d grow familiar with the ritual anyway while trying to learn the next step.”

“That may be the case, but it is better to ensure you have a solid foundation before you attempt to build on it. Especially when exploring new avenues of magic.” Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the candles lit themselves, and the incense started burning again before another twig floated towards the circle on the floor.

Harry sighed but dutifully took up his spot again.

*****

Vane was in the common room, apparently reading a book when Harry Potter returned to Gryffindor Tower from Dumbledore’s office. She was by herself, though, not with her friends. And staring at him over her book.

Harry hesitated a moment - she could be a spy. Or he could have spent a little too much time with Moody. He was a Gryffindor, after all. And she was a fourth year. Even if she were a spy, she wouldn’t get the drop on him. He nodded to himself, then walked towards her. “Hi.”

Her eyes widened a little and her smile vanished for a moment. Then it returned. “Hi.”

He sat down at her table with his back to the wall, his left side facing her, and glanced at her book. “Quidditch Through the Ages?”

She nodded. “I love Quidditch.” She put the book down, though.

“Who doesn’t?” Harry chuckled. Even Hermione had come round. He leaned forward, left elbow on the table. “So, I noticed you’ve been watching me…”

“Ah…” She blushed and her smile grew slightly forced. She didn’t look like a spy at all. And she was pretty.

It was clear that Sirius’s advice was what fit this situation, not Moody’s. He smiled at her. “I’ve been watching you too,” he said, tapping his glasses.

“You have?” She licked her lips.

And she was very pretty.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 7th, 1996**

Smoke - no, fog - filled the room. The bloody dog was hiding again. Hermione Granger clenched her teeth and flicked her wand, sending a volley of Paint-Splash Hexes blindly into the cloud blocking her vision as she quickly stepped to the side. She reached up to tap her mask’s left side. “Jeanne! Cover the other side!”

“Oui!”

Jeanne slipping into French was a bad sign - the other witch only did that when she wasn’t thinking clearly. Hermione crouched down and glanced over her shoulder. As she had feared, her ally was standing there in a perfect duelling stance, firing hexes into the fog. Hermione opened her mouth to warn the witch, but before she could speak, a spell hit Jeanne’s head, and her face and hair turned red.

No choice now. The French witch muttered curses as Hermione jumped straight into the fog, rolling over her left shoulder and coming up in a crouch with her wand aimed ahead. Now she just had to detect the dog before she was spotted.

“Stupefy!”

That was to her left! Eyes wide, she dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, sending a hex towards her left before jumping up and sprinting to her right. If she could flank the dog… She gasped when she felt her feet slide over the suddenly slippery floor. Ice! She didn’t try to stay upright but instead let herself fall down. A spell flew overhead, nothing more than a flash of red colour in the fog. She tried to stop her movement, but the ice was unnaturally slick, and her own momentum carried her out of the concealing fog.

And into the dog’s line of fire. Red paint covered her mask before she could react, and she lowered her head, muttering a few curses of her own. Defeated again.

At least she had lasted longer than Jeanne.

*****

Hermione Granger walked into her room and closed the door behind her, then lay down on her bed and sighed as she rubbed her rear. Sirius’s aim had been as precise as ever during today’s Defence training session. And to think that Harry and Ron were going through even worse in their sessions with Moody… She clenched her teeth. If they could stand that, she could handle what the dog threw at her!

And she was improving, little by little - she wasn’t getting hit as often as before in their sessions. But she still was getting hit too often, she added with a frown. And she didn’t get back at the dog as much as she wanted to. Not that she needed to - a good thief was a master of escape, not a master of duelling. And cats won against dogs by outmanoeuvring them, not by outfighting them. Mostly. But still, she would love to put the dog in his place with her wand, instead of her claws.

She rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling, sighing once more. Sirius and Jeanne were ‘resting’ until dinner. She knew what they were doing. And Harry had a new girlfriend, some fourth year named Romilda Vane. At least that was what Sirius had said.

And she was alone, with only her cat for company. Who was currently ignoring her in favour of shredding the latest toy she had bought for him.

Snorting, she changed, rolled over and buried her muzzle in her flank for a nap.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 14th, 1996**

Harry Potter slowly moved his wand through the finishing touches of the ritual. Just… about… now! The twig started to crumble, the candles flickered, and he felt the ritual’s power well up inside him, filling him. Power he could use for something else! Light!

His wand lit up, shining light filling the room, and he sighed. That had been a silent spell, not a redirected ritual - he still felt the ritual’s effect. “Damn!” he muttered.

“Do not be so hard on yourself - being able to cast a spell silently is an achievement in itself.”

Harry shot the Headmaster a not-quite-glare. “Not the achievement I need, though.” Voldemort wouldn’t be impressed by a silent Wand-Lighting Charm.

Dumbledore smiled. “But you are making progress.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, I’ll soon be able to do this ritual in my sleep.”

“This is not something that can be mastered quickly. It took me some time as well.”

Probably not as long as it is taking me, Harry thought. He didn’t contradict the Headmaster any further, though, and gathered the materials for the next ritual. There was no time to waste.

*****

Two hours and four more failed attempts to harness the power of the ritual later, they finished for the evening and Harry Potter made his way back to Gryffindor Tower. It was past curfew already, not that he cared about that. But he cared about the fact that the dark hallways offered plenty of spots suitable for an ambush. Between a Human-presence-revealing Spell and his glasses, though, he would be able to spot anyone laying in wait for him. And thanks to his Cloak, they wouldn’t spot him anyway.

Like the witch waiting for him in the alcove outside the Fat Lady’s painting. Romilda. She was wearing lingerie again. No one else was around; the prefects would be patrolling the dungeons at this time. Perfect for a private snogging session.

He removed his Cloak before he turned the last corner - when he had surprised her from behind the last time, she had shrieked so loudly they had had to hide from the Gryffindor prefects afterwards - and didn’t try to walk silently.

As expected, she stepped out of the alcove before he reached it. “Hi!” she greeted him in a whisper.

“Hi!” He smiled as she jumped into his arms, forcing him to take a step back to keep his balance. “Sorry for taking longer than I thought.”

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, looking up at him. Then she pushed herself up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck so she could kiss him.

Here was a witch who didn’t have to be nagged into a snogging session! Without breaking the kiss he moved his arms down, then lifted her up slightly, and pushed her back into the alcove. It was too close to the entrance to the common room but it was past curfew. And the thought of snogging right outside Gryffindor Tower was more than a little exciting. They were both Gryffindors, after all. Besides, he had his Cloak to cover them both.

Under the Cloak, he lifted Romilda up a little more, so she could wrap her legs around his waist and he had his hands free to slip under her robes while they kissed. She was a quick study, too, when it came to snogging.

He had pushed her robes up and over her head, entangling her arms, when he heard the footsteps in the hallway. The prefects? They should be on patrol for another twenty minutes!

“Wha...”

“Shh!” He put a finger on Romilda’s lips, silencing her. She looked nervous when he put her down and turned around, moving carefully so as not to pull the Cloak off either of them. “Stay close!” he whispered. She pressed herself into his back, arms wrapping around his chest, as he moved to the corner of the alcove and peered down the hallway.

When he recognised the two figures walking towards the entrance to Gryffindor, he blinked. Ron and Luna? At this time? Had they been off snogging? Ron had mentioned earlier today that he wanted to help Luna with her studies, but had he spent that long with her?

“...sorry we didn’t find any Humdingers,” he heard Ron say.

“Don’t be! It was a fun trip, almost a mini-expedition. We might have more luck in twelve days - they like to dance in the moonlight.”

“Good! I had fun too,” Ron said. “It’s late, though.”

“Past curfew!” Luna agreed. Harry saw her nod several times. She was standing close to Ron.

“I should walk you back to your dorm. Help you avoid the prefects’ patrols.”

Harry almost snorted. Ron hadn’t even noticed him and Romilda - he should have cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell. Moody would have a fit if he knew.

“You don’t need to. I can avoid them myself.” Luna’s hair flew around her head as she shook her head.

“I’d feel better if I were with you, though. What is it your father always says? ‘You never split the party’?”

“That’s sweet!” Luna said. “But then you’ll have to walk back alone.”

“Well, someone has to, and I’d rather it be me,” Ron declared. “And I can detect invisible people.”

“But not Nargles!”

“They’re not people, are they?”

“Right.”

“So… let’s go? The prefects won’t be in the area for another fifteen minutes.”

“Alright!” Luna turned around, then turned back and stepped right up to Ron. She pushed herself up on tiptoe, and kissed him on the lips. Or rather, gave him a peck on the lips. She had her arms behind her back too, instead of hugging him. It was cute, but it wasn’t snogging.

Ron was smiling widely, though, and held out his hand. Luna took it, and the two walked off towards Ravenclaw Tower.

Harry was shaking his head, watching them go. Ron had it bad. Then he turned around. “They’re gone,” he whispered.

“Good,” Romilda answered. “How long until the prefects return?”

“Ten minutes, at least.”

Plenty of time.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 29th, 1996**

“They sealed off the Dementors.”

“What?” Hermione Granger looked up from the third chapter of ‘A Life in the Ring’.

“They sealed off the Dementors.” Sirius’s voice sounded as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He pointed at the headline of the Daily Prophet.

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she reached out, but he pulled the newspaper away from her. “No, no. Not again. Get your own subscription.”

She bared her teeth at the selfish dog, but he didn’t budge. Jeanne giggled. And when Hermione glared at her, she laughed.

“The Ministry had the Dementors sealed up - in the deepest level of Azkaban. Dumbledore himself was involved, or so it says here.” Sirius shook his head as he read on. “Doubled the regular guards… Hit-Wizards. Curse-Breakers hired from Gringotts to improve the wards of the prison.” He snorted. “They can’t be serious. That must have cost a fortune.”

“About time!” Jeanne commented. “Dementors… We don’t need such monsters to guard our prisoners in the Bastille.”

“Paid for by the muggles?” Sirius lowered the newspaper. “What the hell is going on?”

Hermione blinked. This reminded her of… but… She noticed that Sirius wasn’t keeping a tight grip on the Daily Prophet, and used her wand to switch it with her book.

“Hey!”

She ignored his protests and skimmed the article. There! ‘Research into the threat ‘Nargles’ might pose to Britain ongoing. Muggles insisted.’ She looked up. “It’s the work of Luna and her father. They managed to convince the Prime Minister that invisible creatures pose a threat to muggle Britain.”

“Well, they’re right in the case of Dementors,” Sirius said, clenching his teeth. “Bloody demons!” he muttered, and Hermione saw that he was trembling, and holding her book so tightly his knuckles were stark white. Jeanne reached out to touch his shoulder and Hermione bit her lower lip. Of course he’d have flashbacks. She should have thought of that.

“Good riddance!” Sirius said, after a moment, holding Jeanne’s hand. “But the Minister wouldn’t have agreed to this just because the muggles wanted something done. It must have been Dumbledore’s work.”

That made more sense, Hermione thought. And if the muggles paid the bill, it would likely have been easy to push the proposal through. Probably bribed the Minister, too. “They’ll improve security, then.”

“Of course. That will make it harder for Voldemort to spring his followers from prison.” Sirius grinned.

Hermione forced herself to smile as well. She wasn’t completely happy, though - those changes would make it much harder for a cat to escape the prison, should she ever get caught. She would have to adjust her contingency plans.

*****

**Hogsmeade, November 2nd, 1996**

There wasn’t anything wrong with a witch being honest about her desires and taking the initiative with her boyfriend, Hermione Granger thought. And the - predominantly muggle - double-standard regarding the sexuality of boys and girls was utterly hypocritical and deserved to be eradicated with extreme prejudice. And Romilda hadn’t made a single veiled comment towards her or shown any hint of jealousy, which put her far above the likes of Patil.

But Harry’s new girlfriend was still a vapid witch with an overactive libido and no sense of modesty, Hermione Granger thought as her best friend and his new girlfriend lost themselves in another French kiss right across from her. Of course, Vane had neither any reason nor any opportunity to show any jealousy if Harry spent the Hogsmeade weekend with his lips glued to hers!

She took a sip from her overpriced tea and glanced at her other best friend. Ron and Luna weren’t snogging, but judging by the way the two were staring at each other, they were probably wishing they were. At least Luna wasn’t taking notes on snogging any more.

Hermione sighed.

“Hm?” Luna looked at her. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She shook her head, glancing at Harry, who hadn’t even noticed. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Perhaps Jeanne was correct about having an affair.

*****

**Hogwarts, November 4th, 1996**

Harry Potter finished the ritual with his eyes closed. He didn’t need to see his wand to complete the figure. He didn’t need to watch the twig crumble to ashes. He knew what would happen by heart now.

And this time he was ready. He felt the energy entering him as if it were a mental probe entering his mind. And he knew how to deal with those. All he had to do was to learn how to deal with this. And he knew what he had to do for that, too. Clenching his teeth, he focused his will. Instead of letting the power rejuvenate him, he channelled it into his wand. It was almost like casting a spell. Just different. Almost like finishing a complicated spell. Directing the magic. The power. Even if that was just a mental construct, it helped.

When he opened his eyes, the tip of his wand was shining brightly and he felt tired. He threw his head back and balled his left hand into a fist. “Yes! Yes! YES!”

“Indeed. Well done, Harry.” Dumbledore was beaming at him. “You have taken a step that few ever manage.”

Harry nodded. “It was easy, once I could visualise it.” Occlumency had helped him a lot. It was all in the details.

“That is the most important step. Most of the limits of magic are actually the limits of our imagination. It is hard to do something if you think it is impossible.” Dumbledore sighed. “Unfortunately, most wizards and witches have a rather limited imagination. Few have a vision that goes beyond the familiar. And many of those who do abandon their dreams as soon as they encounter the first obstacles.”

“Well, knowing that there’s a Dark Lord out there who wants to murder me helps a lot in focusing the mind,” Harry said. “Maybe more people should try that?”

Dumbledore laughed, briefly. “Alas, most people would either be too afraid to do anything in your position or would try to ignore the threat.” He shook his head. “But I digress again. Let us ensure that you have mastered this feat before we proceed to the next step.”

Harry grimaced, but waved his wand in the now all too familiar pattern, rearranging the ritual circle. At least he would never, ever have to brew a Pepper-Up Potion again - he could do this ritual in his sleep now. Which certainly helped when he had had a late snogging session with Romilda.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, November 11th, 1996**

Hermione Granger guided her broom towards the roof below her without worrying much about being spotted - between her Disillusionment Charm and the black-painted shaft of her broomstick, she was all but invisible in the dark night of the new moon. Besides, she would be out of the range of any Human-presence-revealing Spells anyway, unless they were cast by someone right outside the building below her. And this wasn’t Knockturn Alley, where such guards might be expected - even in the current cold weather.

She stopped her broom right next to the chimney. The house was old, but the wards were new - Mr Fletcher had said there had been an attack by Death Eaters during the last war that had left the building’s original owners dead and the wards torn down. The new owner, a Heathcliff Selwyn, who was suspected to work for the Dark Lord, hadn’t spent much gold on the house, and so his new wards were rather weak and directly anchored to the walls. It didn’t take her long to go through them. When she dismounted, her soft boots didn’t make any sound on the shingled roof. She left her broom hovering next to her and looked around.

From up here, she could see the entrance and part of Knockturn Alley. It looked far less daunting than on the ground below. The few lights made it almost look pittoresque, as Jeanne would say - Hermione was picking up more French words than she had thought. Few would be able to tell that there was a war being waged in the Alley. A war between thugs and Death Eaters. A war which she had helped start. She shook her head - she had a mission and no time for wool-gathering.

Even if it was an easy mission. Kneeling down, she studied the roof. She was at the right spot, according to Mr Fletcher. Right above the mark’s flat. A jab of her wand drilled a hole in a shingle that had darkened with age. She waited a moment, tapping her mask to enhance her hearing, but she couldn’t hear anything suspicious. Nodding, she pulled out a small vial, unstoppered it and let the contents - small artificial bugs that would record all words said nearby - slide into the hole.

A quick Mending Charm resealed the hole, leaving no trace of hole or bugs.

Mission accomplished.

*****

**Hogwarts, December 12th, 1996**

Compared to mastering a simple ritual and then altering it, this was torture, Harry Potter thought as he once again tried to find whatever power his mum had left him as protection. Only he had no clue how and where it was supposed to be. Unlike with the ritual, he couldn’t feel any change. He couldn’t feel anything in his body that felt as if it didn’t belong. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to imagine the ‘blood protection’. To no avail.

Sighing, he slumped in his seat. “It’s no use. I can’t find any trace of this supposed power.” He looked at Dumbledore. “I’ll need to see what you see thanks to your spell.”

The Headmaster stroked his beard. “I fear you might be correct. I do not think I can teach you this particular spell in the time we have left, however. It is very complicated, and it took me quite a while to learn it.”

Harry muttered a curse under his breath. If Dumbledore took so long, he might as well give up.

“Although there is an alternative.”

Harry looked up. “Yes?” Anything.

“I can enter your mind and show you, but that is a rather dangerous course of action. We both will have to maintain perfect mental discipline, or the effects could be… uncontrollable.”

“What about showing me the memory?” Harry asked.

“That would not work - you would not see what I see, but what an observer would see.” Dumbledore inclined his head. “A quirk of the magic involved, I think. No, I need to impart to you my own vision, so to speak. A very dangerous undertaking even for those who have mastered Occlumency. Many wizards have gone mad in the past when they tried and failed to do similar things - although most of them tried to transfer a skill.” He looked at his familiar, and the phoenix leapt off his perch and landed on his shoulder.

Harry swallowed. That didn’t sound good. If something went wrong… On the other hand, if he couldn’t do this, Voldemort would win. He nodded. “Let’s do it!”

Dumbledore smiled. “I think we should wait a day, and be well-rested before we attempt it.”

Harry sighed, both relieved and disappointed. “Let’s just hope that Voldemort doesn’t make a move in the meantime.”

“Ah… I do not think there’s any danger of that happening. As much as I loathe saying it, I have to assume that my gambit has failed.” Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, rubbing Fawke’s head.

“He didn’t take the bait?”

“No, he did not. I set up a fake Prophecy for a supporter of his, allowing him to enter the well-guarded place where they are stored, but Tom has not contacted the man at all. He is being more cautious than I expected.”

That was really bad news, Harry thought. “So, what do we do then?”

“I have something in mind that he will not be able to ignore,” Dumbledore said. His smile slipped a little. “Although since it will be very dangerous for those involved, you chief among them, he will not expect me to take such a risk.” He sighed. “But sometimes, great risks must be taken, or all may be lost. After all, your protection will not last forever. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

Harry swallowed again.

*****

 


	26. Preparations

**Bay of Islands, New Zealand, December 27th, 1996**

Oliver Anderson usually loved his job - mainly because being a customs official in Magical New Zealand didn’t involve much actual work. Especially at his post in the Bay of Islands. These days most travellers either took an International Portkey to the Ministry in Wellington or a muggle plane. Few ever used ships any more, and few of those who did sailed to the Bay of Islands. The only reason the Bay was still staffed was its historical significance. And the fact that the Australians still used the place to drop off their unwanted muggleborns - which meant all those of non-Aboriginal descent, of course - in accordance with the treaty of 1892.

But that only happened once a year, and the diplomats from the Ministry handled most of the work on those occasions - which was just fine with Oliver; no sane wizard wanted anything to do with the Australians.

Other than that, there were just enough travellers to keep Oliver from dying of boredom, but not so many that he had to work every day. Which meant he could spend most days reading and listening to the Quidditch broadcasts from Wizarding Britain in his office, conveniently kept cool with a few charms.

Most days, but not today, he thought, when he heard the chime informing him of a visitor. Probably a tourist wanting to go sightseeing. Or a muggleborn coming to visit the spot where they had arrived in New Zealand - some of them did that as if doing so would give them their memories back. Sighing, he turned the wireless off - it wouldn’t do to make a bad impression on a visitor - and slid the latest Quidditch Weekly into his top drawer before getting up and heading to the entrance hall.

It wasn’t a tourist, he realised with a gasp as he saw the man through the glass door. It was the Supreme Mugwump - Albus Dumbledore! Waiting in front of his office!

He ripped the door open in his haste - you didn’t leave the most powerful wizard in the world waiting. “Sir! Welcome to the Bay of Islands! How may I help you?”

“Hello, my boy.” The man smiled at him, teeth flashing in the midst of his thick beard. “I’ve just come to borrow one of your ships.”

“One of my ships?” Oliver blinked. What use might Dumbledore have for one of the old ships the customs office kept around? If not for their use by tourists, they would have been scrapped years ago.

“Yes. Even I can’t apparate to this particular destination, and this is the closest harbour with a ship available.” Dumbledore hadn’t lost his smile. “It’s been a while since I took my last trip on a ship, but it’ll come back to me quickly once I’m at sea.”

“At sea?” Oliver blinked. Dumbledore couldn’t mean… “Are you going fishing?” he asked, then wanted to hex himself for his inane question.

The other wizard laughed. “No, no, I’m not going fishing. Although once I’m done with my other business, I might take a little vacation.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need to visit Australia, you see.”

“What?” Oliver didn’t trust his ears. No one went to Australia. And those who did didn’t return. Not alive. Dumbledore had to be joking. After all, he was still smiling widely.

“I need to visit Australia,” Dumbledore repeated. “And I need a ship to take me there - riding a broom over such a distance wouldn’t be comfortable, not at my age.”

“But… the dangers…”

“Oh, pish!” Dumbledore frowned. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Oliver gulped. He had no doubt that trying to tell the Supreme Mugwump what he could and couldn’t do would destroy his career. And he was Dumbledore - the Vanquisher of Grindelwald. If anyone could survive an encounter with the Australian wizards, it would be him. Hadn’t Barry from the office in Wellington told him repeatedly that even the Australians were stepping lightly around the ICW these days, all because of Dumbledore? “Alright then, sir,” he said. “Let me show you the best ship we have available…”

*****

“...and this is how you control the ship’s speed,” Oliver finished his explanation. “However, it is advised not to sail without a full crew, including a navigator.” Not just ‘advised’ - regulations prohibited the use of the ships without a full crew. But Oliver had been in the employ of New Zealand’s Ministry of Magic long enough to know that you couldn’t tell that to the Supreme Mugwump.

“Navigation shouldn’t be a problem,” Dumbledore retorted blithely. “I just have to head west and I’ll make landfall sooner or later.”

“Err… yes, sir.” Oliver grimaced. There was no helping it - Dumbledore seemed determined to take this ‘trip’.

“Good, that’s settled then!” The man still hadn’t stopped smiling. “I’ll be off as soon as you’re back on the pier.”

“Right, sir. Err… do you want me to pass on anything to the Ministry? The Ministry in Wellington, I mean.”

“Ah… just tell ’em that I am off to Australia on private business.”

“Private business?” Oliver stared. What kind of private business did anyone have in Australia?

“Yes.” Dumbledore looked up at the sky. “I think you better disembark - I want to use the remaining daylight to follow the coast up north. Unless you want to come with me?”

Oliver apparated to the pier.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 27th, 1996**

I could reach out and torch the paintings if I wanted, Harry Potter thought as he descended the stairs from the first floor to the ground floor of his home. Even when he didn’t focus on it he could feel the power his mum had left him. It was like a constant presence in the back of his mind, tempting him to use it. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t waste it. He could only use it against Voldemort. He almost wished that he hadn’t accepted Dumbledore’s offer - if he had discovered the power himself, it might feel more natural. Less like a pressure cooker about to burst.

_“Open your mind, Harry,” Dumbledore had said. And Harry had done so. Had stared straight into the Headmaster’s eyes, unflinchingly. Hadn’t moved when Dumbledore had raised his wand and aimed it straight at his head. Hadn’t squeezed his eyes shut when he felt him enter his mind._

_But he had gasped when his mind had suddenly been filled with a vision. Not a vision of Voldemort murdering people. A vision of himself, as Dumbledore saw him. Or Dumbledore’s spell saw him. Or felt him - it had been more than a picture. It had been knowledge. He had known what Dumbledore knew as if he had cast the spell and examined himself._

_He had suddenly known the power the Dark Lord knew not._

Learning how to use it had been easy - the power, despite its origin, was not really different from the energy produced by the other ritual. But to know it, feel it and not use it… that had been hard. He suspected, but hadn’t asked to have it confirmed, that it was because of his Occlumency training that he could never truly ignore the power’s presence.

Harry shook his head when he realised that he had stopped in the middle of the hallway. He couldn’t act like this - Sirius, Hermione and Jeanne would grow suspicious. And Dumbledore had been adamant that Harry couldn’t tell anyone about this. Or about the Headmaster’s plan.

He sighed. He knew why he had to keep those secrets. He understood the Headmaster’s reasons and agreed with them. If anyone else knew about it the whole plan could be put in jeopardy. But to leave his family and friends in the dark still felt wrong.

But as Dumbledore had said - in war, you were often forced to do things you didn’t like but which were necessary. And Harry knew that his friends were keeping secrets of their own. Sirius had never told him what he was doing for Dumbledore, but Harry had his suspicions. Sirius was a skilled fighter, and there had been rumours about fights in Knockturn Alley, according to Moody. And he didn’t expect Hermione to tell him what she was doing for Dumbledore if Dumbledore himself didn’t tell him. Although, once again, he had his suspicions - he knew what Dumbledore was researching, after all.

He entered the kitchen, noticing that no one else but Kreacher was present. And Crookshanks, who was too busy stuffing his face to even glance at him. Hermione would be sleeping in - she did that a lot, Harry had noticed. She even took frequent naps during the day. She must be staying up, reading or researching, far too often. But it was probably needed for the war. And Sirius and Jeanne would have stayed up late doing… well, what Harry would like to do himself if Romilda were living with him.

He grabbed a croissant - warm and fresh - and had Kreacher fill his teacup. He missed his girlfriend. He truly did. Maybe… It wasn’t as if he had anything to do but wait. Wait and do nothing. Especially do nothing with the power he knew he had. A little distraction would only help him do what he needed to.

Smiling, he summoned a sheet of parchment and called Hedwig. He had a letter to send to his girlfriend.

*****

Hermione Granger yawned as she entered the kitchen. It was far too early for any self-respecting cat to be up, but any later and she’d miss out on breakfast. Everyone else was already there. Sirius and Jeanne were feeding each other, Crookshank was waiting for her to feed him, as usual - he was such a good cat - she ignored Kreacher as he ignored her and Harry was… frowning at a letter?

“Bad news?” she asked, sitting down next to him and stretching her arms over her head, then rolling her neck. Which had the side effect of pushing out her chest. Which Harry didn’t even notice.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” Sirius said. “He wanted to meet his girlfriend today, but she is busy with family.”

“Oh.” Hermione buried her first thought - the little witch probably didn’t want her family to know what she had been doing with Harry at Hogwarts - as she took a sip of her tea.

“It’s not bad news,” Harry said. “We can meet next week.”

“At the New Year’s Ball, right?” Jeanne said, smiling at Hermione.

“Ah, yes.” Harry looked surprised.

“You didn’t forget about the ball, did you?” Hermione asked.

“No, of course not.” He stared at the letter again. He had, she thought. Boys! He’d probably spend the entire ball snogging in the winter garden. Well, if Romilda was alright with missing out on dancing, then it was her own fault.

“Chérie, do you know if your friend, Miss Merriweather, will be attending the ball?” Sirius asked suddenly. The dog was smiling with that expression of innocence that didn’t fool anyone who knew him.

“Miss Merriweather?” That was Harry.

Jeanne frowned. “Ah, I don’t know. I haven’t had much contact with her since she went back to the New World.”

“Ah.” And Harry was back to brooding. Just because he couldn’t spend the day snogging with Vane.

Hermione scoffed. She was of a mind to attend the ball in disguise again. Just to test her skills, of course. And maybe establish another fake identity. She’d need an invitation, of course, but she should be able to get one without too much difficulty. Only if she wanted to go to the ball, of course.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 29th, 1996**

_Dumbledore missing! Ministry Cover-up!_

Harry Potter winced when he saw the headline of the Daily Prophet, even though he had expected it. Dumbledore had told him it would happen, after all. But only him, and no one else. And today of all days everyone was early to breakfast!

He could hear Sirius mutter a curse under his breath as he started to read the article. “Seen in New Zealand... headed to Australia… Australia?” Sirius put the newspaper down and shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Merlin’s beard, why would he do that? It’s full of Australians!”

Hermione gasped. “Australia? My parents are there!” Harry felt guilty when he saw her scared expression. “Did something happen to them?”

“He would have told you,” Harry said quickly. “He wouldn’t have gone off without a word to you.”

She bit her lower lip. “But… if it was an emergency…” She stood. “I have to call them!”

And she dashed out of the kitchen as if her robes were on fire. Harry clenched his teeth. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to worry about her parents, but Dumbledore’s instructions had been explicit on the matter.

“This could be a trap,” Sirius said. “A way to find her parents. Dumbledore said he would be away for a few days at least, but...”

Harry flinched under his godfather’s gaze. “I can’t tell you,” he said.

But judging by Sirius’s expression, he had told him enough anyway. “Hell! Australia?” He suddenly frowned. “Did he send the Grangers there in preparation for this?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. Not in the way Sirius meant, that much he knew.

“But you know what he’s doing.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry slowly nodded, pressing his lips together.

Sirius sighed. “And you can’t tell us.”

He shook his head.

Sirius cursed again. But he didn’t press Harry for an answer. Instead, he picked up the Prophet again and continued reading. “How did Skeeter find out about this?”

The Headmaster had arranged that, Harry knew. He shrugged anyway. “Coincidence? She might know someone in New Zealand’s Ministry who overheard something. News of Dumbledore travelling there would be a big thing, wouldn’t it?”

Sirius snorted. “Hell of a coincidence.” He shook his head again, and continued reading.

“Should we let Hermione go out alone?” Jeanne asked. She looked worried, glancing at the door through which Hermione had left.

“She’s going to muggle London,” Harry answered. He tried to smile confidently. “Unless she’s going to her home, she’ll be safe.” And she was too smart to go to her home to call her parents.

He still felt guilty for not telling her. And making her and the others worry.

*****

**London, Greenwich, December 29th, 1996**

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth as she listened to the dialling tone and gripped the receiver of the payphone so hard that  her knuckles turned white. Her parents should be at home - at their hotel. She had their travel itinerary memorised. Unless they had changed their plans on a whim without telling her in advance. That had happened before.

She pressed her lips together. How long would the reception desk take to pick up the phone? Bloody Australians!

“Hilton Darwin, Makepeace speaking. How may I help you?”

Finally! She forced herself not to yell and instead speak calmly. “Hello. I’m Hermione Granger. I would like to speak to Mr and Mrs Granger.”

“One moment, please.”

“Thank you.” She slid a few more coins into the phone. Just in case. And bit her lower lip.

“Hello? Hermione?”

Mum! That was Mum’s voice! “Mum! It’s me! What did I do on my sixth birthday?”

“You had a tantrum because your aunt had sent you a children’s book as a present, and not a ‘real book’. What did I tell you?”

It was Mum. Hermione smiled. “That I couldn’t blame her since I had never told her what I wanted. How are you?”

“We’re fine. We’ve been touring the city. We’re planning to go to the Kakadu National Park next.”

They were sticking to their itinerary, then. Good. “I’m happy to hear that.” She hesitated a moment. Should she worry her parents? They would have told her if Dumbledore had contacted them, wouldn’t they? Or would they assume that she already knew about it? “Mum, did anyone contact you?”

“You mean one of your friends?”

“Or acquaintances.” Any wizard or witch, actually.

“No. You’re the only one from home we’ve been in contact with - other than a few tourists like us, of course.”

Muggle tourists. So, the Headmaster hadn’t contacted them. In hindsight, that was rather obvious - Dumbledore would have asked her how to reach her parents before taking off. Hermione shook her head, berating herself. She had panicked and acted like a fool. But she was still relieved that her parents were fine.

“Dad wants to talk to you, too,” her mum said.

“Alright.”

“Hermione? How are you doing? Are you planning anything for New Year’s Eve?”

“The usual,” she said. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Her parents just didn’t know what she usually did on New Year’s Eve.

“You can read a book at any time, dear. You should go out and have fun.”

“Dad! I’m going to have fun! Just my kind of fun!” she retorted, smiling despite feeling a little guilty. If her parents knew what she was doing… But they didn’t, and they were safe.

*****

Half an hour later, back at Grimmauld Place, Hermione Granger’s good mood had disappeared entirely. “The xenophobia of Magical Australia is widely known,” she said, frowning. “And while the Headmaster is a very powerful wizard, and has dealt with similarly feared wizards himself, I doubt that he would risk a conflict with the Aborigines unless he had no choice.”

She saw that Harry was pressing his lips together and wasn’t looking at anyone else in the room. He had to know what Dumbledore was planning! “Harry?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “Sorry.”

She opened her mouth and drew breath to tell him that he very well could tell her, but Sirius cut her off.

“We understand,” the dog said. He glanced at her, and she frowned as she met his eyes. “Don’t we?”

He started to glare at her, and Hermione pressed her lips together. They were also keeping secrets from Harry, and her friend hadn’t complained about not being told what exactly Hermione was doing for the Headmaster. And yet, she wanted to know what Dumbledore was planning! But she sighed and nodded. If the Headmaster had wanted her to know, he would have told her.

Dumbledore knew what he was doing, after all.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 30th, 1996**

Sitting near the lift, outside the Wizengamot Chamber, Hermione Granger watched the last members of the Wizengamot arrive for today’s special session - an emergency session in all but name - to discuss Dumbledore’s disappearance which had so scared Wizarding Britain. Including many members of the Wizengamot - she could tell despite their attempts to hide their fear; thanks to her cover as Sirius’s secretary, she was familiar with a number of his ‘esteemed colleagues’. Of course, any member of the Order of the Phoenix would have good reason to be concerned - they knew that the Dark Lord was back. But even wizards and witches she was certain were not involved in the war were scared. Like the Minister, she thought as she spotted him leaving the lift.

She narrowed her eyes when she saw who was walking at his side - Lucius Malfoy. The man who had framed her as a thief. The man who had gotten her expelled from Hogwarts and driven her family to ruin. The man who was one of Voldemort’s most important supporters.

He would pay for all of that, she thought as she hid her face behind a sheet of parchment and tried to catch what they were talking about.

“The people are demanding answers, Lucius!” Fudge prattled as the two wizards passed her, “And I can’t give them what they want without Dumbledore!”

“And they shall have them. Dumbledore might be ignoring the turmoil in the Prophet - his opinion of it is well known, after all - but he will not ignore a formal enquiry by the Wizengamot.”

“But what if he doesn’t know what we are doing?”

“Please, Cornelius! You know as well as I do that his friends will inform him.”

They passed through the entrance and the privacy enchantments of the Chamber cut off their conversation. She bit her lower lip. Usually, such conversations were protected by privacy spells. Fudge might be not the sharpest wizard in Britain - Hermione didn’t quite share Sirius’s opinion of the man; Fudge was an experienced politician, after all - but even if he might have forgotten to cast a spell, Malfoy wouldn’t have. But had Malfoy recognised her, and this was staged so Sirius would draw the wrong conclusions, or had he not expected her to be present?

She couldn’t tell. She knew Malfoy was a Death Eater, though, and he would want to check for his master whether or not Dumbledore was still alive. And seeing how scared everyone was - even the Hit-Wizards guarding the Ministry seemed nervous - Hermione had no doubts that Malfoy would succeed in having the Wizengamot formally require Dumbledore’s presence. Something the Headmaster couldn’t easily ignore without consequences. Whether he abandoned whatever he was currently doing - which had to be very important - or not, the Dark Lord would profit. Just like Malfoy would have planned.

And if Dumbledore was dead… Hermione clenched her teeth. He couldn’t be dead. Once again, she wished Harry would tell her what he knew. He would if she and Sirius pressed him. But they couldn’t. It would be wrong. Only an idiot would try to break security that way.

And yet she wanted to know what was going on anyway. Very badly.

*****

Half an hour after the session had started, the lift doors opened again. Hermione Granger looked up from the draft of a proposal for next week’s session. A good thief had to keep an eye out, after all, as Mr Fletcher always said.

“Hello!”

Hermione blinked. “Luna?”

“Yes!” The blonde witch quickly joined her on the bench.

“What are you doing here?”

Luna held up an oversized notepad. “I’m here to report on today’s special session of the Wizengamot. Daddy couldn’t come - he’s investigating another Nargle sighting, although since you can’t see them, it might not be correct to call it a sighting, right?”

Hermione blinked. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” she said.

“Exactly!” Luna beamed at her. “We’ll have to invent a new word, then! Maybe ’hearing’?”

“That’s not a new word,” Hermione pointed out.

Luna pouted. “It would fit perfectly, though. And it would make sense.”

Hermione shrugged. As expected, Luna quickly cheered up. “So, what do you think will happen in the session? Will they pass the emergency bill to ban Dumbledore from importing drop bears?”

“What?”

“Dumbledore was last seen heading to Australia - which, as everyone knows, even muggles, is the home of the deadliest species known to the Magical World. It’s logical that the Wizengamot would be concerned about the danger of an invasive species being introduced to Britain’s ecosystem as a result of his trip.”

“I don’t think that the Wizengamot is concerned about that,” Hermione said. “As far as I know, the Wizengamot has assembled to discuss formally requesting Dumbledore’s presence.”

“To answer charges of smuggling protected species?” Luna asked, leaning towards Hermione with an eager expression on her face.

“I don’t think so.”

Luna huffed. “It seems that despite the progress made concerning the threat from invisible creatures, the Wizengamot continues to display an appalling lack of concern about the dangers to Wizarding Britain’s ecosystem.” She shook her head. “Daddy was correct; this is an important issue about which the public needs to know!”

Hermione sighed as Luna started to scribble down notes for an article Hermione was certain she didn’t want to read.

*****

Sirius was in a bad mood, Hermione Granger noticed straight away when she saw him leave the chamber. That meant that the proposal must have passed. As Malfoy had planned.

“Mr Black! Can you tell us if the Wizengamot has taken measures to protect the ecosystem against invasive Australian species?” Luna piped up, apparently unaware of the man’s dark mood.

“What?” Sirius stared at the witch.

“Luna’s concerned about Dumbledore bringing drop bears to Britain,” Hermione explained.

Luna nodded. “And other Australian magical creatures. They might make good pets and perfect souvenirs, but one must not let one’s love of animals blind oneself to the danger they represent to British species.”

“I think that’s a question the Minister and Mr Malfoy should field,” Sirius said, pointing towards the entrance to the chamber. “They called the session, after all.”

“Alright!” Luna nodded eagerly.

Hermione cast a privacy spell as soon as Luna had marched off to ambush the Minister. “What happened?”

Sirius sighed. “No one knows where Albus is. Not even Doge has any idea. New Zealand’s Ministry doesn’t have any information and the Australians have ignored our enquiry. And so the Wizengamot approved Fudge’s proposal. Albus has a week to present himself to the Wizengamot or he might lose his position as Chief Warlock.”

She muttered a curse. That would help Voldemort immensely.  

“He should have made arrangements in case there was an emergency session of the Wizengamot. The Chief Warlock cannot be incommunicado.” Sirius frowned.

“He wouldn’t risk losing his position, would he?”

“I don’t think so.” He pressed his lips together.

Hermione knew what he was thinking. There was one explanation for Dumbledore’s absence. But that would be a catastrophe.

*****

**Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1996**

“Australia? I can’t believe...”

“...Dumbledore’s been missing for…”

“...Zealand’s Ministry claims that…”

Harry Potter fought not to frown as he led Romilda to the dance floor. He was heartily sick of hearing everyone talking about Dumbledore’s disappearance. Especially since that seemed to be the only thing everyone wanted to talk about with him - that he had received special lessons with Dumbledore wasn’t the secret it should have been.

At least they couldn’t bother him on the dance floor - that would have been the kind of faux pas that led to not being invited to the next New Year’s Ball. He almost sighed with relief when the music started and he could finally dance with Romilda.

“You’re a good dancer.” She smiled at him.

“I can but strive not to embarrass you, milady.” He flashed her a smile of his own. She blushed. Sirius’s lines still worked, he noted. But then, he hadn’t really used any ‘old school charm’, as his godfather called it, on Romilda yet. If only it were a slow dance, he thought as he led her into a turn.

“Can we explore the Winter Garden?” she whispered as the song came to a close. “I’ve heard you can find some marvellous things there.” Her smile told him exactly what she meant. “You brought your Cloak, right?”

He felt his smile slip. “I would love to, but Sirius told me not to leave his sight.”

She frowned in that cute, pouty way of hers. “Isn’t he aware of what we do at Hogwarts?” She glanced over her shoulder at Harry’s godfather, who was chatting with Jeanne and an old wizard Harry didn’t recognise. “Or doesn’t he approve of me?”

“No, no,” Harry was quick to reassure her. “But with Dumbledore missing, he worries about my safety. I was attacked a year ago, remember?”

He felt her tense. “Yes.” She turned around herself, then returned to his arms. “But that was in Hogsmeade. We’re safe here.”

She didn’t know that there were several Death Eaters or sympathisers among the guests. And she didn’t know about Voldemort. So he quoted Moody. “Nothing and nowhere is safe.”

“Really?” Romilda didn’t look like she agreed with him. “Not even the arms of the Boy-Who-Lived?”

That was a perfect set-up if Harry had ever heard one. He grinned and leaned forward slightly. “Especially not my arms,” he whispered with a wink as he moved his hand a little lower down the small of her back.

She drew a hissing breath and he could see her cheeks gain some more colour. But she recovered quickly. “Well, your godfather could watch,” she retorted with a toothy grin.

Sirius would probably agree to that, Harry knew. But the thought of snogging while his godfather - or anyone else - was watching… He snorted. “We could go to my home, first, before I take you back to yours.”

“Mh.” She smiled as she slowly nodded.

Maybe he’d be able to forget all about Dumbledore’s plan for tonight.

*****

Hermione Granger didn’t frown as she watched Harry and Vane dancing. She was too skilled in maintaining her cover for that, no matter how obvious it was that Vane wanted to drag her friend off to the garden or a dark corner elsewhere in the manor. If they were at a muggle club, she’d probably be humping his leg right there  on the dance floor, Hermione thought.

At least Sirius and Jeanne were keeping an eye on Harry. It would be utterly irresponsible for him to go snog Vane with the Headmaster missing and Voldemort gathering his forces. And she was keeping an eye on her friend as well. She raised her glass to her lips and took another sip of the excellent wine.

“Are you enjoying the wine, Miss Davis?”

She nodded at Smith - Fairfax Smith. A cousin of Zacharias Smith’s. “I am, yes. Excellent vintage.”

“In these dark times, my uncle has made every effort to make this ball memorable.”

He was laying it on rather thickly, she thought. She had expected that, of course - he had done the same when trying to seduce Miss Merriweather. “It’s very impressive.”

He smiled as if it had been his gold that paid for the ball. “Are you certain that you’re not related to the Davis family?”

She managed not to frown. She’d get her revenge on that family as well. But she had to play her role. “Oh, I don’t actually know. My family emigrated to the New World a few generations ago.”

“Ah.” His smile grew wider, as she had expected. Implying that she was a pureblood, yet had no close relationship to the Davis family would make her even more attractive to a wizard from an Old Family looking to have an affair.

Unbidden, Jeanne’s ‘advice’ flashed through her mind. She dismissed it - again. She wasn’t looking to have an affair. And if she were, it would certainly not be with Smith. She glanced at Harry, who was dancing a little too close to Vane to be proper. She’d want someone with more intelligence and less bigotry. On the other hand, a dumb bigot would be ideal for an affair without any attachments - she certainly wouldn’t feel guilty for dumping him after she tired of him.

She blinked. Was she actually considering Jeanne’s advice? Certainly not! She had no need of a meaningless affair. Especially not when Dumbledore was missing and Harry was in danger.

Speaking of which, she should probably make contact with Harry. It would be far easier to keep an eye on him if he and Miss Davis were acquainted. She emptied her glass and looked around for a place to put it down. There was a tray floating nearby.

“Allow me!” Smith said, holding out his hand.

She handed her glass to him, and he turned towards the tray. She would have to ditch him before she could ‘meet’ Harry. Without being rude, too. That would require a little more time, she thought. But it didn’t look like Vane would succeed in dragging Harry off any time soon.

Smith returned and she was about to mention her wish to dance - that would get her close to Harry, and allow her daring robes to catch his eye - when she noticed a commotion near the entrance. And Sirius was moving towards Harry, without a care for the other dancing couples that he shouldered his way past.

He wasn’t the only one, either - she saw Amelia Bones march out, followed by Rufus Scrimgeour.

She clenched her teeth. What was going on? She couldn’t ask Sirius, not while disguised… But there was Mr Fletcher. She slowly made her way towards him, not bothering to hide her approach.

As soon as she stood behind him, she heard him whisper: “The Australians claim that they killed Dumbledore. They delivered his wand as proof.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 31st, 1996**

Harry Potter heard his godfather sigh as soon as they were in the entrance hall of their home. Safely behind their wards. “Was that really necessary?” Harry asked as Jeanne closed and locked the door.

“What do you mean?” Sirius glanced at him.

Harry shrugged. “Leaving the ball early. Apparating home. Sending Romilda back with Tonks.” He hadn’t even been able to properly kiss her goodbye. He hoped that she would understand and not blame him for Sirius’s actions. And getting dragged away by his godfather wouldn’t have looked impressive either, he realised with a frown.

“Yes. Your safety takes priority.” Sirius didn’t quite glare at him.

“The Smiths’ home was safe. You said so yourself,” Harry objected. Voldemort wouldn’t risk exposure by having one of his followers among the guests attack Harry and the Thief’s Downfall at the entrance would defeat even Polyjuice Potion and the Imperius Curse.

“That was before I heard about Dumbledore’s... wand.” Sirius pressed his lips together. Jeanne squeezed his shoulder.

“Do you really think Voldemort would attack the ball?” Harry didn’t quite snort, but he came close.

“Better safe than sorry,” Sirius shot back. “At least until we know more. Dumbledore’s wand…” He shook his head.

Harry clenched his teeth. Everyone knew that if the Australians had the Headmaster’s wand, odds were that they were telling the truth about his death. Just as… He saw something move near the stairs and drew his wand before he realised that it was the stray. The cat was staring at him, seemingly frozen for an instant, before darting up the stairs.

Harry sighed and lowered his wand again. Hermione might claim it wasn’t her cat, but the stray certainly didn’t act like that was true. Then he blinked. They were still standing in the entrance hall, and his friend hadn’t shown up yet. “Does Hermione know about this already?”

“I don’t think so,” Sirius said.

“I’ll go tell her then,” Harry said. Hermione would want to know about this at once, he knew.

“Ah… she might already be asleep,” Jeanne said. “Or indecent. I’ll go fetch her.”

Harry snorted. “She comes to breakfast in her pyjamas.” And he had seen her naked thanks to his glasses anyway. Several times, he thought with a guilty feeling.

“Oh, you want to catch her naked? By all means, go ahead then!” Sirius said with a sudden leer.

Harry glared at him as Jeanne walked towards the stairs.

A few minutes later she returned with Hermione - in her pyjamas, as expected - in tow.

“Harry! Are you alright?” His friend moved towards him and, for a moment, he expected her to hug him. She stopped short, though, and looked him over.

“I’m fine,” he responded. “Sirius overreacted. Almost dragged me away from the ball.”

“Oh.”

He nodded, then frowned. Was that perfume? But she had already been in bed. Probably a new shower lotion, he concluded. “Romilda wasn’t happy to have her evening cut short either,” he added.

Hermione shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

He snorted. If Romilda didn’t understand that it was Sirius’s fault, Harry might end up both safe and sorry.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 1st, 1997**

“...and Ollivander also confirmed it: It’s Dumbledore’s wand. His grandfather made it.” Tonks grimaced as she finished her report.

Harry Potter wasn’t the only one who winced upon hearing that. Everyone in Sirius’s living room did. Hermione reached over and squeezed his knee, and he felt another pang of guilt shoot through him. If she knew…

“Mate,” Ron said, looking grim. “You know what this means.”

“He’ll come for me,” Harry said. As expected.

“And he’ll have to go through us to get you.” Ron nodded and clasped Harry’s shoulder. “With the Headmaster… missing, you’re our only hope.”

Harry had to laugh at that, despite the situation. He glanced to his side and saw that Hermione was smiling. Ron looked confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Just thought of something funny.”

Ron huffed.

“There’s more,” Tonks said. She looked at Harry. “Your presence is requested at the Wizengamot session tomorrow.” She sighed. “Sirius is talking to Fudge, that’s why he didn’t come back with me, but he won’t be able to reverse the decision even if he manages to convince Fudge. The Wizengamot’s panicking. At least the ones who aren’t Death Eaters.”

“Are they so scared that they want Harry to protect them?” Jeanne asked. She could sound a little less incredulous, Harry thought.

“They’ve heard about your special lessons with Dumbledore,” Tonks nodded at him. “And Malfoy’s been telling everyone that you’d know more about the Headmaster’s disappearance and that you have to appear to be interrogated.”

“Bloody bugger,” Ron muttered.

Harry expected Hermione to tell Ron to watch his language, but she nodded in agreement instead.

“This looks like a set-up,” she said with a snarl. “Malfoy demanding that Harry has to appear before the Wizengamot? It’s a trap!”

“You can’t go!” Ron agreed.

“That’s probably what Malfoy wants - if Harry doesn’t go, he’ll be a wanted wizard,” Tonks said.

Steps in the hallway made everyone tense, but when the door was pushed open, Harry saw it was Sirius. His godfather seemed spitting mad - he slammed the door shut. “That useless bloody fool!” He sat down in his favourite armchair and Jeanne moved to sit on the armrest. They held hands for a moment. “Did Tonks tell you?” he asked, looking at Harry.

“That Malfoy wants to lure me into a trap? Yes,” Harry said.

“Yes.” Sirius bared his teeth. “Fudge wouldn’t budge - Malfoy must have paid him a fortune. And the rest are scared. Even Doge voted to question Harry!”

“He doesn’t have to go,” Hermione said. “Even if the Wizengamot has the Aurors hunt him he’d be safer than there.” She stood. “We can move to a safe house.”

“There’s no house that’s safe with Dumbledore dead,” Ron said. “We should…”

Everyone froze as the door opened again. Then gasps and curse words filled the room.

“The reports of my death have been slightly exaggerated.”

*****

The Headmaster was alive! Hermione Granger almost cried with relief. He must have succeeded at whatever he had been doing, and returned in time to counter Malfoy’s plots. Then she noticed that Harry wasn’t looking surprised. Nor really relieved. That meant…

“This was planned!” she blurted out, glaring at her friend. He had known the truth and hadn’t told her while everyone had been afraid and worried! “You knew the Headmaster wasn’t missing!”

Harry cringed, but before he could answer, Dumbledore spoke up. “Indeed. I apologise for deceiving you, and for having Harry keep my secret while you were left ignorant and worried, but I needed your reactions to be genuine to fool Voldemort.” The Headmaster slowly nodded with a faint smile.

Hermione blinked. “It’s a trap, but for Voldemort?”

“Yes, Miss Granger. What better way to trap him than by using his own plans?” Dumbledore’s smile grew.

“With Harry as bait!” Sirius stood, almost causing Jeanne to fall to the ground as he bared his teeth and snarled. “What are you…”

“I volunteered,” Harry cut in, standing as well. He was staring at his godfather “And no, I can’t wait until I’m an adult. Mum’s protection won’t last forever. If we don’t do this soon, I’ll be defenceless against him.”

Sirius clenched his teeth. If he had been in his dog form, he would likely have been growling loudly enough to scare a dragon. Even so, he made a decent effort, Hermione noticed.

“Please, Sirius.”

Dumbledore, probably wisely, didn’t say anything as Harry and Sirius stared at each other. Hermione held her breath.

Slowly, Sirius nodded and pressed his lips together. He was trembling. Harry stepped up to him and hugged him, but even then Hermione saw that it took Sirius half a minute before he started to relax. Jeanne was looking at them with a rather sad smile but didn’t move closer. And Ron looked like he wasn’t certain whether or not he should be present as Sirius and Harry whispered to each other.

After another minute, Sirius sighed, then released Harry and glared at Dumbledore. “So, what exactly is your plan?”

Dumbledore took a seat in an armchair he conjured - with a different wand than his usual one, Hermione noticed. Had he sacrificed his wand for this deception, or did he plan to recover it before tomorrow? “Voldemort will not be able to resist the opportunity with which he has been presented. In one fell swoop, he not only rids himself of Harry - the only one who can threaten him, or so he believes - along with the Order who will be protecting him, but also terrifies the Wizengamot and the Ministry by triumphantly announcing his return. And when he makes his entrance, Harry and I will face and defeat him while the Order and those among the Ministry’s wands willing to fight will take on the Death Eaters with him. With the Dark Lord defeated, his followers will break.”

Sirius scoffed. “The Aurors are worthless.”

“Hey!” Tonks glared at him, her wand twitching.

“Present company excluded,” he added hastily. “However, what makes you so certain that he’ll appear in person? He was defeated twice by Harry. He could just as well simply send his Death Eaters. Or use some imperiused Auror to try and kill Harry.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “He will not let someone else upstage him. Even if he might plan to avoid facing Harry directly, he will have to be present for his return to have the greatest possible impact on the country.” With a slightly grim smile, he added: “We have a spy in his inner circle.”

“It’s not Snivellus, is it? The Dark Lord would be an utter idiot to trust that git again after his first betrayal,” Sirius said with a sneer. Hermione had to agree.

“It’s not Severus,” Dumbledore answered, stressing the name.

“Who is it, then?” Tonks asked. “I’d rather not curse an ally by mistake.”

“If it’s a spy like Snivellus, then curse away. They’d deserve it,” Sirius muttered.

“They will reveal themselves once the trap is sprung; do not worry,” Dumbledore said.

“I think you are going a little overboard with the secrecy,” Sirius said in a bitter tone. “Do you even know everything that’s going on any more?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I would rather err on the side of caution than risk exposing our plan to the enemy.” He held up his left hand. “I do trust the Order members not to betray us, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Sirius flinched slightly at that. Hermione wondered if he’d realised that he’d be a hypocrite to complain about being kept in the dark while keeping secrets of his own from Harry. Not that she was any better - she wasn’t telling Harry everything either. But they could have told her. She was a good actress - she wouldn’t have let anything slip! They could have trusted her. It was probably the Headmaster’s fault.

“So, you’re calling the whole Order for this?” Tonks asked.

“Those among the Order who can fight. I have taken steps to ensure that we can use the Floo Network to enter the Ministry while our enemies will be stuck once the trap has been sprung.” Dumbledore leaned back. “That will also allow you to familiarise yourself with your allies, and avoid confusion during the battle.”

“Good.” Sirius nodded. “We’ll be the vanguard then?”

“Yes.” Dumbledore nodded at the gathered wizards and witches. “With the exception of Mr Weasley; his presence might tip off our enemies.”

“Like hell!” Ron jumped up. “If they know about Harry’s special lessons, then they know that I’ve been with him all the way! I’ll be with him.”

Dumbledore looked at Ron, but Ron didn’t flinch. After a moment, the Headmaster nodded. “Very well. I am certain your mother will understand.”

Ron flinched at that but pressed his lips together. “Harry’s my best friend.”

Dumbledore chuckled, once. “And I somehow doubt I or anyone else could stop you from coming along anyway. Very well.”

“But Hermione should stay at home,” Harry said. “We can claim she’s sick.”

“What?” Hermione glared at him and bared her teeth. How dare he!

“Be reasonable! You can’t fight as well as the rest of us. Putting yourself in danger for no gain makes no sense at all.”

“I can fight well enough!” She was tempted to demonstrate right then how well - on him.

“No, you can’t!” Harry looked at Sirius. “Tell her!”

When he didn’t correct Harry at once she glared at the dog. “If I’m not with you then Voldemort might suspect a trap. I’m your secretary.” Officially, at least.

“We can claim she’s sick.”

Now Harry wasn’t even talking to her again? Hermione huffed. “I can take care of myself and you know it,” she told the dog.

He coughed. “Well, you’re harder to hit than you were when you trained with Harry, but you’re not on the level of him or Ron. Or Tonks. I think you shouldn’t be fighting.”

She was about to tell the dog what she thought of his arrogance when Dumbledore spoke up: “I have to concur with your friends, Miss Granger. While you have been training hard with Sirius, your training focused on escaping when attacked - and tomorrow, we will be the ones attacking the enemy. Your presence might be exploited by the enemy to distract Harry at a crucial moment. Further, while you are correct in that you would usually be present at Sirius’s side, our enemy does expect Harry and his guardians to be scared after my apparent demise. It would not be very suspicious to leave you at home under those circumstances.”

Hermione swallowed her angry retort - with some difficulty. She couldn’t yell at the Headmaster. That would be pointless and make her look childish and stupid. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was correct - and yet not. She wasn’t as helpless or as useless as Harry thought. But he didn’t know that and he would worry about her. And that might get him killed.

But knowing that didn’t mean she liked it. Or wanted to admit it. Not that she thought she could say anything without yelling. So she clenched her teeth until they hurt, sat down and glared at her stupid friend and the stupid dog as they planned the ambush tomorrow.

*****

Hermione Granger was about to go to bed - she’d have to get up early tomorrow to prepare - when she heard someone knocking on her door. “Yes?” she said, after a quick check that nothing incriminating had been left in the open.

The door opened and Dumbledore entered. “Good evening, Miss Granger. I am glad that I caught you before you went to bed.”

She tensed. She could handle Harry, and the dog would approve of what she was planning - anything to protect Harry - but the Headmaster… When he closed the door behind her and cast a privacy spell, she bit her lower lip. “How can I help you?” she asked, sitting down on her bed.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped over to her desk and sat down on her chair. “It is about tomorrow.”

She frowned. “You’ve made your opinion clear. I don’t like it, but I have to agree: We can’t risk Harry being distracted by worrying about me during the battle.” Which her stupid friend would.

He smiled. “While I applaud your wisdom, I have to point out that what you said doesn’t mean that you agree that you should stay away from the Ministry.”

She didn’t flinch - she was a good actress. And a good thief never admitted anything, even when confronted with the truth. “What do you mean?”

His smile only grew wider. “You would not be planning to sneak into the Ministry tomorrow in disguise, would you?”

She pressed her lips together. Why had she thought that she would be able to get one over on the Headmaster? He knew exactly what she was capable of. “That would be reckless.”

“Without a doubt.” He inclined his head. “But you have not denied it.”

She hung her head in response. “I can’t just sit here and wait. I’m not as bad as he thinks I am.”

“I trust you did not plan to enter the fight disguised as a stranger.”

“No!” she retorted. “That would be foolish.”

“What was your plan, then?” he asked in a calm voice, as if he was asking after her homework.

“Sneak in, ambush a straggler or two.” And keep an eye on Harry.

He shook his head. “I think our cause would be much better served if you put your talents to a different use.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Allow me to explain.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 2nd, 1997**

Harry Potter couldn’t help feeling nervous as he waited in the entrance hall of his home. Soon he would be headed to the Ministry to trigger Voldemort’s ambush. That Dumbledore was already there - Sirius had checked twice through a mirror - was not as reassuring as it should have been; Harry knew it would come down to him to defeat Voldemort.

And that Hermione was frowning at him didn’t help either, of course.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She huffed and looked at the fireplace behind him. “The Headmaster was right.”

She didn’t say that Harry was right, he noted. “Well…” he trailed off. He didn’t know what to tell his best friend. She couldn’t come with him, but leaving her to wait like this felt wrong as well. He shrugged instead.

She bit her lower lip for a moment, then lunged at him, hugging him before he could react. Hard, too - but then, he knew how toned her body was. “Stay safe, you hear?” she whispered.

“Of course,” he said, patting her back. He hoped he wasn’t lying.

She sniffed - or sniffled; he couldn’t tell - and released him. Ron had a moment to brace himself before she hugged him as well. Harry could see him tense, then nod.

She released Ron as well and took a few steps back, facing them. “Remember: Stay safe. Don’t do anything foolish.” She nodded sharply at them, then marched off before they could say anything in response.

Once she had disappeared upstairs, Ron sighed and looked at Harry. “Luna was the same, yesterday.”

Harry nodded, then looked at the clock on the wall. Still not time to go. The Order would have already gathered at Hogwarts, at least those members who had no excuse to be at the Ministry.

“We’re not to go until Dumbledore gives us the go-ahead,” Ron said. “Percy has to secure the Floo Network first, or we might get rerouted.”

“I know,” Harry said, trying to hide his irritation. “I wouldn’t go without Sirius anyway.” He sighed. The waiting was the worst. Maybe he should have sneaked out last night and visited Romilda for a last snog. Or something more. But even if he had managed to evade Sirius and the others watching over him, her home wasn’t safe. He snorted. And Sirius and Hermione would have cursed him.

Ron polished his wand again as if that would help him fight. Harry looked at the clock again. Was it even working? He wanted to go now. To get it over with. Before he lost his nerve. Stick to the plan, he reminded himself. Everyone was counting on him.

When Sirius and Jeanne arrived in the hall, Harry was so startled he almost drew on his godfather.

Sirius didn’t seem to notice.

“Dumbledore called. It is safe to go to the Atrium, but he hasn’t spotted Voldemort yet.”

Which meant Harry had to be the bait to draw him out and couldn’t simply wait until Dumbledore had engaged the Dark Lord. He nodded, swallowing dryly.

“Let’s go then.”

*****

 


	27. Culmination

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 2nd, 1997**

“Morning.”

Rodney Smith nodded to the two Hit-Wizards standing guard as he passed them, taking the stairs leading up to what the Ministry employees working there called the ‘attic floor’ - the floor above the Atrium’s ceiling, above all of the Ministry’s floors - where most of the maintenance charms were cast when needed.

Unlike the floor below the Department of Mysteries, where the anchors of the wards and the central Air-Refreshing and Cooling Charms were located, this floor wasn’t restricted to only a few key Ministry employees and heavily guarded. The charms maintained here were not crucial or essential, but convenient.

Although, Rodney thought as he approached the door to the floor, if the lifts stopped working and the water stopped flowing in the pipes, the Ministry would likely break down - most of his so-called colleagues would probably collapse after three flights of stairs, and he doubted that even a tenth of them could cast a Water-Making Spell. Or an Air-Cleaning Charm. Or any of the other spells cast here. And yet, none of them cared about those who kept all those spells going, as if that were beneath them.

He snorted as he opened the door. Not that he could blame them - he didn’t care about his co-workers either. Half-bloods and mudbloods, the lot of them, and a few purebloods too poor or too stupid to land a decent job.

Or, in his own case, too honest to lie and suck up to their superiors, and toe the Ministry’s line about equality as dictated by Dumbledore. He scoffed as he closed the door behind him and cast an Alarm Charm on it. But Dumbledore was dead, and the Dark Lord would show the fools the error of their ways. And those who stood for what was right, those who knew blood counted, would be rewarded.

Like himself.

He looked around. No one but him was present. The small area that had been turned into a mixture of office and break room was empty. He didn’t spot any bottles or newspapers stained with fat and vinegar, which meant that Clarke had had the last shift yesterday. She was a mudblood, but at least she cleaned up after herself. And after her co-workers.

One might even say she knew her place.

He chuckled, briefly, as he stepped past the battered ice box holding some beer bottles, and approached the plaque - or ‘headstone’, as his co-workers called it in a dim-witted attempt at humour - for the spells controlling the lifts and drew his wand. The Dark Lord’s orders were clear - Rodney was to sabotage the lifts first, then the Air-Cleaning Charms.

He was about to replace the spells controlling the lifts’ doors when he saw something move in the shadows. “Who’s there?” he yelled, then clenched his teeth. If one of his co-workers had missed the notification about the ‘schedule changes’ he had faked...

“Miaow!”

He blinked. A cat? Here? Had someone other than him shown some initiative and common sense and brought a cat to get rid of the mice and rats infesting the attic? He chuckled when he spotted a black cat eyeing him from behind a plaque listing the spells that controlled the Air-Cleaning Charms - not to be mistaken with Air-Refreshing Charms - on the third floor. “Better get away from there,” he said, making shooing motions with his hand, “you might not like the backlash when I disable them.” Or the poison spells with which he was to replace a select few of those charms.

As if it had understood him, the cat moved away from the plaque, towards the ice box and table behind him. “Good kitty!” he said, then turned around, back to work. He raised his wand - and froze when he heard someone behind him.

“Drop your wand!”

He swallowed. How had they managed to get through the door? He hadn’t heard the chime from his spell. If he botched the mission the Dark Lord had given him…

“Now!”

He dropped his wand, then watched as it jumped up and away, summoned from behind him. “I’m just doing some maintenance,” he said, slowly turning his head, then froze again. There was a figure with a black mask covering her entire face behind him. A witch - her black leather clothing left no doubt - with her wand aimed at him.

Fear gave way to hope. She wasn’t an Auror or Hit-Wizard. And while she wasn’t wearing black robes and a white mask, her outfit certainly looked fit for a dark witch. Who else would infiltrate the Ministry in such an outfit but a follower of the Dark Lord? He swallowed again.

“Disabling the Air-Cleaning Charms?” She had a rather husky voice, he noticed even as he cursed himself for speaking to the cat.

“I’m just following orders. Special orders.” If she was a Death Eater, she would understand what he meant.

“I see.” She nodded, and he started to smile. Were those stripes on her mask? Or...

Then her wand moved, and everything went dark.

*****

Hermione Granger pointed her wand at the fallen wizard and cast a full Body-Bind Curse on him. As soon as he had snapped into a stiff position on the ground, she followed it up with an Incarcerous Spell, tying him up with conjured ropes. She hesitated a moment - she wanted to interrogate the Death Eater. Find out what he knew. Who had given him his orders. But she had orders of her own. And neither the time nor the Veritaserum to interrogate the traitor. So after a look at his badge and a quick check for poison vials or other dangerous items in his possession, she aimed her wand at his head and removed the last few minutes from his memory. It wouldn’t do to have anyone hear about a thief, or a black cat, in the attic of the Ministry.

Then she walked back to the Air-Cleaning Charm she had been in the process of unravelling when the man had disturbed her. It took her but a few more moments to finish her work. Finding the right conduits that transported the cleaned air down to the offices below her took longer, even with the notes she had been given - which, she suspected, had come from Percy Weasley. They weren’t in his handwriting, but she recognised the style from the notes Ron had passed to her when she had been revising for her O.W.L.s.

Smiling slightly, she cast a Bubble-Head Charm and pulled out the vials Dumbledore had given her, then unstoppered one straight under the conduit marked ‘3-2’. She didn’t see any smoke raise from the vial, but the light blue liquid quickly evaporated. An odourless and colourless sleeping gas - just what she’d expect from a renowned alchemist like the Headmaster.

Nodding, she moved to the next conduit. There were five more offices presumably occupied by traitors to neutralise.

Unlike Jeanne, she might not be allowed to openly fight at Harry’s side - if only she had been allowed to tell him that she wasn’t as helpless as he thought she was! - and, as the traitor sleeping next to her showed, she couldn’t risk fighting while masked either, or she might be mistaken for a Death Eater, but she would do her part to keep her friends safe.

She just wished she had been allowed to deal with Malfoy and his ilk in the Wizengamot.

*****

Harry Potter stumbled and almost fell as he stepped out of the fireplace in the Atrium. Sirius moved to catch him, but he recovered before his godfather could reach him. One of the Hit-Wizards standing guard snickered and Harry clenched his teeth. If that idiot knew what was about to happen…

He took a deep breath as Ron appeared behind him, trying not to feel too jealous of how his friend didn’t stumble at all, walking out of the fireplace as easily and smoothly as if he were walking through a door. He couldn’t get angry over such petty things. Not when he was about to confront the Dark Lord himself.

He used a cleaning charm to remove the soot and ash from his robes and didn’t reholster his wand. While Sirius cast a privacy charm, Harry ran his free hand through his hair, using the gesture to mask how he tapped the frame of his glasses to activate its See-Through-Walls Charm. He let his gaze wander over the Atrium. As he had been told, the walls and floors of the Ministry were protected against that kind of spell - apparently, as Sirius had explained, to keep employees from spying on their rivals, not because they feared ambushes. But the pillars and decorations weren’t protected, and he spotted two people sitting behind the fountain who had drawn their wands but kept them in their robes. Two wizards he didn’t know.

“Two behind the statue,” he reported as he stepped up to his godfather.

“Tonks has an eye on them,” Sirius said in response, his head moving slightly.

Harry glanced over and saw a rather frumpy-looking witch cleaning a spill on the floor near the lift that led to muggle London above them. Another wizard seemed to be taking his time pruning the potted plants near the stairs. He knew there were no others in hiding, although Dumbledore said he had picked the Hit-Wizards and Aurors deployed in the Atrium with Madam Bones. They might not be in the know, but they weren’t traitors either. Not even the man who’d laughed at him stumbling. Still, that made three suspected spies nearby, but no Dark Lord.

And they couldn’t spring the trap until Voldemort appeared. Dumbledore couldn’t lock the Ministry down and call in their reinforcements until they knew their trap had worked. Which meant Harry had to keep acting as bait. What if Voldemort had grown suspicious and sent three assassins to kill Harry instead of coming in person? Could they really trust Dumbledore’s plan? It all seemed based on his still unknown spy. It had been easy to believe in the Headmaster back in Grimmauld Place, but now...

He took a deep breath and started to walk towards the lift, where two more Hit-Wizards stood guard. The two suspects hiding behind the fountain’s statue weren’t moving, but the one pruning the plants was looking at him. Harry tensed. The man was using his wand and could easily cast at him instead of at the ferns, or whatever those plants were - he didn’t remember them from Herbology.

Was Voldemort waiting until he was in the lift? Dumbledore had said they would control all of the lifts in the Ministry, but what if something went wrong? Harry didn’t want to die in a trapped cabin, unable to defend himself.

They were halfway through the Atrium now. Just about the worst position - no cover nearby, and everyone, even the ones hiding behind the fountain, now had a line of sight on him. He felt horribly exposed. Sweat started to run down his face and he expected a curse to fly towards him at any moment.

The lift doors opened and a young wizard strode out. Followed by half a dozen floating markers - Harry’s Human-presence-revealing Spell pointing out disillusioned wizards and witches. He wasn’t paying attention to them, though. He was staring at the wizard. He knew that face. He had seen it in his visions - and his nightmares.

Suddenly, he wasn’t sweating any more. Or nervous. He clenched his teeth and glared at the man and spat out: “Voldemort!”

He saw the eyes of the man - of the Dark Lord - widen for an instant and Harry flicked his wand up. Voldemort was already moving, though - falling into a duelling stance as a Shield Charm appeared around him. But Harry hadn’t been casting at the Dark Lord - he had aimed at the ground before him, conjuring a stone wall. An instant later, Sirius added another right in front of it.

Just in time to stop the fragments from Harry’s wall when Voldemort blew it up. Ron added another wall as the three of them were turning to run towards cover, followed by a second explosion. Harry clenched his teeth - where was Dumbledore? The other Death Eaters with Voldemort would cast any second now, and the Dark Lord would not keep blasting walls. If the Headmaster didn’t…

At that moment, the floor underneath his feet rose, forming a wave that both shielded Sirius, Ron and himself and carried them rapidly towards the fountain. The fountain! He gasped, trying to aim his wand while riding a stone wave - there were two Death Eaters hiding behind it! But when he was deposited behind the fountain’s marble basin, the wave freezing and forming a shelter covering half the atrium, he saw both of them on the ground - one face down in a spreading pool of blood, the other crumpled against the foot of the statue, the water around him turning pink.

Tonks! He flicked his head around - the Auror was fighting the suspect who had been pruning the plants. Both were using the pillars, which were already sporting dents and craters, as cover, stepping out from behind them to cast, before darting back into cover. But Harry had a clear line of sight on the Death Eater.

His Piercing Curse splashed against the man’s shield, shattering it. His Bludgeoning Curse missed the man - he had thrown himself to the ground - but Harry’s Blasting Curse hit the ground right next to him, throwing the man back and out of his cover. The Death Eater’s screams were cut off by Tonks’s next curse, and he collapsed in a heap on the marble floor.

Tonks started towards his position and Harry whipped his head around. The stone wave was still holding - Dumbledore’s spells were much harder to dispel or destroy, of course. But where… There! He saw the Headmaster in a corner, near the stairs, moving quicker and more gracefully than Harry would have expected as curses flew at him, some splashing against his Shield Charm, others being intercepted by floating blocks of shiny metal that whirled around Dumbledore. One of the guards stationed there was on the ground, missing most of his lower body and legs, the other had taken cover behind the closest pillar.

Dumbledore’s voice - amplified - filled the Atrium. “There’s no way out, Tom. We were ready for you.”

Harry couldn’t see what Voldemort and his followers were doing - the stone wave was blocking his line of sight. He cast a Shield Charm and was about to move to the end of the wave when he noticed something moving above him. A white cloud was rolling over the edge of the stone wave, sinking down towards the ground.

“Watch out!” he shouted, throwing himself away from the shelter. Ron and Sirius were slower to react and they went through the cloud as they, too, jumped back. Harry saw the cloud seep through their shields, disappearing as it touched them. Tonks stopped her sprint and fell to the floor. Or threw herself down, Harry couldn’t tell. The cloud hit the ground and formed a pool. An instant later, it ignited, creating a wall of fire.

And Sirius and Ron screamed as they, too, caught fire. Harry gasped, horrified, then stabbed his wand forward.

“Aguamenti!”

Water covered both, but their Shield Charms stopped it from touching the fire. “Drop the shields!” he yelled, then recast his spell. After a moment, the shields disappeared, and the water splashed over them, extinguishing the flames - for a moment. The fire reappeared as soon as the stream of water from Harry’s wand let up. That meant… “Flame-Freezing Charm!” Harry yelled as he cast, followed by Tonks. Sirius and Ron added their own.

For a moment, Harry stared at them - covered in flames but alive. Ron cursed. “Bloody Hell! Let’s get this stuff off! Scourgify! Scourgify!”

And the flames on the ground were growing closer - the liquid was spreading. Harry aimed his wand and vanished the closest part of the spreading pool while Tonks raised another wall as cover.

The fire stopped for the moment and, Voldemort’s line of sight still blocked by Dumbledore’s wave, Harry glanced at Sirius and Ron. Both looked awful, large parts of their hair missing, holes and blackened stains covering their robes, and their exposed skin… He winced at the sight.

“Wasn’t a dark curse,” Ron managed to say with a forced grin. “Hurts like one, though.”

Flashes drew Harry’s attention, and he almost started casting before he realised that the fireplaces in the Atrium were activating. To his relief, the first one out of them was Moody, a grin on his scarred face and his wand flashing. And, behind the old Auror, more Order members poured out of the fireplace, fanning out.

Not a moment too soon - Dumbledore was standing alone now, the second guard having fallen at his side, and was still facing the Dark Lord and his followers. And behind him, someone was descending the stairs. Harry’s eyes widened when he recognised Lucius Malfoy.

“Headmaster! Behind you!” he yelled, as loudly as he could, as he raised his wand - at that distance, any precise spell was likely to miss, and a Blasting Curse would endanger Dumbledore as well. That left a conjured…

But Malfoy was already casting, his wand flashing - and a red spell flew past Dumbledore, towards the Death Eaters’ position. Harry gaped.

And the Dark Lord yelled: “Traitor!”

A moment later, Malfoy collapsed, screaming and holding his left arm. Whatever was hurting him let up as soon as Dumbledore took a step forward, though, and sent more spells at the Dark Lord. Once more, the Headmaster’s voice rang through the entire Atrium. “Lay down your wands! The Dark Lord’s plan was doomed from the start. You are outnumbered and trapped. Surrender and your lives will be spared.”

“Sirius!”

Harry glanced to his side. That was Jeanne, rushing towards them, Remus right behind her, as the rest of the Order surged forward.

“Ron!”

And Mrs Weasley! He winced at her expression.

“Mum! I’m OK!” Ron lied.

Harry was about to say that it hadn’t been a dark curse when the lift to muggle London vanished in an explosion. He stepped forward, his Shield Charm stopping stone fragments from hitting him or the people behind him, as a dust cloud filled that part of the Atrium.

And then figures on brooms shot out of the cloud. Figures wearing black robes and white masks.

That lift was supposed to have been locked!, Harry thought as he sent a Bludgeoning Charm at the closest broom rider. The spell splashed against the man’s Shield Charm, but it was strong enough to push the Death Eater off course - and straight into another Death Eater. Both lost control over their brooms, one crashing and sliding several yards over the marble floor while the other flew into a pillar.

“Taking right!” Ron yelled as he caught that one with a Piercing Curse before the Death Eater, whose shield hadn’t survived the impact with the pillar, reached the ground.

Harry hit the other Death Eater with a Cutting Curse just as he was trying to get up and the man collapsed, blood spurting from the stump of his leg. Harry took him out with a Piercing Curse to the head before the man could stop the bleeding.

But at least a dozen Death Eaters were still left, with more coming down the shaft. And half of them were veering around, wands flashing as they aimed at Harry’s group while the rest flew towards Voldemort’s position.

A wall rose in the air in front of them, courtesy of Sirius, but it started to crumble after a moment as spells slammed into it.

“Above us!” Jeanne yelled as her curse missed a broom rider diving at them.

Harry jumped to the side as the floor near him blew up. Reductor Curse, he thought as he rolled over the floor, his shield dealing with the fragments thrown his way. A Blasting Curse would have been a better choice. Ron cast and missed the Death Eater as well, but Sirius got him with a Flame-Whip Spell that cut the man and his broom in two.

Harry glanced at the rest of the Order. Mrs Weasley was screaming - but she was standing and casting, and didn’t seem hurt. Mr Weasley had joined her, his own wand weaving. Remus was near Tonks, casting curses at a Death Eater circling above them. Then the remains of Sirius’s wall shattered, and Harry threw himself on the ground as half a dozen curses flew through the resulting dust cloud. He heard a scream behind him, but he couldn’t spare the time to check who was it - the Death Eaters were charging.

One was flying straight at him, yelling and casting wildly. Harry clenched his teeth and rose into a crouch as a curse passed over his head and another went wide. His own Piercing Curses didn’t miss - the first shattered the man’s Shield Charm, the second went through his throat, destroying his mask in the process. The Death Eater’s scream turned into a gurgling noise, blood shooting out of his neck as he crashed into the fountain.

But the other Death Eaters were now above him and the rest of the Order and curses started to rain down on them. One spell clipped Harry’s shield and only a roll to the side saved him from getting splashed with the green, sizzling liquid - acid or poison - created by the curse.

He rolled and came up with his wand leading, but the Death Eater had already pulled away. It didn’t matter - there were plenty of targets in the air. Harry hit another Death Eater with a Piercing Curse, shattering the man’s shield, a moment before a fire whip sliced into the man. He fell from his broom, clutching at his side, and didn’t get up. Harry hit him with a Cutting Curse anyway - Moody had played possum once too often for Harry to be sloppy.

The Order had rallied and curses started to fill the air, but most had trouble hitting the broom riders. Fortunately, the Death Eaters also had trouble aiming while flying at high speed inside the Atrium.

Unfortunately, Blasting Curses didn’t require much precision. Harry saw one curse hit the floor near two older wizards. The explosion left both of them on the ground, unconscious or dead. Another Order member ran screaming through the Atrium towards Harry - no, towards the fountain behind Harry. The wizard’s arms seemed to be melting, Harry saw, feeling sick. The man collapsed in front of Harry, his legs starting to liquify as well.

Harry aimed his wand, but he couldn’t think of a spell that would help the man. And then the wizard exploded, struck by another Blasting Curse, and Harry was thrown back, his Shield Charm shattering.

He landed hard, bruising his back on some rubble, and came to rest in a puddle - the fountain was leaking. He recast his Shield Charm as he changed position - always stay moving, Moody had taught him - and a curse struck the fountain behind him, shattering the marble basin. Water started to rush out, and Harry had to struggle to stay upright as he returned fire with a few Bludgeoning Curses. He missed the wizard, but the man’s frantic evasions caused him to fly into a pillar. That stopped his flight long enough for Harry to hit him with a Cutting Curse that almost cut him in two.

Breathing heavily and fighting nausea, Harry looked around. There were half a dozen Death Eaters left in the air. But a number were guarding the lift shaft - and that had to be closed up to prevent Voldemort from fleeing. They needed… Harry’s eyes widened. Sirius was on the ground, Jeanne kneeling next to him, sheltered by a crumbling stone wall, waving her wand.

He started to run towards his godfather, barely remembering to weave as he ran to present a difficult target. Sirius had to be alive!

“Harry! Duck!”

Harry dropped to the ground as soon as he heard Ron yelling, and a yellow curse barely missed his head, covering the ground in front of him with yellow goo - yellow moving goo that left a smoking trail as it started to flow towards him.

He rolled to the side and on to his back, sending a spell up at whoever was behind him - missing the Death Eater, who pulled up - then jumped up. Ron stood next to him, sending more curses at the Death Eater, but the man was a good flyer. Not as good as Harry, but better than most of the Death Eaters in the Atrium. He evaded Harry and Ron’s curses with seeming ease, even if doing so prevented him from casting himself.

And Sirius still needed their help! Harry sent another curse upwards, missing again. He was tempted to use his power, but he couldn’t. He had to save it for Voldemort. Had to wait until Dumbledore gave the signal.

“I’ll box him in!” Ron yelled and started to cast a volley of hexes. The Death Eater didn’t even bother dodging them, though, and let his shield absorb them. He was very good.

And he was casting at them again. Harry and Ron jumped to the side to evade the man’s Blasting Curse that left a crater in the marble floor big enough to swallow a half-giant. Harry cursed under his breath and stuck his hand into his enchanted pocket. “I’m going up!” he yelled.

But before he could pull out his own broom, the Death Eater started to scream as multiple gashes appeared on his body. He kept screaming as he lost control of his broom, flailing wildly as his body became covered with cuts. Sectumsempra, Harry realised - a dark curse popular with Death Eaters in the last war, Moody had told him. But who would...

“Don’t just stand there gaping, Potter!” he heard a familiar and hated voice. Snape! “We need to seal up that shaft!”

There was the Potions Master, his usual sneer on his face. “Move!” he bellowed.

Harry didn’t want to - but Snape was right. They had to close the hole, or Voldemort might be able to escape. He still glanced at Sirius. Mrs Weasley was there as well. And her husband.

Hating himself, Harry followed Snape, Ron at his side, and ran towards the handful of Death Eaters guarding the hole where the lift to muggle London had been.

*****

Hermione Granger was about to leave the attic when she heard a chime behind her. She froze - had she made a mistake and triggered an alarm charm? It was coming from a plaque she had checked earlier. One of the spells controlling the lifts. Clenching her teeth, she cast a quick charm on the door to warn her of anyone opening it and hurried back.

It was the spell controlling the lift to muggle London. She tapped her mask to check it, then cursed - the entire spell was gone. But that wouldn’t happen unless… Unless the lift was gone. Someone must have destroyed it. But would that mean that the shaft had collapsed, or was it still open? And what could she do to check that?

Rush down to the Atrium? Her allies would mistake her for a Death Eater, and the Death Eaters would curse her anyway. Dig a hole through the wall facing the lift? She might be able to reach the shaft that way, but… that would take quite some time. She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t simply do nothing, could she? Dumbledore had said that that lift was taken care of, but…

“Two, I need some help.”

Mr Fletcher’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She tapped her mask. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Wizengamot Level. Runcorn was in his office. I took him out, but he got me with a curse. Can’t use my leg, and there are Aurors outside.”

She drew a hissing breath. He couldn’t reach the fireplace they were supposed to take to flee, then. That left… “Can you reach Dumbledore’s office?” she asked as she ran back to the stairs. The fireplace there was an alternative means of escape.

“Not without a distraction,” came the terse reply.

“You’ll have one!” she said as she opened the door. She didn’t bother with dropping a potion to the floor to change the colour of her fur. There was no time to be wasted.

A second later, a brown cat was racing down the stairs.

*****

There were six of them, split into two groups - four forming a half-circle around the hole, rubble, probably enlarged, from the explosion serving as cover, and two behind the closest pillar - setting up a crossfire, Harry Potter realised.

Not the best odds, even with the other Order members behind Harry providing covering fire. He forced the thought away - there was no room for doubt when charging an enemy. He started to weave as he ran towards the pillar, Ron behind him.

Snape cursed - Harry’s change of course had forced the Potions Master to fall behind both him and Ron - but Harry didn’t pay attention to him. They could deal with the two Death Eaters there and then flank the others. And running at that angle they would provide a harder target for the enemy’s main force.

Several curses flew past them. A Blasting Curse blew up part of a bench, but the splinters and rock fragments were deflected by their Shield Charms. The two Death Eaters by the pillar stepped out from behind their cover to cast - they had a better angle; Harry was charging at them - but they cast hastily and their aim was bad. The first two curses went wide. Harry caught the wizard on the right with a Bludgeoning Curse that clipped the man’s Shield Charm and forced him to stumble back a few steps, interrupting his next curse as well. Exposed like that and off-balance, he was an easy target. Ron’s Piercing Curse shattered his shield, and Harry’s Cutting Curse sliced off the Death Eater’s wand arm and half of his face.

The other Death Eater was clutching his belly as he collapsed, coughing up blood - a whole lot of blood. Probably another dark curse from Snape, Harry thought as he threw himself behind the pillar, rolling over his shoulder and ending up in a crouch at the edge of his new cover - and close to the still twitching Death Eater he had killed.

He cast a Bubble-Head Charm and took a few deep breaths. “Ready.”

“Ready,” Ron said behind him.

“What are you waiting for?” Snape complained.

Harry tried to ignore the man’s complaints. Snape hadn’t been trained by Moody, unlike Ron and himself. “Let’s go!” he yelled, going low around the pillar and casting a Blasting Curse at the closest Death Eater near the lift shaft. He didn’t hit the man, but the heap of rubble serving as the enemy’s cover blew up nicely, and the cloud of dust thrown up covered the area long enough for Harry and Ron - and Snape - to dash over the open ground between them and the Death Eaters.

Harry reached the rubble first and ducked, keeping his wand aimed upwards. Ron fell in at his side. Snape arrived a second later, as the cloud was starting to settle. “OK, we’re going...” Harry started.

“Save it!” Snape hissed. “I have just the potion for this.” He pulled out a vial from his dark robes and threw it over the rubble. Screaming followed. “Stay away from the purple smoke!” the Potions Master said with the cruellest smile Harry had ever seen on his ugly face.

He crawled up on the rubble and peered over it, then swallowed. A purple cloud covered most of the floor in front of the hole leading to the lift shaft. Two Death Eaters were on the ground at its edges, screaming and jerking as they held their legs. Two more were backing away. “Taking left!” Harry said and flicked his wand, casting three Piercing Curses at the closest enemy. Two of them hit and the man went down with a hole in his chest. Ron’s Cutting Curse was stopped by a hastily cast Shield Charm, but Snape killed the man a second later with a Reductor Curse to the head.

“Now let’s seal this up!” Snape said, flicking his wand and turning the rubble on this side into a ramp which he slid down. “Don’t touch the smoke!” he said and dispatched the two Death Eaters on the ground with a Piercing Curse each.

“I’m not feeling suicidal,” Harry heard Ron mutter as the two of them climbed over the rubble and followed Snape. Up close, Harry saw that the legs of the two Death Eaters looked as if they had rotted off - robes, flesh and bones. He swallowed, glad for his Bubble-Head Charm.

Then he caught movement in the air above - someone was flying towards them. “Above us!” he shouted, throwing himself to the ground behind the closest heap of rubble. And he froze - if the Death Eater used a Blasting Curse and hit Snape’s rotting smoke…

“Wall! We need walls!” he yelled, conjuring one behind him.

Ron cursed as he followed Harry’s example, despite the green curses - Killing Curses - the broom rider cast at them.

Snape sent curses of his own at the attacker, but the man evaded them with a roll. Another curse hit the wall behind Harry, showering him and Ron with splinters. He clenched his teeth - they were in a really bad spot there, caught between Killing Curses from above and a poison cloud behind them. They were very fortunate that their attacker was much better at flying than at aiming.

“Can you neutralise the smoke?” he yelled, hoping Snape could hear him. Then he had to roll to the side when two more curses struck the rubble in front of him. Ron managed to drive the broom-riding Death Eater off with a few hastily cast curses, but Harry could see the man turning round in a skilled evasive manoeuvre. A very familiar manoeuvre, actually. One that Harry had seen numerous times on the pitch.

“Flint,” he spat, as he raised his wand. If this was the former Slytherin Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team, then he would add another roll before pulling to the left. Harry stabbed his wand forward and let loose with a Cutting Curse.

The Death Eater flew straight into it and the curse cut his broom in half. He screamed until he smashed head-first into the marble floor.

“Nice shot!” Ron said, looking around for another attacker.

“Stop congratulating yourselves!” Snape snapped. “We have a shaft to seal!”

Harry peered around the remains of the wall he had conjured and saw that the purple smoke was gone.

“Yes, it’s gone. I designed it to render itself inert after half a minute. Now stop dawdling!” Snape sneered at him. “We havARGH!” He clutched his left arm, doubling over. “The potion stopped…” he spat through clenched teeth as he stumbled through the rubble, exposing himself. “Have to…”

Snape never finished his sentence - a Killing Curse hit him in the chest and he collapsed. Harry whirled around. Who had… He froze. Voldemort had moved, and now had a clear line of sight to him and Ron.

*****

Hermione Granger hissed as she closed in on the Atrium and heard the screams and explosions from the battle raging there. The battle in which her friends were fighting for their lives. Harry. Ron. Sirius and Jeanne. The battle she wasn’t joining. Couldn’t join. She rounded a corner, her claws ripping into the carpet, allowing her to keep running as fast as she could manage, and had a clear line of sight into the Atrium. And to the dead Hit-Wizard lying on the stairs in a pool of his blood.

The stench of blood - and worse - filled her nose as she jumped over the corpse, landing on a patch of carpet slick with blood. Spells were flashing in the Atrium, screams reached her ears, but she ducked her head and sped on, towards the corner that would provide her with cover. Mr Fletcher needed her.

Another spell slammed into the wall above her - a stray curse, or so she hoped. A glance didn’t show anyone aiming at her, but between the rubble, the huge stone wave blocking most of the middle of the Atrium, and the smoke rising everywhere, it was hard to tell. She pressed on, darting around the corner, down the next flight of stairs. Safe. For the moment.

She slowed down slightly, resisting the urge to stop and clean her paws, even though she was leaving bloody prints behind her. Another corner. And another. Then she heard footsteps. Many footsteps. She skidded to a stop, her claws ripping up the carpet, and reversed direction, dashing up to the next floor. She had to hide before she was spotted. A door was open, and she darted into the hallway behind it, then hid behind a potted plant, making herself as small and harmless-looking as possible. Just a cute cat scared by all the noise.

The footsteps reached her floor - and went past. “Rufus! Take your group and head to the gallery. We’ll need covering fire.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

That meant the footsteps were Aurors rushing upwards. She raised her head to peer through the foliage. A witch in dark robes stood at the entrance, her back to Hermione. She recognised the voice from her visits to the Wizengamot: Amelia Bones. “John, take two and check this floor for any intruders or traitors.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Dawlish! She bared her teeth. That dolt!

Bones went on: “The rest of you - with me. Don’t attack anyone not wearing Death Eater garments unless you’re attacked first!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Hermione saw more Aurors, and some Hit-Wizards in their grey robes, charge upwards, then ducked down when she saw Dawlish step into the hallway. Had he seen her? She tensed, waiting. She would either have to play the harmless cat or make a break for it. Dawlish would probably curse a cute cat on principle; he was just so stupid. She eyed the closest door anyway as she pressed herself into the space between the plant plot and the wall.

But Dawlish and his two stooges didn’t spot her as they trampled past, wands out as they looked for enemies in an empty hallway. Hermione waited a moment, then darted out from behind the plant plot and on to the stairs. She had her mentor to rescue.

A few more flights later, she reached the Wizengamot’s floor. She stopped on the last stair. Mr Fletcher would be in Runcorn’s office. But there were Aurors and Hit-Wizards in the entrance hall. She crept forward, her belly almost dragging over the floor, then peered around the corner.

The door to the floor was closed. Once more, she hissed in frustration. That would… actually make it easier for her, since she could take their original escape route afterwards. She crept back, then changed and tapped her mask behind the ear. “I’m outside the entrance to your floor. Be ready.”

“Ready,” came the terse reply. Mr Fletcher sounded tense - tenser than expected. Either the Aurors were getting close, or he was hurt worse than he had admitted. She tapped a small button on her mask, and her field of vision filled with dazzling colours as she perceived the spells in the area. The floor and walls were reinforced and protected against detection spells. Standard procedure. The door had the same spells, anchored to it, but there were new spells on it as well. An alarm charm, no, two of them - trickier than expected. And some spells to render the door impervious to various attacks. The Wizengamot’s guards apparently knew their business.

But she also knew hers. Better, even. Grinning, she pulled out a small metal box from her pocket and threw it forwards. It came to a stop at the door, and, with a flick of her wand, she dispelled the Shrinking Charm on it. Then she focused on the spells on the floor. Where was the…? There! She quickly dealt with the Anti-Fire Charm - it wasn’t a ward, and a tad sloppily cast - and a Cutting Charm sliced the jerry can open a moment later, spilling napalm on to the floor.

She grinned as she set it ablaze. That should serve as a distraction. She stepped back and tapped her mask again. “Distraction started.”

“I can hear them yelling. What did you do? Set fire to the place?”

“Yes.” It was only the Wizengamot, after all.

He scoffed but didn’t berate her for the collateral damage. A minute later, she heard him again. “I’m in Dumbledore’s office now. Get out yourself.”

“Will do,” she answered, and changed again. She had a fireplace to reach, and cats were smaller targets than thieves.

*****

Harry Potter threw himself to the floor, behind the remaining rubble barricade. A reddish curse missed him by what felt like inches, and he had barely recast his Shield Charm and rolled to the side - Moody had taught him to change position as soon as he broke the line of sight - when the rubble exploded and propelled him further to the right and backwards.

He heard Ron curse, so his friend was still alive, but he couldn’t see much in the smoke and dust thrown up by the Blasting Curse. He scrambled on his elbows and knees, crawling further to his right, towards the closest pillar. If he could get better cover…

A gust of wind swept the dust away, and Harry stopped five yards short. Five yards without cover. He crawled back a few more yards, then conjured a wall linking the rubble and the pillar.

A moment later, the wall and part of the rubble in front of him turned into a green liquid that splashed on the ground. Harry cursed and scrambled further back. “Don’t take cover inside any craters!” he yelled to Ron. “Poison on the floor!”

“Bloody hell!”

Harry crawled forward, then peered over the rubble. Voldemort was almost in the centre of the Atrium now, but Dumbledore had him hemmed in with several transfigured and animated figures, as well as a near-constant barrage of spells. But the Headmaster looked hurt - his robes were torn, and he was limping, and… Harry couldn’t tell if that was blood on Dumbledore or just some daring pattern.

“Reinforcements!”

Ron’s yell made him look to his left. Aurors and Hit-Wizards were rushing from the stairs into the Atrium. And more of the red and grey robes appeared in the gallery above. Harry smiled - more than a dozen more wands, and the Death Eaters were down to half a dozen in the air and half that number on the ground. And Voldemort.

Then one of the Aurors pointed his wand upwards and blew the gallery apart from below. Harry gasped as several Aurors were thrown clear and fell down on to the marble floor.

“Bloody traitors!” Ron cursed as the Aurors and Hit-Wizards started to curse each other.

Whatever he was yelling was suddenly drowned out by a cacophony of shouts and screams - right next to Harry!

“Attack!”

“Bite!”

“Bite!”

“Charge!”

“Bite!”

“Feed!”

“Get them!”

Harry threw himself back, rolling over his shoulder and ignoring the pain from several sharp rock fragments digging into his back, and ended in a crouch, his wand aimed forward. What was… Snakes! Dozens of snakes were swarming over the barrier. “Snakes!” he yelled. “Watch out!”

To his surprise, the snakes stopped and looked around. His connection - they thought he was Voldemort! “Leave this room! Hide! Don’t bite anyone!” Harry yelled at them. When they obeyed and slithered away, he relaxed.

“Merlin’s beard, Harry!”

Ron was staring at him.

“What?” Harry asked.

“You…”

Ron couldn’t finish his sentence as the ground between them suddenly turned into a giant snake made of marble. Its coils started to thrash around, and only Harry’s shield saved him from being crushed. He was pushed to the side instead.

Ron wasn’t as lucky - the stone snake’s tail whipped around and flung him into the wall behind them, his shield shattering upon impact.

Harry was about to get up, but the snake darted forward, maw opening as if it wanted to swallow him whole. Harry rolled to the side and hit the snake’s gaping mouth with a Reductor Curse that blew up a yard-long fang but didn’t seem to do much more damage.

And the bloody thing was as fast as it was tough. Harry managed to scramble to his feet just in time to dodge the snake’s next strike. He rolled over his shoulder and came up running. A glance over his shoulder showed that the snake’s remaining fang was stuck in the floor. He sent a Blasting Curse at its neck, but his aim was spoiled when the snake’s tail whipped towards him.

It clipped his shield, shattering it, and slammed his left arm into his side, sending him sprawling on to the ground, his breath knocked out of him. He rolled to his right, then screamed when his left arm erupted in pain. Broken, he realised - he was familiar with the feeling from training. He flicked his wand, numbing his arm as he pushed himself to his feet. He had to keep moving, had to get away from the snake.

Another Blasting Curse blew the tip of its tail off when it pulled back for another blow - Ron! Harry’s friend was on the floor, but could still cast. More spells impacted on the snake, blowing craters into its body. Tonks and Remus!

It wasn’t enough, though. Not nearly enough. The snake was too massive, too tough. And too fast. Harry was still running to his right, trying to reach the closest pillar, when it ripped its fang out of the floor and reared its head up for a strike. At him.

He changed course, but the tail was whipping towards him from behind. He couldn’t dodge both parts of the snake. He tried, anyway, recasting his Shield Charm, knowing it wouldn’t be enough, felt his mother’s power surge inside him, knowing it would be too late…

...and the snake vanished before it reached him. Harry was frozen for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest, then whipped his head around. Dumbledore! The Headmaster had managed to dispel Voldemort’s spell!

But it had cost him, Harry realised. Dumbledore was turning, still, to face Voldemort again, but Harry saw the Headmaster’s floating metal and stone shields shatter under a hail of curses from the Dark Lord.

Harry raised his wand. Dumbledore had told him to wait for his signal, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to intervene!

He was too slow, though. While he was still aiming, still gathering the power dwelling inside him, he saw the Headmaster look at him, smile, even - and saw him get hit by Voldemort’s Killing Curse.

And, a moment later, Harry collapsed to the ground, screaming and feeling as if someone had driven a searing hot spike through his forehead. Blood ran down his face, half-blinding him, as he rocked back, reeling as if from a blow.

Shaking his head, he wiped the blood from his face, then staggered to his feet, his broken, numbed arm dangling uselessly at his side. Dumbledore was dead! He clenched his teeth, panting, as his good eye searched for Voldemort.

But when he saw the Dark Lord thrashing on the ground, when he heard him screaming in agony, Harry smiled. And understood what Dumbledore had done.

He felt his mother’s power swell inside him. Gathered it as he raised his wand and pointed it at her murderer. Focused it as he took a step forward, then another, blood running down his face and dripping on to the floor. Trembling, he pulled his arm back, muttered the incantation, then stabbed his wand forward, towards Voldemort, releasing the power.

The Dark Lord had managed to get to his knees, raising his own wand, when Harry’s spell hit him in the chest and his head was thrown back. Harry kept screaming, kept his wand aimed at the Dark Lord as his enemy howled.

Voldemort didn’t bleed. Didn’t break. Didn’t burn. And didn’t stop howling as he slowly turned to dust. Harry saw his arms disappear, vanishing in a trail of scattering motes, followed by his legs. Voldemort’s torso started to topple over, but faded in mid-motion, and, finally, an instant before it would have crashed to the floor, his head turned to dust as well, and his screams cut off.

Harry stood there, panting, his throat aching, and looked around. There were still Death Eaters around. Traitors. People were still fighting. Ron was on his knees, trying to stand. Sirius was still down. He couldn’t see Remus.

Suddenly, a voice, magically enhanced, filled the Atrium. “The Dark Lord has fallen! The Boy-Who-Lived has vanquished him! Throw down your wands and surrender, and your lives will be spared!”

A familiar voice.

Lucius Malfoy.

*****

 


	28. Decisions

**Hogsmeade, January 3rd, 1997**

Alastor Moody stopped a hundred yards away from the inn and scanned the area. The building’s walls blocked his enchanted eye - which was what he had expected. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a trap, of course. His enemies would expect him to expect a trap, and to know that the inn was normally warded to block his sight. A truly cunning enemy, of course, would expect that, and plan accordingly.

Not that there were many such enemies left. And after yesterday, the number of wizards who could both best him in battle and were cunning enough to out-think him had shrunk even further. And the scumbag owning the Hog’s Head Inn wasn’t on that list, no matter how highly the old goat thought of himself.

Although Albus’s brother might not know that and might even try to settle their differences, now that Albus was dead. Alastor narrowed his good eye. He’d be inside the man’s wards. On the other hand, the scumbag would know that Alastor would be prepared for an ambush. And, as loathsome as the man was, he had some loyalty towards the other criminals frequenting his dive.

So, while it wasn’t actually safe to enter the inn, the risk was acceptable. And Alastor had to talk to the scumbag. He owed it to Albus.

He slowly made his way over to the shabby inn’s door - any enemy watching would assume his peg leg gave him more trouble, especially in the wet snow, than was the case. Any stupid enemy, at least - smarter enemies would know that he wouldn’t settle for a simple peg leg when he had replaced his missing eye with a much improved artificial one.

His wand twitched when he spotted movement behind him. Two figures. A wizard and a witch. Acting like a couple. If they did something threatening… but they didn’t. Just a couple out for an afternoon stroll. Locals. Or that was what they wanted him to think. A quick scan showed nothing suspicious beneath their robes, but that, too, would be expected from cunning foes. He kept his eye on them until they were out of range.

He had reached the entrance in the meantime. He narrowed his normal eye at the sounds from inside. Some song in the background, and voices nearby. Perfectly normal - which would be the best cover for an ambush. But they wouldn’t really expect him to simply walk in, would they?

He snorted and, with a flick of his wand, pushed the door open with enough force to almost tear it off its hinges as it slammed into the wall.

He grinned at the scum inside, knowing they both recognised and feared him. Half of them had jumped up and were ready to bolt. The other half had drawn their wands. He scoffed. “I’m not here for you. Not today,” he said as he stepped inside. His grin told the criminals what would happen should they try anything.

No one did. Most didn’t even move while he slowly walked towards the bar, the sound of his peg leg striking the wooden floor ringing through the room. Guttersnipes and whores, the lot of them.

Albus’s brother was the only one who didn’t look nervous. The man looked mad. He had his wand ready, too, as Alastor spotted through the counter. But he wouldn’t start a fight. Not with so many of his ‘friends’ nearby. So Alastor grinned. “Afternoon.”

“You’re not welcome here,” came the snarled response.

“I don’t give a damn,” Alastor retorted. “I don’t want to be here anyway.” Unless it was with an Auror squad raiding the place. Or even Hit-Wizards. Their usual collateral damage would only improve the place, and no Aurors would be at risk. “You know why I’ve come.”

The other wizard snorted but didn’t deny it. He didn’t offer Alastor a seat. Not that such an offer would have been accepted, anyway - much too dangerous. Alastor raised his wand, ignoring how Albus’s brother tensed and gripped his own wand, and slowly cast a privacy spell. It wouldn’t do to let anyone, much less the scum in this inn, overhear them.

“If you’ve come to offer me your condolences, don’t bother,” the man spat.

Alastor snorted. “I know better than that.” The man wouldn’t shed a tear over Albus’s death. “He left you a note, didn’t he?”

“I burned it.”

“Did you read it?” Alastor squinted at the man.

Albus’s brother sneered but didn’t answer.

“You did.” Alastor chuckled, slowly. “He knew how to word it, didn’t he?”

Albus’s brother scoffed. “If he had known how to lead as well as he could speak, your Order might not have lost so many people. At least he had the decency to die as well. This time.”

Alastor glared at him. As if the scumbag had any idea about fighting a war, much less leading people in battle! “It was a good plan. Lured the bugger into a trap, which was sprung as planned. That the Dark Lord had a few wands up his sleeve about which he didn’t tell our spy was to be expected as well.” He wouldn’t mention that there had been traitors in the Corps as well. Not to scum like this man.

“He’s dead; sucking up to him won’t get you anything any more.” The man sneered, worse than Malfoy. “He buggered things up, as usual. He just had to assume no one was as clever as him. He should have been prepared for the attack through the muggle entrance. The battle would have been over before the traitors arrived, if that lift had been better protected.”

The man was very well informed, Alastor had to admit. Someone had talked to him already. “Couldn’t spare the wands for that. Too many cowards in Britain, you know.”

Albus’s brother clenched his teeth at the barb. “Not enough idiots doing his bidding, you mean. Not enough curse-fodder for his plans.”

“That ‘curse-fodder’ fought and died for everyone in Britain.” He wouldn’t let the scumbag besmirch their memory. Alastor stared at the man. “And Albus sacrificed himself.” A perfectly ambiguous wording. Nothing to incriminate either Albus or Potter. Almost everyone would assume Alastor was talking about Albus exposing himself to a lethal attack as he saved the Boy-Who-Lived.

Judging by the man’s glare, Albus’s brother knew what he really meant, though. “He was a hypocrite to the end. Using blood magic for his goals!”

“He sacrificed himself to deal with the worst dark magic I’ve seen so far,” Alastor corrected the bugger. “Rendered the Dark Lord mortal.”

“And then had a kid kill him.” Albus’s brother scoffed. “Couldn’t even arrange for one of you lot to do the deed? Had to use Potter for it?”

“Potter was Plan B. If Albus’s sacrifice hadn’t been enough, he might have been able to do it.”

“Did anyone bother to tell him that?”

“Didn’t matter. There was no time to check. And Potter had to act quickly while the bugger was still hurting.” Alastor had been too far away to kill the Dark Lord. Most of the Order wouldn’t have tried even if they had been nearby. Not after seeing Dumbledore fall. Potter had been the only one ready.

“And did it work?”

“Yes.” Alastor slowly nodded. He had checked the diary as soon as he had managed to get away from the Ministry. Which meant Albus’s other contingency plans wouldn’t have to be enacted. Like the letter Albus’s brother had received.

“Good. There’s no need for you to be here any longer, then.” The other wizard looked at the door.

“There’s no need for anything of what we talked about to be mentioned, ever,” Alastor said, staring at him.

The other wizard didn’t look away. He had guts, at least. “It’s not as if anyone would believe me. Albus died saving the Boy-Who-Lived, who then took down the Dark Lord with righteous anger. The sheep will eat it up and crucify anyone who dares to tell them that their hero wasn’t perfect!”

“De mortuis nil nisi bonum.” Alastor smiled. “As long as you remember that, we’ll get along fine.”

“Get out!”

Alastor nodded and left. One loose end tied up.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 3rd, 1997**

Harry Potter rubbed his left arm as he sat at Sirius’s bed in the infirmary at Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey had healed his broken bones easily, but he still felt them itch, or twinge, when he focused on them, no matter how often the nurse claimed it was his imagination.

Which wasn’t very often, actually. Not with so many wounded Order members in need of help. And those were just the ones Pomfrey could treat. Not the ones who had been struck with dark curses. Those were in St Mungo’s - if they were still alive.

He hunched over. Too many had been killed in the Battle of the Ministry, as the Daily Prophet was calling it. Order members, Aurors, Hit-Wizards. Snape. And employees who had been unlucky enough to catch a stray curse while trying to flee. And Harry had killed. Voldemort. And Death Eaters. He clenched his teeth and forced himself not to think about it.

He looked at Sirius. His godfather was still unconscious. Which was good - he wouldn’t be feeling the pain from the Skele-Gro regrowing half his bones. His skin looked a little patchy; the newly grown parts not matching the slight tan of the rest. And his hair was such a mess, half of it burned, it made Hermione’s ‘morning mane’ look good. But he was alive, and he would recover. In time. A few days, maybe a week, Pomfrey had said.

“Mate!”

That was Ron! Harry whirled around and put a finger to his lips. “Shush!” He nodded towards the other side of Sirius’s bed, where Jeanne was sleeping in a rather awkward position, half on her seat, half on Sirius’s pillow.

Ron snorted but didn’t yell further as he limped over to them, wincing when he stepped on his healed leg. His skin looked better than Sirius’s - he hadn’t been tanned even a little and was naturally pale. In a quiet tone, he asked. “Did you read the Prophet?”

Harry pointed at the wastebasket in the corner.

“Ah.” Ron scoffed. “Anyone reading that shite would think that Malfoy had personally defeated Voldemort.” He looked around, then frowned.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Harry corrected him. “But the article certainly pays a lot of attention to him ‘bravely risking his life and soul’ to lure the Dark Lord into Dumbledore’s trap.”

“Dumbledore’s and yours,” Ron said, conjuring a chair for himself as he sat down with a relieved sigh.

Harry shrugged. “It was his plan, and his trap.” And his sacrifice. The Headmaster must have copied the ritual of Harry’s mother. “I just was lucky enough to be in a position to take out Voldemort.” He sighed. “How’s your family?”

“Fine.” Ron blinked. “I mean, they’re well. Mum wasn’t really hurt, Dad’s been healed already, Percy apparently wasn’t even in danger - he’s back at the Ministry, but he was at breakfast at home. Bill’s a little roughed up but wasn’t at The Burrow. Apparently, he has a girlfriend. Mum’s ticked off that he didn’t say anything.”

“Good.” Harry hadn’t thought that the Weasleys had been seriously hurt, but you never really knew. “I mean about them being fine. Not about your mum being angry.”

“I know what you mean.” Ron chuckled. “She was very unhappy with me. What about your family?”

“Sirius’ll need a few more days to recover.” He had told Ron that yesterday already. “Jeanne’s alright, just a few bruises. Remus and Tonks…” He bit his lower lip. “They’re at St Mungo’s. Last I heard they should recover.” Should. You never knew. “And Hermione is mad at me.” Relieved and happy, as well - her hug when he had headed to Grimmauld Place to tell her what had happened had almost broken bones, Harry thought.

Ron winced. “Really?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded. “Said she needed to calm down before visiting, or she’d hex the lot of us.”

His friend laughed. “At least she’s safe. Luna cried, you know,” he said in a lower voice.

“Oh?” Harry was surprised - Ron was fine, after all.

“Yes. She was at The Burrow as well.” Ron sighed. “She wanted to visit as well, but McGonagall and Moody limited visitors to Order members and their family.” He shook his head. “They are afraid of attacks by desperate Death Eaters. Like after the last war.”

On Neville’s parents, Harry thought. He nodded. “I hope they don’t try to keep Hermione out.” That would probably drive her into a rage.

Ron chuckled. “McGonagall wouldn’t. Besides, she’s an Order member, right?”

Harry nodded. “Right.” He leaned back. “I just wish Sirius was awake. He could do something to counter Malfoy.”

“Dad’s working on that,” Ron said. “Percy too. And you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. Even Malfoy can’t do much against the vanquisher of Voldemort.”

Harry sighed. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to use his fame like that. Malfoy had been Dumbledore’s spy, after all, so he had been on the Order’s side. He blinked. “Do you think Malfoy is an Order member as well?”

“Bloody hell, I hope he doesn’t visit!”

Harry nodded in agreement.

After about a minute during which neither Ron nor Harry said anything, especially not about killing, Ron said: “Hey - how did Romilda react?”

Harry froze. He had completely forgotten about his girlfriend!

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 3rd, 1997**

Hermione Granger knew something wasn’t right as soon as she entered her tutor’s flat. There was a faint but distinct smell of… rotten meat? Clenching her teeth, she closed the door and drew her wand. “It’s me.”

“I know,” came Mr Fletcher’s answer from his bedroom. If he were under duress, he’d have said something else - not that she suspected something like that. Still, she kept her wand drawn as she pushed the door, which was only angled, open. Then she hissed.

Mr Fletcher was on his bed, half sitting up. He waved, but she didn’t pay attention - she was staring at his left leg instead, which ended between his knee and ankle, the stump wrapped in bandages. And the smell…

Her head snapped up to glare at him. “You didn’t tell me you were cursed that badly!”

He shrugged, smiling - though she could see how he forced himself to do so. “Wouldn’t have done any good. You had to go back home as soon as possible, and I managed to stop the curse from rotting my leg off.”

“By cutting off your own foot?” she asked, realising as she spoke that it wasn’t as absurd as she had thought. Then he nodded, confirming it, and she felt ill.

“There was no choice.” He shrugged.

“You need to be in St Mungo’s!” The leg needed to be treated. To be regrown. What if it was infected?

He scoffed. “They can’t do anything - it was a dark curse.”

“There are counter-curses!” Hermione retorted.

“Yeah. But I had to cut it off since I wouldn’t have been able to get help in time. And there’s no counter-curse for that.” He shrugged.

“But… torn limbs can be regrown.”

“Not when dark curses are involved. That’s pretty much the definition of dark magic. One of them, at least.” Mr Fletcher scoffed. “Besides, it’s my own fault - I shouldn’t have underestimated Runcorn. I should have been faster, too. I’m getting old.”

“But if you cut it off, then that wasn’t done by a dark curse.” Hermione bit her lower lip as she pondered this. “That should be treatable.”

“Not with magic. And muggle medicine can’t make limbs regrow.” He shook his head. “Let it rest. I won’t die, and I know a Healer who’ll treat this without asking questions.”

“What? Why won’t you go to…” Hermione started.

He interrupted her by holding up his hand. “I can't go to St Mungo’s. The Healers would report such a curse. And then the Aurors would investigate - a dark curse means a dark wizard attack. And given the timing, they’d know that I was involved in the battle in the Ministry. At the very least, they would realise that I’m an Order member. And I would rather do without such scrutiny. Or such a reputation.”

“But you could go to Hogwarts! Sirius’s there!” And Harry and Ron - who still thought she was mad at them for making her stay at home while they fought. Well, she was - but not as much as they thought. Not that she had actually stayed at home.

He scoffed. “Poppy’s a good nurse, but she can’t do anything my acquaintance can’t do as well.”

“And is your ‘acquaintance’ also more trustworthy than her?” Hermione asked.

“Not really. But he’ll assume that I was on the wrong side of the battle if I’m coming to him and not to a respectable Healer. And that means no one in Knockturn Alley will connect me to the Order.” He coughed. “Well, Fletcher, at least.”

“And Smith?” Hermione frowned. “As you said, the timing for Smith to lose a foot is suspicious.”

He grinned, but it looked forced again - he didn’t succeed in hiding his pain, she thought. “That’s why Smith will have returned to the New World after the New Year’s Ball. And there, in his old home country, he’ll have run afoul of a dark wizard. I’ll have a new story to tell once I’m officially back in England in a month or two.” He closed his eyes. “It’s for the best.”

She bit her lower lip to avoid yelling at him. He was wrong. And yet, she didn’t know what to say to convince him. Going to some shady Healer in Knockturn Alley… “Will you leave the country?”

He shook his head without opening his eyes. “Just stay out of Wizarding Britain. I still have to tutor you, after all.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, both feeling relieved that she wouldn’t lose her tutor and ashamed of her selfishness in the face of his crippling injury.

“Of course,” he said, “you’ll have to stop doing heists until you’ve finished your training.”

Hermione gasped. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her. “Without two good feet, I won’t be able to come along on the kind of heists you’re planning. And you’re not good enough, yet, to do them by yourself. And Black won’t be any help anyway.”

She almost mentioned Moody - Harry and Ron’s trainer had a peg leg, and it hadn’t slowed him down much, if at all, judging by Harry’s stories. But Mr Fletcher knew that as well.

So she nodded. “Let’s get you to your ‘acquaintance’ then!”

“Once you’re properly disguised.” He grinned - and, for the first time today, it didn’t seem forced. “A guttersnipe like Fletcher doesn’t know pretty witches. So, rags and Polyjuice Potion.”

She grimaced at the thought of looking ugly - and dirty, which was even worse! She was a cat, not a hag!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1997**

Harry Potter stumbled out of the fireplace in the entrance hall of his home. He had to work on that. If Voldemort had been waiting right in the Atrium, Harry would have been an easy target. Maybe he could spend a day not doing anything other than using the Floo Network to travel around over and over until he figured out how to ‘just keep walking’, as Sirius called it.

He smiled at the thought - Sirius had woken up. Harry’s godfather was in pain from the Skele-Gro, and he still looked like he had lost a battle with a flock of Bludgers, but he was awake and would be fine in a few days.

Harry looked around. No one greeted him. He pressed his lips together, briefly debating whether or not he should call Romilda. Shaking his head, he headed to the stairs. Hermione first. He sighed as he made his way up to the first floor. He had hurt her by not allowing her to accompany him to the Ministry, but it had been for the best. If she had been in that battle… Harry shuddered at the thought of her getting hurt, or worse.

He reached her door - it wasn’t closed; there was a gap of about five inches - and knocked. “Hermione?” When there was no answer, he slowly pushed the door open. “Hermione?” Was she giving him ‘the silent treatment’, as Sirius had called it? No, the only occupant of the room was Crookshanks, who was occupying her bed and staring at him as if he were an intruder.

Harry stared back. He had faced and defeated Voldemort; a cat, half-Kneazle or not, simply didn’t measure up. The fat monster sniffed and went back to napping, but somehow made him feel as if _he_ didn’t measure up. There was a reason he didn’t like the animal. At least Hermione’s other cat wasn’t as arrogant.

Shaking his head, he left Hermione’s room to check Sirius’s study and the library.

She wasn’t in either of those rooms. Where was she? He blinked, then sighed. “Kreacher!”

After a minute, the little elf stepped out of the servant’s passage hidden inside the wall. “Yes, young master?”

“Do you know where Hermione is?”

“Master’s servant told me to tell you that she went out to ‘clear her head’.”

“Couldn’t you have told me that when I arrived?”

“Young master didn’t ask.” Kreacher showed his teeth as he smiled, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Harry refrained from trying to correct the elf - he knew it wouldn’t achieve anything. Kreacher had served the Black family for almost two hundred years and was very set in his ways. And Harry suspected that Hermione had told the elf not to tell him unless asked. “Did she say when she would be back?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Thank you.”

The elf vanished through the concealed door, presumably to return to his duties, and Harry shook his head. If he couldn’t talk to Hermione, then that left Romilda. Or maybe he could check if there was any news about Remus and Tonks.

The alert informing him that someone wanted to enter the house through the Floo Network interrupted his thoughts. He rushed to the entrance hall. Had something happened to Sirius? Or Remus? Tonks?

He knelt down at the fireplace, throwing a pinch of Floo Powder into the flames. “Yes?”

“Potter? Can I come through?”

Moody. At least it sounded like him. “What did you tell me when I left the Ministry?”

He heard the old Auror chuckle. “That you shouldn’t tell anyone what Albus did.”

Harry nodded, even though no one could see him, then stood and tapped the fireplace with his wand. “Come through,” he said, not lowering his wand and taking a few steps back and to the side.

A moment later, Moody stepped out of the flames. Even with a peg leg, the man didn’t so much as miss a step, Harry noticed with some envy.

Moody nodded at Harry’s wand, aimed at the Auror. “Good to see you haven’t picked up bad habits just because the Dark Lord’s gone.” A flick of his wand put them under the effect of a privacy charm.

Harry wasn’t certain he agreed with Moody - the old Auror was paranoid, after all - but he knew disagreeing wouldn’t do any good. “He’s gone for good then?” he asked instead.

“Yes. I checked.”

Harry smiled. He had been certain - almost certain - after seeing and feeling the effects of Dumbledore’s ritual, but it felt good to have it confirmed. “How did it go at the Ministry?”

“As expected.” Moody scoffed. “Amelia’s investigating, but I think the best we can expect is that the more cowardly spies and sympathisers panic and flee the country. It’ll be hard to get them - the Dark Lord kept his cards close to his chest. Like Albus. At least someone took out Runcorn in his office during the battle and left him stunned and surrounded by evidence implicating the bastard.”

“Runcorn? The oldest Wizengamot member?” Sirius had complained about that wizard often enough.

“Yeah.” Moody nodded. “Bloody traitor won’t escape this time. But Malfoy’s already vouching for his friends. The scumbag’s milking the deal he made with Albus for all it’s worth, and Fudge, of course, is falling for it. He had already secured a pardon for all he did ‘prior to the Dark Lord’s defeat’ from Albus himself, but apparently, that’s not enough for him.”

Harry cursed under his breath. The man who framed Hermione as a thief was going to escape justice once again. On the other hand, he had spied on the Dark Lord for Dumbledore. Probably had also helped lure Voldemort to the Ministry. And he had been the one to stop the battle and make the remaining Death Eaters surrender. Most of them, at least.

“Well, Albus left me some information, so dear old Malfoy won’t be able to get much more than was agreed,” Moody added. “If only Albus hadn’t died…” Both his eyes stared at Harry.

Harry knew what he meant. “Then the Dark Lord would still be alive.”

“Don’t tell anyone what really happened. Some might suspect, but as long as they can’t prove anything…”

“I know.” Admitting that he and Dumbledore had used blood magic would be stupid. Harry frowned. “I’ll have to talk to Hermione, though. She helped Dumbledore research things.”

“Find out what she knows, and make sure she knows to keep her mouth shut.”

Harry nodded.

Moody stared at him for a few moments, then nodded. “Now, I didn’t just come to chat. Albus left me a few instructions. One concerns you.”

Harry blinked, surprised. And concerned. Why wouldn’t the Headmaster have left him such instructions?

Moody chuckled. “Don’t look like that. I’m not here to obliviate you or anything.” He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a slim case. “Here. Dumbledore said you should have it. There’s a vial with a message for you as well. Sealed.”

Harry opened the case and stared. It was the Headmaster’s wand - his real one, as he had explained when he had told Harry about his decoy. The wand he had used for his rituals and to fight Voldemort. And he had left it to Harry?

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, January 3rd, 1997**

Hermione Granger tried not to let her thoughts show as she watched Mr Fletcher getting treated. His stump looked ghastly with the bandages removed. Her tutor hadn’t just cut off his foot; it looked like he had cauterised the wound as well. Unless the blackened flesh was the result of the curse. But, in that case, the curse would have spread, wouldn’t it? It certainly smelled as if it were spreading, but the Healer didn’t seem to be alarmed. Not that it would surprise her if ‘Healer Brown’ were too incompetent to catch a dark curse’s effect - the man practised in what was literally the back room of a pawn shop in Knockturn Alley!

“Alright, Dung! Looks well enough to me. I’ll just remove the burned flesh and close ya up, and yer missus can take care of ya, right?” The man didn’t just speak with a worse accent than Mr Fletcher when he was playing the gutter rat, he cackled like a hag, too. Hermione could tell, now - a couple of those creatures had watched her and Fletcher make their way through a dirty side alley to this ‘clinic’.

“Thanks, Brown.”

The Healer swept his wand back and forth, and the putrid flesh - probably; Hermione wasn’t an expert - started to vanish. After a few minutes, only clean looking flesh and bone remained. And blood. Another spell closed the wound. “Done. I guess you’ll need a peg leg too?”

“I’ll manage with a crutch, thanks.”

“Already have an eye on a prosthetic then? I could use an alternate supplier; rumours are that the Ministry’s conducting a purge.”

“Sorry, I’m just cashing in a favour,” Mr Fletcher said.

“Too bad. Now about my fee…”

As Mr Fletcher paid the Healer, Hermione sighed and checked her watch. Twenty more minutes until the Polyjuice Potion wore off. Twenty more minutes of being an ugly, old witch.

“Alright, let’s go!” he interrupted her thoughts.

She nodded, drawing her wand. Just in case the hags outside were getting more aggressive. And to cast another privacy spell. “Where are we going to get the prosthetic?” she asked as she opened the door.

“Muggle England, of course.” He grinned as he moved his crutches. “Mr Smith wouldn’t go for something as crude looking as Mad-Eye’s peg leg. And the muggle clinic will be all too glad to help a poor victim of a landmine laid by the Eighth Army.”

“That sounds awfully specific,” Hermione replied, narrowing her eyes.

“Well… it’s a favourite excuse of those who get maimed while trying to rob graves in Egypt.” He shrugged. “Acquaintance of mine lost an arm like that. And when he went back with a new one, he lost his life.”

“Let’s hope you don’t follow his example,” Hermione said.

“Oh, I’m not as stupid, don’t worry. I can take a hint.”

Somehow, that made her worry.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1997**

Harry Potter was just about to - finally - call Romilda’s home when he heard the front door open.

“Harry?”

“Hermione!” He stood. “You’re back.”

He half-expected her make a sarcastic comment about stating the obvious, but she simply nodded. She must have calmed down, then. Good.

“Is there any news about Sirius and the others?”

“Sirius was awake earlier today. He’s sleeping again,” Harry told her. “Pomfrey said he could go home tomorrow, or the day after.” He took a deep breath. “No news yet from Remus or Tonks - they’re still getting treated. Can’t even visit them.”

She nodded. “Nothing we can do, then.” She didn’t sound happy about it.

“No.” He shook his head. “Are you going to visit Sirius?”

“Once it’s safe to do so,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to make you worry about me, would I?”

There was the sarcasm. Harry winced. “I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath, then waved her hand. “I understand why you acted as you did, but I’m not happy about it.”

He knew that. Sirius knew it. Tonks and Remus knew it. Crookshanks probably also knew it. He didn’t say that. But he couldn’t help saying something else. “It was a brutal battle. If you had been there…” He shook his head. “I still have trouble realising that Dumbledore’s dead.” Even though he would probably never forget that horrible moment. He closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his teeth. A moment later, he felt her hand on his arm. She didn’t say anything, though. He sighed, remembering Moody’s instructions. “Do you know what happened?”

He could see her bite her lower lip, then nod. “You told me yesterday. And I read the Prophet today.”

He sighed again. “There’s more to the battle. You know the Headmaster’s trap worked - thanks to Malfoy, I guess.” She clenched her teeth in response; he noticed her jaw muscles twitching. “But Voldemort didn’t kill Dumbledore. Or rather, he didn’t defeat him. Dumbledore sacrificed himself to defeat him. Like my mum.”

Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth but closed it again without saying anything. So she knew. “Yes,” he said. “Blood magic. You can’t tell anyone.” He didn’t have to explain why - she would know that.

Hermione nodded. “But why does everyone think you killed Voldemort if the Headmaster did it?”

Harry hesitated. He wanted to tell her everything, but Moody - and Dumbledore - had been explicit about that. “I actually killed him. But I wouldn’t have been able to without the Headmaster weakening him.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie, he told himself as she nodded.

“So what’s going to happen now, with Malfoy being revealed as the ‘heroic’ spy for Dumbledore?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Dumbledore would have expected that, and he left instructions for Moody and probably for others. Mr Weasley and Percy are doing their best, I think. But I don’t know anything about the Headmaster’s plans for Malfoy.”

She frowned. “He might have gone overboard with his secrecy.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, trying to ignore his guilty feelings.

*****

Romilda was smiling when she stepped out of the fireplace, Harry Potter noticed. “Harry!” And she was certainly not showing even a little anger as she hugged him. Nor when they kissed. “I’m so proud of you!” she said when they separated.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry for not calling you sooner, but…” He sighed. “There was just so much to do - Sirius was hurt, Remus and Tonks were hurt, Snape was killed…” He shrugged. It wasn’t a good excuse for forgetting to call his girlfriend. “I wanted to call you earlier, but then more things came up.” Like Moody, and Hermione. And dinner.

She shook her head. “Don’t be sorry! You’re a hero! Of course you had a lot to deal with!”

“You’re not mad?” he asked. Hermione was still not too happy with him, and he had told her what had happened as soon as he had managed to leave the Ministry.

“Of course not! I’m happy!”

As she was kissing him again, he realised that she really wasn’t mad at him even though he had not thought of calling her until a day after the battle.

He was relieved but also - somehow - disappointed.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 5th, 1997**

“Good to be home!” Hermione Granger heard Sirius exclaim when they stepped into the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place. “Poppy is a competent nurse, but the infirmary at Hogwarts lacks some crucial functionality.”

“What functionality?” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but she did anyway - Sirius was overacting, and she could see he was still hurting when he moved. It was like throwing a hurt dog a bone.

“Why, Miss Granger!” He grinned at her and slipped an arm around Jeanne. “It distinctly lacks privacy!”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course.” As she had expected - mostly, at least.

“Don’t be like that just because mine and Jeanne’s return means that you can’t sneak your lover into the house any more!” the dog said.

“Lover?” Harry was staring at her.

“He’s joking,” Hermione said. “Or rather, he’s trying to be funny, but failing at it. I have no lover.”

“Ah.” Harry smiled.

Before she could glare at him for presuming that she couldn’t get a lover if she wanted one - which she didn’t, thank you very much - Jeanne cut in: “Well, she should get a lover. A girl her age needs to explore love.”

Hermione rolled her eyes again. “There are more important things to worry about than my love life.” She looked at Sirius. “Like the situation at the Ministry.”

Sirius sighed. “Spoil my fun, will you?” He held up a hand. “Let’s discuss this in the living room.”

“All your mail is in your study,” Hermione pointed out. She didn’t have to also point out that there was ample room for all four of them there.

“But the liquor cabinet is in the living room,” the dog retorted. She glared at him, and he sighed again. “At least I have a bottle of Ogden’s Finest in my desk.”

*****

“So,” Sirius said, half an hour, lots of complaining about all the letters and notes she had compiled for him and no whisky later, “Malfoy’s got the Wizengamot convinced that as Dumbledore’s spy, he’s so trustworthy, he can vouch for a number of suspected Death Eaters. Such as his good friends Parkinson, Nott and Bulstrode.”

“Yes,” Hermione Granger confirmed.

“And if Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t been killed and captured, respectively, in the battle, he probably would be vouching for them as well,” Harry said. “Can you do something about that?”

“I wish I could,” Sirius said. “The notes Dumbledore left to me do state that Malfoy wasn’t privy to the Death Eater roster. The Dark Lord wasn’t that trusting, after all.” He scowled. “But according to the Wizengamot notes my dear secretary diligently collected for me, he’s claiming that he was ordered on the morning of the battle to ensure that they would support the Dark Lord.”

“Which would mean that they couldn’t have been ordered around by Voldemort.” Hermione shook her head.

“Rubbish!” Harry shot to his feet.

“Of course it’s rubbish, but we can’t disprove his claims. Interrogating Malfoy with Veritaserum without concrete evidence of his guilt would have been nigh-impossible under the best circumstances, but after he was seen fighting side by side with Dumbledore? And with that damned letter of Dumbledore’s proving that he was his spy?” Sirius snorted. “It would be easier to convince the Wizengamot to unceremoniously bury Dumbledore in a shallow grave in a muggle cemetery.”

“And Parkinson, Nott and Bulstrode?” Harry stood. “They’re not seen as heroes - they hid in the Wizengamot during the battle!”

“Malfoy’s basically vouching for them. Without any evidence of our own, they’re pretty much untouchable by the law.” Sirius shrugged. “I’d curse Dumbledore for this if I weren’t certain that Malfoy was essential for ambushing Voldemort.”

“But…” Harry clenched his teeth and looked at her, Hermione noticed. “We have to do something! They framed Hermione! They got her expelled!”

“Nott wasn’t involved in that,” Hermione corrected him. The Notts weren’t on her list. But if Malfoy was vouching for them, maybe they should be?

“Bah!” Harry shook his head, pacing. “We can’t let Malfoy use this to take over the Wizengamot!”

“And we won’t,” Sirius said. He held up a thick stack of parchment and a vial. “Dumbledore left me a sort of political testament. Including the memory of a posthumous address to the Wizengamot.” He grinned. “Malfoy will find it hard to publicly go against the final wishes of the man who sacrificed his life fighting Voldemort. Especially if Harry as the Boy-Who-Lived gives us his support.”

Harry beamed. “Yes!”

“He’ll try to subvert it, though,” Hermione pointed out. “Obstruct the proposals by adding riders or alter the wording until the original aim is perverted.” As Sirius’s secretary, she had quite the insight into how the Wizengamot and the Ministry operated.

“He can try,” Sirius said. His grin widened as he turned to her. “Let’s see Malfoy attempt to explain why Dumbledore’s dying wish that your case be reviewed in light of new evidence - evidence the Headmaster himself collected - shouldn’t be heeded!”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 6th, 1997**

“...and while she might have committed a crime as a child, she worked hard to contribute in our struggle against the Dark Lord. She hasn’t crossed wands with Death Eaters like so many brave Order members, but not everyone is able to fight in battle, and I think that she has redeemed herself through her work as the secretary of my esteemed colleague and ally in the Order, Sirius Black. In recognition of that, I therefore propose to grant Miss Granger a pardon for her past crimes.” Malfoy smiled widely and nodded as the Wizengamot began to applaud.

Hermione Granger clenched her fists to refrain from standing and cursing the man. She _had_ fought for the Order - she had risked her life against vampires and dark wizards! She had even taken down a traitor in the Ministry during the battle! She wasn’t just Sirius’s secretary!

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, whispering despite the privacy spell he had cast once they had taken their seats on the visitor’s gallery of the Wizengamot Chamber.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and school her features before answering - it wouldn’t do to reveal her and her friends’ secrets in an angry outburst. “He’s proposing to pardon me, instead of exonerating me.” At his puzzled look, she explained. “You pardon a convicted criminal, but you exonerate an innocent victim of a miscarriage of justice. I’ll still have a criminal record if his proposal passes.” She clenched her teeth. “And by making it look like all I did was handling mail and making tea for Sirius, he’s acting as if this is a favour for Sirius, not a reward for me.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “But Dumbledore gathered proof of your innocence!”

“Enough to review my case, not enough to prove my innocence without further evidence,” Hermione corrected him. The Headmaster had outlined the investigation which would have - with political pressure - led to such evidence. “But if Malfoy’s proposal gets accepted, then the Wizengamot won’t also vote to review my case. Even though Dumbledore asked for it. They’ll consider the matter settled.”

“But…”

Harry now looked like he wanted to curse Malfoy, so she put her hand on his arm to calm him down. “Let Sirius answer that.”

But, listening to the next Wizengamot member speaking in support of Malfoy’s proposal, Hermione was certain that Sirius wouldn’t be able to stave it off. A number of members wouldn’t even know the difference between a pardon and an exoneration, and many more wouldn’t care. Enough to sway the vote.

“...in light of my esteemed colleague’s bravery, I therefore fully support this proposal. I think I speak for everyone that the late Chief Warlock would also have wanted this - those of my generation will certainly remember how he redeemed Severus Snape, another brave soul who died fighting the Dark Lord, after a troubled youth. With the Chief Warlock’s funeral coming up, the timing would also be perfect for such a gesture.”

A gesture. Nothing about justice. Nothing about repaying the gold those bigots had stolen from her family and Sirius’s coffers. Hermione pressed her lips together and tried to hide her anger.

“But… does that mean your expulsion won’t be reversed?” Harry asked.

She glanced at him, then shook her head. “No, that was part of the punishment, and would be repealed.”

Harry smiled. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

She nodded. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 7th, 1997**

Harry Potter sat on his bed in Gryffindor Tower and stared at his new wand. The Elder Wand. He still couldn’t really believe that the Headmaster had left it to him. Nor that it was actually real. One of the three Deathly Hallows.

He held it up and concentrated. Its tip started to glow brightly. It felt just like when he used his first wand. Did that mean that he was the wand’s master? He remembered watching Dumbledore’s message in the Pensieve Sirius had recovered from Hogwarts.

_“Harry, my boy, if you are hearing this then I am dead.” Dumbledore, sitting at his desk, had chuckled. “I had to say that. More seriously, if you are hearing this, then my plan will have worked and Voldemort has been rendered mortal by my sacrifice and then defeated by you using your mother’s sacrifice. Or maybe a stray curse - the best-laid plans of mice and men, and so on. If you are feeling guilty about my death, don’t. I chose this, fully cognisant of the consequences. It was the best, the only practical solution to deal with Voldemort’s soul anchors. I do not think that we could have found and destroyed all of them by other means.”_

_He had smiled. “You may have noticed that your scar will have been affected as well - it was a connection to Voldemort’s soul, and therefore suffered the same fate as his anchors. I do not think that the scar will vanish as a result, but you are unlikely to suffer headaches from it any more.”_

_Dumbledore had leaned back. “However, that is not why I am leaving you this message. It will have been given to you together with my wand. You are aware that not every wand will suit every wizard - matching wand to wizard is actually far more difficult than crafting a wand - but this wand is special. It is the Elder Wand, and it will serve whoever defeats the prior owner of it. I took it from Grindelwald after our duel. If all went as planned, then you will be its new master - although there is a chance that you might not have won its allegiance. You should be able to figure that out on your own. I caution you to use it wisely, though - it will help you tremendously in a fight, but it will switch its allegiance as soon as you are defeated, so do not use it frivolously, but limit your use to occasions when you must risk its loss. Grindelwald is not the only, but just the most recent, example of how much evil a wizard wielding it can cause. I implore you to keep your possession of it a secret. Let people believe that you were left my wand as a sign of trust, lest too many greedy wizards come after you._

_“The notes about the Deathly Hallows I am also leaving you should explain more about the wand’s powers. Study them well.” And with a grin, Dumbledore had added: “You might also find a few surprising notes about your father’s cloak, better known as the Invisibility Cloak. It has been in your family’s possession since...”_

His father’s cloak - the second Deathly Hallow. Harry shook his head. No wonder Ron hadn’t noticed him that evening when he and Romilda had hidden in that alcove!

Harry sighed. Two legendary items, both in his possession. If anyone knew or suspected… He snorted.

“Mate? Did you go to bed already?”

He looked up. “Ron?”

His friend pushed the curtains of Harry’s bed back and peered inside. “What are you doing?”

Harry shrugged. “Just…” He spread his hands and sighed.

Ron nodded. “Yeah, I know. I still see the battle when I close my eyes, too.”

Harry clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to lie to Ron. Not even by omission. But Dumbledore had asked him to keep the secret. And yet… “You know…”

“I wanted to...” Ron said at the same time as Harry started to talk.

“You first,” Harry said. He didn’t mind waiting to reveal his secret.

“I wanted to talk to you about the battle. Specifically, about the snakes.” Ron looked around, then cast a privacy spell.

“The enchanted snakes Voldemort sent after us?” Harry asked.

“Yes. The ones you ordered away.” Ron was staring at him.

Harry nodded. “Yes?”

His friend looked confused. “The ones you talked to.”

“Yes?” Why was Ron being so weird?

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were a Parselmouth?”

“A what?”

“A wizard able to talk to snakes. You were hissing at them.”

“What?” Harry stared at him. “I was talking normally to them.” Shouting, actually.

“I heard you hiss, mate. And they obeyed you.”

“That was because I had a connection to the Dark Lord,” Harry said, pointing at his scar. “It’s…” He blinked. “You think I can talk to any snake? I remember a trip to the zoo, and a snake talking to me…”

“You’re a Parselmouth then, mate. That’s not good.” Ron leaned forward. “People usually think that’s a sign of a dark wizard. If anyone hears about this, it’ll be bad.”

Harry closed his eyes and muttered a few curses. “Especially with Malfoy being so popular.” If Malfoy managed to frame him as a dark wizard… Merlin’s beard, since Harry had technically used blood magic, he might even be unable to prove his innocence.

“Better watch your mouth when you’re around snakes,” Ron said. “You don’t want to hiss in the middle of Care for Magical Creatures.”

“I didn’t even notice that I wasn’t speaking English!” Harry said through clenched teeth.

“Then you’ll need to learn how to notice that,” Ron shot back.

“I’ll need a snake for that.” They hadn’t learned how to conjure snakes yet. Moody had said snakes were too slow, usually, and too weak to be effective in a fight. Good for ambushing your enemy, and assassinating the unwary, though.

“I can ask Luna to get one,” Ron said. “She’s good with animals.”

With weird animals, Harry thought. But it would be rude to say that. “Thanks.” He sighed and cleared his throat. “There’s something I have to tell you, too.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Ever heard about the Elder Wand?” Harry raised it and wiggled it in Ron’s face until he saw his friend’s eyes widen. “Yes.”

“Merlin’s arse!”

“That was my thought, too,” Harry said.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 10th, 1997**

“You got your pardon.” Mr Fletcher nodded at the scroll Hermione Granger had dropped on his table right after entering the flat. “Heard it on the wireless.”

She scoffed. “That was never in doubt once Malfoy asked for it.”

“Still remarkable that they managed to grant it within five days,” he commented as he read the parchment. “Without mistakes, even.”

“They wanted to pass it before Dumbledore’s funeral.” Hermione took a seat at the table.

“And it covers all of your past crimes - which includes the heists we did for Albus. Quite clever,” Mr Fletcher said.

“They probably simply copied Malfoy’s pardon.” Something, she had realised, that Dumbledore might have arranged. He might even have thought that it outweighed the benefits of clearing her name. Might. She didn’t want to think about that right now. “Speaking of Dumbledore’s funeral: Will you be attending?”

“No.”

She didn’t frown, even though his reply had been rather curt. “Is your prosthetic working?”

“Like a charm.” He chuckled at his own joke, but it sounded forced to her.

“I thought it took longer to craft a tailored prosthetic,” Hermione said, tilting her head to look at Mr Fletcher’s left leg. Much longer.

“Like with wizards, money helps things along.” He grinned and pulled his trouser leg up, exposing shiny metal and plastic.

“And some spells, I wager.”

He nodded. “I didn’t want to be useless and stuck with crutches any longer than necessary.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not useless.”

“I got crippled by a senile bigot because I got sloppy.” He was scowling now. “I’m worse than useless.”

“That was bad luck.”

He scoffed. “Only a fool blames bad luck for his mistakes.”

“And only a fool doesn’t learn from their mistakes,” she quoted him.

He chuckled without mirth again. “And I’m no fool.” He sat down in his favourite chair. “I learned my lesson.” He knocked on his artificial lower leg. “Can’t burglarise anything any more. At least nothing important.”

“We can enchant it,” she protested. They could add a lot of spells, add a lot of functionality.

“Aye, we could. And we will.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “But it won’t be as good as my old one. And I won’t be as good as I was.” He looked straight at her. “I’d be more hindrance than help to you, like this.”

“That’s not true! You’re still the best thief I know!”

He shook his head. “But I’m not the best thief I know. Not any more.”

“But…” She bit her lower lip. How could she convince him that he wasn’t useless? She needed him! “You just lost a foot, not your head! You still have all your experience! And your wand arm!”

He laughed at that. “I do, and I’m still willing to teach you all I know, as I promised. But I would only drag you down on a real heist.” He shook his head, then met her eyes again. “I’m not going to be responsible for your arrest. Or worse.”

Oh. That was his problem, she suddenly realised. She should have known. “But…” she trailed off, unsure what to say.

“Besides,” he nodded at her pardon, “you can return to Hogwarts now.”

“Yes.” She slowly nodded. Professor - Headmistress, now - McGonagall had already sent her a letter. “Yes, I can.”

But did she want to?

*****

**Hogwarts, January 11th, 1997**

“...and I think I speak for everyone here when I say that Albus Dumbledore will be terribly missed. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, as Chief Warlock, as Supreme Mugwump, he worked tirelessly to help everyone! I would not call myself a close friend of his, but…”

Harry Potter was proud that he managed not to roll his eyes during that twit Selwyn’s speech. “It’s clear that he’s the most senior member of the Wizengamot - he’s already senile,” he muttered.

Romilda, sitting next to him, leaned over. “Your speech was much better. And much shorter.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. It had been a struggle, too, with everyone and their dog trying to tell him what to say. Hermione had written a three-foot draft - and a four-foot one for Sirius. All while he still had trouble accepting that Dumbledore was dead. That Harry would never again visit his office for a lesson. Never again see the old wizard smile in that half-sad way of his.

He leaned forward, startling Romilda, and glanced at his friend, sitting on the other side of Sirius and Jeanne. She didn’t look angry at his editing, but that could be deceptive. “I wish Remus and Tonks were here,” he whispered, straightening.

“They’re still in St Mungo’s?”

“Yes. Dark curses.” The prognosis was good for both - but they would have scars. He squeezed Romilda’s hand when he saw her wince.

After another five minutes, Selwin finally finished his speech, and Mr Doge - one of Dumbledore’s oldest friends, Harry had learned, who had given a truly moving and also short speech - stepped forward. “Thank you, Matthias.”

Selwyn solemnly nodded as he returned to his seat, but Doge was already addressing the crowd assembled in front of the monolith that would mark Dumbledore’s grave on the grounds of Hogwarts. “Now rise, everyone, so we can salute our friend and teacher as he takes his last journey.”

Harry stood and raised his wand, together with hundreds of wizards and witches.

“Lumos!” Doge said as Dumbledore’s coffin - a stone sarcophagus - started to float and slowly travel towards the opening in the monolith.

“Lumos!”

Hundreds of light shone - in many different colours, exactly as Dumbledore had wished in his last will and testament. ‘Something to brighten the day’, he had called it.

Harry kept staring at the coffin until it disappeared into the polished white marble.

*****

Hermione Granger slowly lowered her wand when she saw the marble seal itself up behind the Headmaster’s coffin. “Nox,” she whispered, cancelling her spell, then took a deep breath. Dumbledore’s grave was sealed. It was over. The funeral. The war. An era, even. Probably. It certainly felt like it.

“Let’s go to the Great Hall!” Sirius said. “I’m starving!”

She glared at the dog - couldn’t he show some decorum, instead of thinking with his stomach?

He frowned at her. “Don’t give me that look! Dumbledore would have wanted us to enjoy the buffet. He said so in his will.”

She didn’t doubt that. “It’s still unbecoming,” she said. This was a funeral, after all.

“And I’m still hungry! Let’s fetch Harry and the others and go!”

Rolling her eyes, she shook her head, then looked around for Harry, Ron and the others. And Harry’s little girlfriend. Seeing the little witch cling to Harry’s arm as if he’d float away if she weren’t weighing him down almost made her reconsider her decision. Luna certainly didn’t act like that with Ron.

She was shaking her head when she approached them. “Hey! Sirius wants to head to the Great Hall.” She nodded towards Hogwarts.

“Good idea! I’m starving!” Ron said, then frowned as if he didn’t know why she was glaring at him. Boys!

*****

Half an hour later, Hermione Granger finally managed to be alone with her two best friends. She felt bad for jinxing the mistletoe at the side entrance to the Great Hall, prompting Luna to search for Nargles in the corridor behind it. She didn’t feel bad for casting a Full-Bladder Hex at Harry’s girlfriend, though. That witch simply couldn’t take a hint.

She sighed and cast a privacy spell. Harry and Ron immediately tensed. “What’s up?” Ron asked.

“Was there any trouble at the Ministry? Or with registering at Hogwarts?” Harry looked around, presumably for the Headmistress.

“No,” Hermione said. “I just need to tell you something in private.” As nice as Luna was, Hermione wasn’t certain that the girl could keep a secret. She took a deep breath. “I’m not returning to Hogwarts.”

*****

 


	29. Relationships

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, Britain, January 11th, 1997**

Narcissa Malfoy née Black kept her - expected - expression of sorrow and mourning until Draco, Lucius and herself returned to their home. It wouldn’t have done to even hint at a smile when attending Dumbledore’s funeral. Not when the mudblood-loving fool was currently considered Britain’s greatest hero.

Once she was in the entrance hall of her manor, though, she dropped the facade and schooled her features into a cool and composed expression - as befitted a pureblood witch of good breeding. She had not forgotten what her mother and aunt had taught her: a daughter of an Old Family was always in control - of her appearance, her temper and her magic.

“So, with Dumbledore dead and you ruling the Ministry, can I finally teach Potter and the blood traitors their place again?”

Even if her darling son made it difficult at times. Like today. Draco was a wonderful wizard and a loving child, but his temper suited a Gryffindor more than a Slytherin.

“No, Draco,” Lucius said in a firm voice.

“Why not? You said that the Dark Lord had betrayed us and was worse than Dumbledore. That’s why you worked with the Headmaster! But now they are both dead!”

She smiled at Draco. “They are dead, and your father is the most influential wizard in the Wizengamot, but that doesn’t mean that he can do as he wishes.” Fudge might be pliable, but manipulating the Minister still took a certain amount of finesse and caution.

“Why not?”

She frowned at him. “Do not whine. It doesn’t become the scion of the Malfoy family. And it doesn’t fit the last pureblood heir of the Black family either.” Unless her rotten cousin managed to beget a child on his French whore.

He sulked, but he didn’t whine.

“I’ll explain,” Lucius said. “Let’s go to the salon. Dobby!”

A moment later, the house-elf’s voice piped up from behind a curtain. “Yes, Master?”

“We’ll be having a few refreshments in the salon.”

“Yes, Master.”

When they arrived a few minutes later in the salon, three trays with tea and confectionery were laid out next to the sofa and Lucius’s seat, though Narcissa could just discern the movement of the curtain in the corner. Dobby meant well, but he was no Kreacher.

He did brew acceptable tea, at least. And could cook well, Narcissa reminded herself while nibbling on a scone as Lucius filled her cup.

“So… why can’t we oust the Weasleys?”

She frowned at her son to remind him to wait patiently for his parents to start talking as Lucius cleared his throat.

“In fact, we took you home with us for this afternoon to discuss that exact topic. It goes without saying that you shouldn’t tell anyone that we didn’t stay in Hogsmeade.” Lucius nodded and took a sip from his cup with perfect poise. “While my actions in the conflict with the Dark Lord have earned our family a great deal of prestige and influence, Dumbledore’s heroic death and Potter killing the - although greatly weakened - Dark Lord means that Black and his ilk have profited from the battle’s outcome as well.”

Which was a very unfortunate outcome in Narcissa’s opinion. Her husband had been the one to risk his life and soul daily for a year to spy on the Dark Lord. He had been the one who had lured that madman into the ambush, at even greater risk. And, most importantly, he had been the one to reveal the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes to Dumbledore. Without Lucius, the Dark Lord would have still been as immortal as he had thought himself to be when he walked into the Ministry. All Sirius had done was absorb a few curses in the battle while casting some of his own - as typical for a Gryffindor. He hadn’t even had the grace to die heroically and leave the Black family fortune to Narcissa.

“But shouldn’t you have moved against them, then, instead of helping Black’s mudblood return to Hogwarts?” Draco put his teacup down and Narcissa refilled it with a flick of her wand.

“I did, Draco.” Lucius smiled. “It may look like I supported Black, but instead, I have hurt him. The Wizengamot is now convinced that pardoning Black’s thieving pet mudblood was only done as a favour to Black. Taking notes and handling mail for your betters certainly is not a heroic deed worthy of redemption.”

“Ah!”

Narcissa made a mental note to give Draco a few more lessons in hiding his reactions. He was too open with his emotions.

“So, not only will many of my ‘esteemed colleagues’ feel that Black spent a sizeable amount of the political capital he gained from his own actions during the battle on helping out his mudblood mistress, but I also countered his plans to have the mudblood’s case reviewed.”

“Reviewed?”

“There was a slight possibility that the girl’s conviction might have been overturned, depending on what evidence Dumbledore had collected during the years since,” Lucius explained. “While I made sure that our part in those events was covered by the blanket pardon Dumbledore granted me in exchange for spying on the Dark Lord, certain friends of ours would not have fared as well.”

Draco blinked, then nodded. “Pansy, Daphne, Tracey and Bulstrode.”

“Their families,” Narcissa cut in, “would have been forced to return the compensation they were awarded.”

“By granting the mudblood a pardon, though,” Lucius went on, “I nipped that in the bud.”

And, Narcissa knew, he had hastened the decline of Sirius’s influence.

“But the mudblood’s still returning to Hogwarts.” Draco huffed. “And everyone thinks Potter is a big hero!”

“That couldn’t have been avoided,” Lucius retorted. “Which is why I didn’t oppose it. Never waste your gold and influence fighting the inevitable, Draco. Always go with the tide and use the currents to your best advantage.”

Draco nodded, but Narcissa knew that it would be best to drive this lesson home. “Which, in this case, means that those families are in our debt twice - once for your father saving them from prosecution, and once for saving their reputation and their gold.” It was a very good thing that no one but the Dark Lord had known the identities of all his followers.

“Ah!” Draco smiled widely.

Narcissa knew that smile - and frowned at him. “That does not mean that you should antagonise them, Draco, by wounding their pride. All of them are Old Families, and while they owe us, that does not mean we can order them around.” Not without causing so much resentment that it wasn’t worth the trouble. Her son pouted, and so she smiled and reached over to ruffle his hair.

“Don’t fret, Draco. Their families will be aware of these debts, and I have no doubt that they’ll instruct your friends to treat you accordingly. A lighter touch will net you more than acting like a Gryffindor.”

Judging by the horrified expression on her son’s face at being compared to Gryffindors, this was a lesson he would not forget. Unlike, also obvious due to his grimace, his last lesson on keeping his emotions hidden.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 11th, 1997**

“She doesn’t want to return to Hogwarts!” Harry Potter gestured with his left arm as he paced inside the area of his privacy spell in the Gryffindor common room. He barely noticed one of the lower years nearby flinching - and didn’t care; it had taken days to get the other students to stop bothering him about the battle in the Ministry. “She’s finally pardoned, her expulsion reversed, but she doesn’t want to return!” He didn’t understand Hermione. She loved school! And she loved Hogwarts! He turned to stare at Ron. “Why?”

“Well, she said that she wouldn’t fit in any more,” Ron answered. “That she’s used to…”

“I know what she said,” Harry interrupted him. “But I don’t believe it! She was mad about her O.W.L. results, and blamed them on having a tutor! And now she refuses to come to the best school in the world?” She couldn’t really prefer a tutor to Hogwarts! Especially with Snape gone.

“She’d be behind in a few subjects,” Ron retorted, but he was shrugging even before Harry could tell him off for that. “I don’t get it either, OK?”

Harry huffed. “She could easily catch up by the end of this year, and she’d be ready for seventh year. Probably be ahead of everyone, too.” He had told her that, too.

“Maybe she has a muggle boyfriend and doesn’t want to leave him?” Romilda said.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Harry corrected her. “She said so herself.” He shook his head. “No, that isn’t it. Maybe…” He clenched his teeth and cut himself off. Hermione wouldn’t be as petty as to abandon Hogwarts - to abandon the opportunity to join him and Ron, her best friends - just because she was an adult and didn’t want to have a curfew again.

“Maybe she misses her parents?” Luna asked.

He turned to look at her. She had stopped poking through the magazines the Gryffindors had collected in the room - ‘the Gryffindor library’, she had called it on her first visit - and smiled at him. “What?” he asked.

“Her parents left Britain half a year ago, didn’t they? So the Death Eaters wouldn’t be able to find them,” Luna said. Harry didn’t think they had ever told her the real reason for the Granger’s ‘vacation’. He glanced at Ron, who looked as surprised as Harry at that. So, no.

“Yes?” Harry didn’t know what Luna meant. “But they would be able to return now…” He blinked. Hermione’s parents would be able to return, but if she were at Hogwarts, she wouldn’t be able to see them. Ron still looked puzzled. As did Romilda.

Luna nodded several times. “She isn’t used to being away from her parents, is she?”

Harry sighed. That made some sense. Not too much, but some. He was glad he hadn’t blown up at Hermione when she had told them about her decision. Not too much, at least.

But he still wanted Hermione to return to Hogwarts. To be with him. And with Ron. But he couldn’t fault her for choosing to be with her parents instead. He’d do the same, after all.

Sighing, he sat down in his armchair, then gasped, surprised, when Romilda moved to sit in his lap after he had closed his eyes for a moment. He frowned at her, but she smirked, unimpressed, and wrapped her arm around his shoulders before kissing him.

He was already kissing her back when he heard Luna pipe up: “Good idea!”, followed by Ron making a surprised noise.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 14th, 1997**

“This is Mr Biggles,” Luna said, holding out a small green snake to Harry Potter.

“Mr Biggles?” Harry stared at the snake.

“Yes?” the snake answered.

“That’s your name?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, what’s he saying?” Luna said.

“He confirmed that he’s Mr Biggles,” Harry answered.

“Of course he would!” Luna replied, nodding firmly.

“How did you know his name?” Harry asked.

“Well, he looks like a Mr Biggles, doesn’t he?” she answered.

Harry decided not to pry further. The snake’s name didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he learned how not to speak Parseltongue whenever he saw a snake.

Which, he soon found out, wasn’t as easy as he had thought.

After an hour of fruitless attempts to not hiss at Mr Biggles, he handed him back to Luna. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him and cooed at the snake. “Bye-bye, Mr Biggles. You will now be staying with your new friend, Harry.” She patted the snake’s head with one finger, then smiled at Harry. “Take good care of him, he’s a nice snake.”

Harry blinked. He opened his mouth to explain that he couldn’t keep a snake with him - he was a Gryffindor, and even if he managed to hide Mr Biggles, he couldn’t risk accidentally outing himself, but Ron was shaking his head behind Luna.

Harry took the snake back with a forced smile.

He had to talk to Sirius. Or Hermione.

*****

**Longford, Heathrow Airport, Britain, January 27th, 1997**

“Dad! Mum!”

Hermione Granger’s parents had barely made it out of the arrival gate when she jumped them - literally, in her dad’s case.

“Ooof!” He staggered back, almost stumbling into their trolley in the process, before he recovered his balance and managed to return her hug. “Careful! You’re not as little as you were when we left.”

She ignored his comment and squeezed a little harder, then released him and hugged her mother. “Mum!”

“Hermione!”

Both were wiping tears from their eyes after Hermione released them.

“Well, that’s a good way to start making up for cutting our vacation short!” Dad said, but when Hermione pouted at him she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes also looked rather wet. “I’m joking.”

“You’re trying to joke,” she corrected him. “Let’s go; the car’s waiting.”

“The car?”

“Sirius hired a limousine. With a chauffeur,” she added. Her parents exchanged a glance, and Hermione sighed. “I tried telling him that we’d be fine with a cab.” She shrugged. “You know how he is.”

“I guess we should be grateful that he didn’t remodel the house in our absence,” Dad said.

She flinched.

“Dear, that was your cue to laugh.” Mum was frowning now.

Hermione sighed. “We just improved its security.” Mostly. The escape tunnels were hidden and wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. And they needed more shelves for the books she had bought anyway. Now if only there were a way to get the telly working inside wards...

Two hours later, they were sitting at the dining table - also new - and drinking tea. Hermione rolled her eyes. “Stop griping about the furniture! Or the tea set!” It wasn’t as if she had taken the new additions from the loot from her heists - she knew better than that.

Mum sighed. “It’s just… we already owe Mr Black so much.”

“ _I_ owe him so much,” Hermione corrected her. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree about that,” Dad said.

She frowned at him, but if he hadn’t seen reason after a discussion lasting half an hour in the car, reiterating her arguments once again wouldn’t do much good. “So,” she changed the subject, “you know that the Dark Lord is dead, and the danger from his followers is mostly gone.”

“Mostly.”

She nodded at him. “Yes, mostly. The Ministry’s still looking for surviving moles, but we can safely assume that none of them are willing to risk exposing themselves by avenging their master.” They would have been ordered to fight in that case - Voldemort had had to resort to mercenaries to bolster his ranks.

“I don’t think there would be much risk to them in going after a pair of muggles.”

Hermione didn’t wince. Her mum was sharp. “No, but that’s where the enhanced security comes in.”

“I thought that would mean we couldn’t use electronics inside the house.” Dad wasn’t slow either.

“Only wards have that effect. But Sirius hired a pair of wizards as guards for you.” She saw her parents’ expression and hastily continued. “Not like bodyguards. They’re just keeping an eye on the house and the office - you know, patrolling. Checking out the neighbours, casting alarm charms at night…”

Judging by the way Mum was pressing her lips together and Dad was looking for his scotch, it was time to change the subject again.

“Also, while I’ve received a pardon and my expulsion was reversed, I will not be returning to Hogwarts. I’ll stay in London with you, and continue my studies with my tutor and work for Sirius.” And she would be able to visit muggle London and Diagon Alley whenever she wanted, instead of being confined to Hogwarts. Officially, at least - it wasn’t as if she couldn’t already come and go as she pleased at night.

Hermione smiled brightly at them. Fortunately, they took that news very well - much better than Harry and Ron had - and she didn’t have to explain her real reasons for not returning to Hogwarts.

Because her parents wouldn’t have reacted well to her planning to finish her training as a professional thief. Not at all.

*****

**Hogwarts, January 30th, 1997**

“...and I want you to write two feet about the effects of Stunners on a Shield Charm for next week.”

Harry Potter didn’t groan at the homework assignment, unlike most of the class. Nor did he rush out of the Defence classroom as soon as he had written down the instructions. Instead, he waited until everyone but Ron and himself had left.

“Do you have questions about the lesson?” Remus asked as he cast a quick Mending Charm on the training dummy Seamus had accidentally scorched during the lesson and floated it back to where the rest of them were stored.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head.

“We learned that over a year ago,” Ron added.

Harry nodded - Remus had taught them that himself, after all.

“You still have to write the essay,” Remus said.

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment; he and Ron had argued at length that they should be allowed to skip such homework, but Remus hadn’t budged. Apparently, with Voldemort dead, they didn’t need special exemptions any more.  

“Just because you can use it in practice doesn’t mean you can skimp on the theory; both are required for your N.E.W.T.s,” Remus continued. “But if you don’t have any questions about the essay, what questions do you have?”

Harry quickly cast a privacy charm. “Did Tonks get our copies of the Auror handbook?”

Remus frowned at him. “It’s barely been a week since she returned to work, and you expect her to violate regulations and copy manuals for you? And, anyway, why would you think that I would know anything about that?”

“Please,” Harry said. “We saw you together in St Mungo’s.”

Remus narrowed his eyes. “Did you use your Cloak to spy on us?”

Harry grinned. “No. I was bluffing, but you just confirmed it.” Sirius had told him, but Harry’s godfather wasn’t the most dependable source where relationships were concerned. He still claimed that Hermione had a crush on Harry.

“You make a cute couple,” Ron added. “Luna said so.”

Harry knew that this wasn’t the time to make jokes about matching scars. Even though Remus had claimed that a few more scars wouldn’t matter given how many he had already had before the Battle of the Ministry when Sirius had joked about witches thinking scars were sexy.

Remus snorted. “Luna also thinks Thestrals are cute.”

“Well…” Ron shrugged. “They have a sort of charm.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Harry said. He had no intention of feeding or petting the things - ‘getting to know them’, as Luna called it. “So… Tonks hasn’t brought you the manuals yet.”

“No, she hasn’t,” Remus said. “And you better not bother her about it - she’s still on light duty.”

The way Remus bared his teeth was not even close to a friendly smile and he was growling, Harry realised, despite the full moon having been a week ago. Harry nodded quickly before leaving with his friend.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to be patient,” Ron said outside the classroom. “Never thought I’d miss Moody’s lesson so much.”

Harry nodded. “I wish they’d finish the mole hunt at the Ministry.”

“Won’t help,” Ron said. “Percy told me that they lost too many Aurors; Moody’s going to be very busy until the next class finishes the Auror course.”

Harry sighed. “It’s weird, having so much free time and nothing to do. Other than school.”

“And spending time with our girlfriends,” Ron said.

“Right.”

*****

When Harry Potter entered the Gryffindor common room with Ron, he found Romilda waiting for him. She stood as soon as she saw him and started to walk towards him. Her friends - Cerys and Carol - waved at him, and he nodded back at them before kissing his girlfriend. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She beamed at him. “Do you have Quidditch training later?”

He shook his head. “Not today. Do you want to do a little flying?”

She nodded. “I’d love to.”

“Unless you want to do something else,” Harry added belatedly.

“No, no. Let’s go flying!”

“Alright. Let me drop off my books and get my broom.” Harry kissed her again, then went up the stairs.

When he dropped his book bag on his bed, he saw Ron stuffing a chess board into his pocket. He looked at it, then at Ron.

“Luna and I are going to play a few games of exchange chess. We’re going to trounce Cho and Marietta,” Ron answered with a grin.

“I’m going flying with Romilda,” Harry said.

“You’re lucky that she loves flying as much as you do,” Ron said. “Luna likes playing chess, but not as often as I’d like.”

Harry grinned and waved as Ron left, then went and grabbed his Quidditch goggles for Romilda - the enchantments on his glasses were good enough for flying.

Maybe some Quidditch goggles would make a good Valentine gift for Romilda, Harry thought as he left his room. As often as they went flying together, she certainly could use some.

*****

**London, Merton, January 31st, 1997**

Hermione Granger loved that her parents were back from their ‘protective vacation’, as her dad called it, and that she was once again living with them - part-time, at least. While she was a witch and would never seriously contemplate abandoning magic or the magical world, she had missed being able to watch the BBC at home and use a computer. And being able to explore the rapidly growing ‘Internet’, as it was called - even though her collection of books had finally caught up and then exceeded her original collection, and she had usually bought at least The Times while staying at Grimmauld Place.

However, shopping for groceries as a muggle didn’t fall amongst those parts of muggle culture that she had missed. Passing through aisles stuffed with goods, most of them things she didn’t need nor want, listening to fragments of pop songs when passing people who had to be deaf already judging by the volume of their headphones and trying to get around the other customers of the supermarket who were blocking the aisles was testing her patience. It would be so easy to simply summon everything she needed. Or delegate the whole task to Kreacher, if this were a shop in Diagon Alley.

She should never have volunteered to do the grocery shopping when Mum had called and told her that she’d be late today - a boy had had an accident on the playground that had smashed his front teeth. Something magic would have been able to fix in five minutes, too.

She grabbed the last item on her list - olive oil - and proceeded to steer her shopping trolley towards the checkout, cutting off the old lady who had spent far too many minutes deciding between two brands of detergent a little earlier, in the process blocking Hermione. Her smile at that small piece of payback - the woman was buying dog food, too! - vanished as soon as she turned the corner of the last aisle and saw that only two tills were staffed, both with a long queue of waiting customers.

Five minutes worth, maybe ten - why were people doing their weekly shopping on a Friday afternoon? Hermione sighed as she picked the left queue, then bit her lower lip. Could she risk getting a book out of her enchanted pocket? A glance upwards told her that she couldn’t - there were cameras. She should have brought a purse large enough - before extending it, of course - for a decent-sized book. Sighing, she looked at the newspaper stand at the till then clenched her teeth. Tabloids that made The Quibbler look like The Times. She closed her eyes and sighed again, more loudly.

“I would offer you my spot, but I don’t think it would help you much.”

What? Hermione looked to her right. A boy - a young man, she corrected herself; he was about her age - was smiling at her, leaning on his own shopping trolley.

He gestured at his queue. “I don’t think it’ll move faster than yours.”

“Ah.” She smiled and nodded, politely, as she looked him over. Beige woollen sweater, polo shirt beneath it, she could spot the collar, and black jeans. Trainers. Brown hair, fashionably cut. Handsome face. She wasn’t staring. Not long enough for him to notice, at least. “As my mum would say: Your own queue is always the slowest.”

“That’s a rather egocentric view, don’t you think?”

Hermione nodded. “I told her so, too.” She had been ten at the time, too, and her parents hadn’t let her forget it for years. She smiled at the memory. And at the man.

He smiled back. “Are you in a hurry? Late for a date?”

“No,” she answered. Was he checking if she was single? “Just impatient. I should have brought a book.”

He laughed. “I hope it won’t take _that_ long.”

“Why? Are you late for a date?” She tilted her head, just a little. Not quite like Miss Merriweather.

He shook his head. “No.”

Her queue advanced, and she pushed her trolley forward, then turned to face him again. She saw his eyes look up, at her face - they had been wandering over her turtleneck and jeans. Briefly, at least. “No date on a Friday?” she asked. She wasn’t using Miss Merriweather’s smile. But she wasn’t just smiling politely.

He shook his head. “No.” He paused for a moment. “Although I’ve heard that The Frighteners is a good movie.”

Did he expect her to ask him out on a date? “What’s it about?” she asked.

“Someone who can see ghosts and has to deal with a ghost who murders people,” he explained as his queue advanced.

She frowned - ghosts couldn’t affect the living. The most they could do would be scare people and hope they had an accident.

“It’s a horror comedy,” he added after he had stopped his trolley again. “A friend of mine said it was quite funny.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I haven’t been to the movies in a few months…” she trailed off and smiled at him.

“Would you like to go watch the movie with me this evening?”

She bit her lower lip - she had planned to have dinner with her parents. On the other hand, they had said that she should go out more often, so they couldn’t really complain about such a change of plans. “Does that include dinner?”

“Of course!”

That would make it a date. She belatedly realised that she didn’t know his name. Nor he hers. She rectified that: “Hermione Granger.”

“Paul Simms,” he said. “Hermione?”

She had expected that reaction. “From ‘A Winter’s Tale’. My parents love Shakespeare,” she explained.

“Ah. I bet you have to explain that to almost everyone you meet.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes.” Her own queue advanced again.

“So… can I have your number?”

She pulled out her notebook and wrote down her address and phone number, then noticed that he was staring at her behind. No, her back pocket, which was just a little too small for her notebook. “See something you like?” she asked, channelling Miss Merriweather this time, to distract him.

It worked - he blushed.

And, after a moment, so did she.

*****

**London, Merton, January 31st, 1997**

“Italian?” Hermione Granger asked when she saw the restaurant Paul had chosen for their date. She noted with a little relief that she wasn’t underdressed for the venue - she had picked a nice set of slacks and a tighter cashmere turtleneck for the occasion.

“It offers pasta, pizza and meat dishes - something for almost everyone. A safer bet than Asian or French,” Paul explained as he opened the door for her.

“Smart. Obviously, this isn’t your first date.” She nodded with a grin.

“Can I answer that without destroying whatever good impression of me made you accept my invitation?” He smiled, but she didn’t think he was as confident as he tried to appear.

Instead of answering, she laughed, and his smile grew more relaxed. The head waiter asking for their reservation prevented further conversation until they had taken their seats.

“And what about you? Are you a dating expert?” he asked.

“I haven’t been dating much.” Not at all, unless attending balls in disguise counted. But she didn’t need darting experience to know that even hinting at her training to lead men on to gather intel wouldn’t go over well. “I was too busy studying and working.”

He nodded. “What are you studying?”

“I’m working on my A Levels.” It wasn’t much of a lie - the N.E.W.T.s were the magical equivalent, after all.

He blinked, looking surprised. “And you’re already working? I mean…” he trailed off, looking confused and a little embarrassed.

He didn’t ask how old she was, so it was probably not that. But Hermione remembered that he had seen her house and her parents’ car when he had come to pick her up. “My family had financial troubles a few years ago. I started working part-time at the time to help out, and by the time we had solved our problems, I had become used to earning my own money.”

“Ah.” As he nodded in apparent understanding, the waiter arrived with the menu, and they ordered their drinks. They didn’t take long to order - Paul was obviously familiar with the menu and picked the pizza of the week, and Hermione quickly decided on a salad and lasagna al forno.

“What kind of work do you do?” he asked after the waiter had brought their drinks and taken their order.

“I’m the secretary of an independently wealthy gentleman who prefers to focus on his French mistress and his hobbies rather than on his investments,” Hermione said. His obvious surprise made her smile. “It sounds more important than it is - I mainly handle his correspondence and schedule. And remind him of his appointments when needed.” Which was all too often the case - the dog probably enjoyed riling her up like that. She watched him, but he didn’t seem to think there was more to her work. Unless he was far better at hiding his thoughts than he had appeared so far.

“I am working part-time as a clerk at a bank myself, and I’m studying economics at South Thames College,” Paul said. “I just started, though.”

“Both working and studying?”

“Yes. Is it easy to balance school and your work? I wouldn’t have managed during school myself. Not at my current job.”

“Oh, I’m not going to school any more; I have a private tutor helping me to prepare for my A Levels.” That probably made him think that her parents were spending more on her tutor than she was earning as a secretary.

“Ah.”

“It’s not ideal, but I like being able to schedule my own hours - mostly. I was in a boarding school for a while but that… didn’t work out.” Hermione wasn’t lying. Not really.

He nodded. “I never went to a boarding school. Pretty much stayed in Merton all my life - even my own flat is just a ten-minute walk from my parents’ home.”

“My parents just returned from a six-month vacation in Australia,” Hermione said. “I’m glad they made it home safely.”

“Ah, yes. Australia. Deadliest continent in the world. Most of its flora and fauna want to kill you, and the rest are venomous.”

She almost corrected him - he probably meant ‘poisonous’ as he’d included plants - but held her tongue. “They weren’t reckless or stupid.”

“My parents would say that that’s a teenager’s job.”

She snorted. “My parents say I went straight from toddler to twenty going on thirty.” She blushed a little, remembering. “I had a tendency to be a know-it-all.” She wasn’t, not any more. Or not as much, at least. Despite the dog’s claims.

He laughed. “Is that the result or the source of your love of books?” At her glance, he elaborated: “You mentioned you wanted to bring a book to the supermarket and your home had a lot of bookshelves.”

“I can’t really say, if I’m honest - as far back as I can remember, I’ve always loved books.” She was about to go into her favourites but refrained. “Do you like to read?”

“Well, despite my teachers and professors’ best attempts to make me hate reading, I like historical novels - and history books.”

She beamed at him. They spent the rest of the meals talking about historical novels, and whether or not they should be as historically accurate as possible.

*****

“So, what did you think of the movie?” Paul asked three hours later, as they were leaving the theatre.

Hermione Granger frowned. “I didn’t like how they portrayed the ghosts.”

“I thought the special effects were quite good.”

“Not that,” she corrected him. “I didn’t like that they had the ghosts being able to affect physical things and people.” That was completely wrong - ghosts couldn’t do that.

“Well, the movie wouldn’t have worked if they couldn’t affect people. Kind of hard to murder someone if you can’t touch them or do anything else,” Paul replied.

“Not necessarily. You could surprise and shock someone by suddenly appearing next to them and yelling. Timed correctly that could make them have an accident. Or a heart attack,” Hermione said. “And even if you didn’t manage that, you could cause them to suffer sleep deprivation and ultimately drive them to suicide by not letting them rest at all.”

“You have given this some thought, I see.” He grinned. “If I read about an unexplained murder, I’ll know who to suspect.”

“That just means that you’ll be my first victim!” She snorted, then sniffed. “After all, you picked a horror movie to scare me into your arms, didn’t you?”

He laughed at that, then slipped his arm around her shoulders - as he had during the movie. “Well, you didn’t object to my pick, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” She leaned into him as they walked back towards her home - and his; they were almost neighbours, as she had found out. Although she had expected that since they had met in the local supermarket.

Ten minutes later, they were standing in front of the door to her home.

“Well, I had fun,” he said. “I’d like to do that again. Go on a date, I mean.”

She nodded. “I had fun as well.” She didn’t know many people with whom she could discuss muggle books. Not in that much depth, at least.

“So… next Friday?”

She was tempted to say ‘How about tomorrow?’, but that would have been too eager. So she nodded, then wet her lips and kept looking at him - he was slightly taller than her.

And when he leaned forward to kiss her, she didn’t object to that either.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 2nd, 1997**

Standing in the hallway outside the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter tapped his glasses, activating their enchantment, then checked the corridors. He didn’t spot anyone hiding nearby - no ambushes. He hadn’t expected any, but you could never be sure. Not even after Voldemort’s defeat. Two witches strolled past - Ravenclaws - and he almost checked them out. He controlled himself in time, though. While Moody might disagree, Harry had come to doubt that seeing through robes made him any safer; almost everyone carried a wand, and potions were not uncommon either. You couldn’t really tell an attacker from a harmless passer-by. And he hadn’t ever found anyone dangerous that way either.

It felt wrong, too. A little.

The door opened behind him, and he stepped to the side and turned, keeping his wand out. Romilda stood there, smiling at him. “Hi!”

“Ready to go flying?” he asked, patting his enchanted pocket, where his Firebolt rested.

She nodded and lifted her - not shrunken - broom. A Cleansweep Five. “Yes.”

“Let’s go then.” He offered her his left arm, and she took it.

He hadn’t turned the enchantment off - he was used to its effect by now, at least enough to be able to walk without blinding himself to his environment. Halfway to the gate, in the courtyard, he spotted a group of students. Slytherins. Half a dozen of them, with Draco Malfoy in their midst.

He frowned. He could change their route. The side door would be a bit of a detour, but he could explain it to Romilda as being more private. That, of course, would make them take even longer.

He scoffed. He had fought and defeated Voldemort; he wouldn’t turn tail at the sight of a bunch of idiots like Malfoy and his cronies.

He heard the git before he saw him: “...and Professor Slughorn has personally invited me to the first party of the Slug Club at Hogwarts in decades!”

Romilda giggled at hearing that.

“We’re invited as well,” Harry reminded her in a whisper.

“It’s still a silly name,” she retorted.

She giggled again as they rounded the corner.

“Professor Slughorn realises, of course, how important my father is, after the Battle of the Ministry, where he...”

As soon as the Slytherins - Parkinson, Nott, Greengrass, Davis and Zabini - spotted Harry and his girlfriend, they stiffened. Malfoy even stopped in mid-sentence. “Potter,” he said with a forced smile.

“Malfoy.” Harry nodded at him. “Telling tales about the battle against the Dark Lord? I don’t remember you being there.”

“My father was there!” Malfoy shot back.

“I don’t see him here,” Harry retorted. “I don’t see Crabbe or Goyle either, but we all know why they’re missing, don’t we?”

Malfoy hissed through clenched teeth and the rest of the Slytherins flinched. Parkinson glared at Harry.

“What?” Harry snorted. “Your father betrayed Voldemort. Did you honestly think they wouldn’t try to take revenge?”

“That’s none of your business,” Malfoy replied with his typical sneer.

“Since their fathers tried to kill my friends and me, I think it’s my business.” He scoffed. “Hell, I might have been the one to kill Crabbe’s father. I certainly couldn’t tell who I was fighting since they were all masked.”

That made them flinch even more, and he felt Romilda’s grip tighten on his arm. He waited a moment, but no one said anything in response. Perfect.

Smiling toothily, he nodded at the Slytherins again and walked away with Romilda.

*****

An hour later, they set down again after a long but rather slow, by Harry Potter’s standards, aerial chase. He was the first to land, and he watched Romilda come in.

“Whew!” She said, handing over the broom shouldering her broom. “That was fun. But it was freezing.”

He frowned. “Did the Warming Charms fail?” She should have said so - he could have cast one that lasted.

“Mh.” She hugged him. “I need someone to warm me up.”

“Ah!” He returned her hug and rubbed her back.

A few kisses later, they were walking back to the school - to the side door, this time. “Did you have fun?”

“Of course!”

“We can do something other than flying if you want to.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I like flying!”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I lie?”

Why, indeed. But if she loved flying, why didn’t she have better gear? The Cleansweep Five was a decent broom, but it was getting old. There were better brooms to be had - not too expensive either; it wasn’t as if her family was poor.

“As long as I can spend time with you I’m happy.” She was beaming at him, and they stopped outside the door for a quick - or not so quick - snog.

“I’m happy to hear that.” And he was. “But if you ever want to, well - explore the Forbidden Forest, for example, we can do that too.”

“We can do that if you want to.”

She was smiling at him, but he had to force himself to smile back. A little, at least.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 7th, 1997**

“Here are your notes and your itinerary for the Wizengamot next week!” Hermione Granger announced, dropping a stack of parchment on Sirius’s desk. “If you have any questions, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Her employer eyed the parchment with the same expression a dog would have when confronted with a tiger. No wonder he had been happy about her decision not to return to Hogwarts, which would have meant she couldn’t work for him any more. Then he perked up. “Not staying for dinner? Hot date tonight?”

The dog’s wide, mocking smile just begged for a cat to rake his nose with her claws. But not today. Instead of teaching him a lesson, she smiled. “Yes.”

“What?”

He was gaping with such a flabbergasted expression that she glared at him. “I have a date this evening. Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to get a date if I wanted to?”

“No, no!”

Which, of course, meant ‘yes’. She scoffed and shook her head.

“Who is the lucky boy?” He had recovered and was leaning forward in his seat.

“A neighbour. I met him in the supermarket.”

“A muggle?” He was looking as if he were surprised again.

“Is there something wrong with muggles?” She narrowed her eyes at the dog.

“No. Just… I didn’t expect that.” He shook his head.

“Really?” She didn’t bother to hide her doubt. “Did you expect me to flirt with the Ministry staff when we visit the Wizengamot? Or go and ask out students in Hogsmeade?” She snorted at the idea.

“When you put it like that…” He pouted. “But isn’t it awkward dating someone who can’t know about the real you?”

“No more awkward than not telling Harry about what I did during the war.” And what she was planning to do, once she had completed her training.

“Ah, right.”

She rolled her eyes. He had been the one who told her to keep that a secret. Even though his reasons made sense - if one believed letting Harry become an Auror was as important as Sirius thought it was. “I’m heading home to get ready for my date now.”

Hermione felt surprisingly pleased to say that.

*****

**London, Merton, February 7th, 1997**

“What did you think of the movie?” Hermione Granger asked as she and Paul were leaving the theatre.

“Hm.” Paul looked pensive. “It was nice, but a little too ‘family friendly’, you know what I mean?” It must have been a rhetorical question since he continued before she could answer: “Not much action, and a lot of feel-good clichés. The idealistic little girl against the evil investors, cute animals and the good people cheering the kid in a happy ending.” He shook his head. “It didn’t even have a real villain. No real danger at all.” He grinned at her. “All this for saving food with wings?”

“It’s not about geese,” Hermione retorted. “It’s about a young girl learning to fight for what she believes in. She overcomes all obstacles to protect those weaker than herself.” ‘Fly Away Home’ was a very uplifting movie.

Paul shrugged. “Not enough fighting for my taste. Not enough guns.” He grinned. “Family-friendly. I like a bit more blood and gore with my action.”

She was tempted to tell him that he wouldn’t be saying that if he had been in a real fight, but held her tongue. “The flying scenes were beautiful.” Flying an ultralight must be almost like flying on a broom, she thought - but with more comfortable seating arrangements and less agility.

He grinned again. “I prefer planes with guns on them in my movies.”

She snorted. “I prefer to fly instead of watching actors wave props around and playing soldiers.” Harry and Ron would agree with her, she knew.

He blinked. “Don’t tell me that you can fly!”

She almost winced, then forced herself to grin. “Well, not without a plane. Or a magic broom.”

That made him laugh. She smiled. “I would like to be able to, though.”

“Don’t we all?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him. “But we’ll have to make do with the next best thing.”

“Which would be?”

“Dancing as if nobody's watching. I know a great club.”

“Lead the way.” It was certainly better than dissecting a movie.

An hour later, she found that kissing on the dance floor was better than dissecting a movie as well. Much better.

And snogging in dark corner of the club was even better.

*****

**Hogwarts, February 21st, 1997**

Harry Potter ducked and Sirius’s stunner passed overhead, not even hitting his Shield Charm. He jumped forward, rolled over his shoulder, barely noticing another Stunner missing him, and cast a Piercing Curse followed by a Stunner at near point-blank range. His godfather’s shield shattered, and he went down a moment later.

A flick of his wand revived Sirius and Harry offered a hand to the groaning wizard to help him up. “That was a good session.”

Sirius frowned at him. “If I weren’t still suffering from the wounds I took at the Ministry, I’d have completely trounced you.”

“Pomfrey released you in perfect health over a month ago!” Harry retorted. He had won a few rounds fair and square!

“I’m talking about the wounds taken by attending the Wizengamot, and listening to idiots who couldn’t outwit a mountain troll,” Sirius said. “I’m suffering.”

Harry remembered his own encounter with a mountain troll as he shook his head. “Excuses, excuses.”

Sirius scoffed. “I’ll show you excuses next week.” He sat down on the bench near the door of the Defence classroom and summoned a bottle of Butterbeer. “So, how are you doing when you’re not abusing a wounded man? Or dumping snakes on your godfather? Everything’s alright? Any trouble with Tonks’s handbooks?”

Harry joined him and grabbed a bottle for himself. “Other than their size, they’re fine.” Studying the manuals would take more time than Ron and Harry had expected, but they had the time to spare, now that Voldemort was gone. “Slughorn’s a good teacher, but he’s a little too pushy about his club. McGonagall hasn’t found a replacement Transfiguration teacher yet, so she’s teaching as well as acting as Headmistress. But that’s not a really big change.”

Sirius nodded. “Yeah. She mostly let the prefects run things anyway.”

Harry shrugged. Dumbledore had left a lot of the school’s daily business to her, or so Harry had heard. “Malfoy’s acting as if he fought Voldemort himself, but that was to be expected.”

“His father’s the same.” Sirius scoffed. “Bigoted bastard.”

Harry didn’t disagree with the sentiment. Hermione would have corrected Sirius that neither Malfoy was technically a bastard. He took a sip from his own bottle. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Hm?”

“About Romilda.” Harry took another sip.

“Oh?” Sirius put his own bottle down.

“Things should be great. She’s always happy to see me, she likes flying with me, she doesn’t nag me, she doesn’t try to get me to drop my friends, and we snog a lot…” Harry sighed.

“That does sound great,” Sirius said.

“Yes. But…” Harry shrugged. “I just feel like… like something’s missing, you know?” Before Sirius could say something lewd, he went on: “She goes along with everything I say. And when I ask her if she wants to do something with me, we end up doing something I like.” He stood and started to pace. “When I mentioned exploring the Forbidden Forest as an example, she said OK.” He gestured. “I brought it up because Luna and Ron are doing that - Luna loves those excursions. But they are also playing chess, which Ron loves.”

Sirius rubbed his goatee. “So you don’t like being in charge all the time?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t like it. It feels as if she’s just going along with whatever I want. That makes the whole thing feel… wrong.” He shrugged. “As if it doesn’t matter at all what I want; she’ll just nod and do it.”

“As long as she can do you?”

He rolled his eyes at Sirius. “I just…” He sighed. “It sounds stupid, but it feels as if I’m doing all the work. Even if all I have to do is say something and she goes along with it. I just want more.” Something more. Something more like Luna and Ron had. Or what he had had with Ginny. Before the rows, at least.

“Ah.” His godfather nodded. “You’re not satisfied.” Harry rolled his eyes - he had just said that. “Well, if you’re not happy in a relationship, there are only two possible solutions: You break up with her, or you change her. But changing someone is hard. Very hard. Trust me.”

Harry snorted. “And what if I break up with Romilda? Get another girlfriend and hope she’s a better fit?”

“Yes.” Sirius grinned. “You’re still young. You’ll find the right witch yet! You’ll also discover that as you grow older, you change. And the witches change as well.”

That would have sounded far more convincing if Sirius wasn’t about to marry a witch about fifteen years younger than he was, Harry thought. He changed the subject. “So how is it going in the Wizengamot?”

Sirius scowled. “Not too well.”

“Can’t outwit wizards who are dumber than a troll?” Harry asked with a grin.

His godfather scoffed. “Malfoy’s Fudge’s best friend and doing all he can to undermine Arthur and Amelia in the Ministry. And he’s trying to control the Wizengamot. We might need you to make an appearance or two, to counter him. Or at least give an interview.”

“Alright.” Harry nodded. Compared to fighting Voldemort, playing the hero or giving an interview was easy. “Unless it’s Skeeter. I’m not talking to her.”

Sirius laughed. “No one wants you to talk to her.” He stood. “Well, it’s about time to return home.”

“Is Jeanne waiting for you?” Harry grinned. “Or did you try dumping your work on Hermione again?”

“I wish!” Sirius said. “Since she’s got herself a boyfriend, she’s not around as much as before.”

Harry blinked. “Hermione has a boyfriend?” Hermione?

“Yes. Some muggle boy she met at the ‘supermarket’.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. If that boy was taking advantage of his best friend...

*****

**Hogwarts, March 9th, 1997**

“So, where do you want to go first?” Harry Potter asked when he climbed out of the carriages in Hogsmeade with Romilda.

“I don’t have anything specific in mind,” Romilda answered. Then she beamed at him. “Where do you want to go first?”

Harry almost sighed, then smiled and shrugged. “I don’t have any plans other than to spend time with you. So, you’ll have to decide where we go!” Let’s see her weasel out of that!

“Hm.” For a moment, she looked lost. Then she smiled again. “Let’s go to Spintwitches!”

That was the local Quidditch shop - well, they also sold other sporting goods, but who cared about anything other than Quidditch? - and they had been there before. Almost every Hogsmeade weekend, in fact. But at least Romilda had picked something by herself. So Harry nodded. “Alright.”

It didn’t take them long to make their way to the shop. There was no new broom on display - not that Harry would have expected one; the new models were usually revealed before the summer training camps started - but they had the new Quidditch Weekly. Harry smiled and went to grab one. Then he realised that Romilda had followed him.

“Oh, that’s Gwenog Jones!” she said, pointing at the cover. “She’s great.”

“Yes. There’s a poster of her on sale, too,” Harry said. He nodded at the poster, showing Jones hitting two Bludgers with one swing in the game against Puddlemere last autumn. That had decided the match.

“Are you gonna buy it?” Romilda asked.

“Do you want it?” He asked back.

She shook her head. “No, no, I’m good.”

It wasn’t expensive. It was just a poster. But if she didn’t want it, or didn’t want to say it… He nodded. “Alright. I’ll be right back.” He went to the counter, then glanced over his shoulder at her while the saleswitch operated the till.

Romilda was looking at him and smiling.

He forced himself to smile back at her.

*****

**London, Merton, March 24th, 1997**

Harry Potter didn’t like Paul Simms. Not at all. He was smiling far too much. And the way he always had his arm around Hermione, as if she weren’t allowed to leave him…

“Another boring movie,” the man - the boy; he wasn’t that much older - said, theatrically sighing as he pointed at the poster above the entrance.

“Have you already seen it?” Ron asked. “I thought this was a new movie.”

“He hasn’t,” Hermione said, and Harry saw her elbow Paul in the side. She was dressing up a little, he had noticed - she even wore makeup. It looked very nice on her. “But Paul prefers action movies, and this is a movie about a sports agent who wants to change his work.”

“A sports agent?” Ron looked lost. Maybe they shouldn’t have invited him to come along - but then it would have just been Harry with Hermione and her boyfriend. Which would have looked very bad. And Romilda didn’t know enough about muggles to fool Paul.

“A man who works for professional athletes, negotiating their contracts for them with the team owners,” Hermione explained.

“Ah.” Ron nodded. “I didn’t know that that was a profession.”

“You didn’t?” Paul looked surprised.

Harry shrugged. “Ron’s not interested in sports. He doesn’t even watch football.”

“Really? You don’t look the type.” Paul had that arrogant expression on his face again, Harry thought.

“The type?” Ron asked.

“You know, all intellectual, no sweaty sports.” Paul grinned. “Although Hermione isn’t a big fan of sports either.”

Harry almost smirked. Paul obviously had no clue about Hermione’s love for Quidditch.

“I prefer to do sports rather than watch others do them,” Hermione said. “Which is why Paul won’t jog with me: He’s the opposite.”

“Indeed - my weak male ego can’t stand being bested by a girl.” Paul laughed and pulled Hermione close to press a kiss on her head. “But I love watching her work out.”

Paul didn’t have to leer like that, Harry thought. And his jokes weren’t really funny. He didn’t like seeing Hermione blush like that either.

“And I’ll love watching this movie,” Hermione stated firmly. “All the critics say it’s great.”

“As long as we’re going to watch Star Wars next week,” Paul retorted.

Ron opened his mouth - presumably to ask about Star Wars - but Harry distracted him with an elbow to the ribs before he could start. “Yes. We’ll go watch that one as well.”

“With your girlfriends?” Paul sounded far too sceptical.

“Yes. Luna and Romilda will love it,” Harry said.

“Are you sure?” Ron asked.

“Yes.” Harry nodded. They could use privacy spells in the theatre, to keep Luna from disturbing the audience.

“Romilda?” Paul shook his head. “Who names their daughter Romilda? Or Luna?”

Harry wanted to hex the guy. And Ron looked as if he shared the feeling.

*****

“You’ve got interesting friends.”

Hermione Granger glanced over her shoulder at Harry and Ron. They were still at the bus stop, looking at Paul and herself, but too far away to overhear Paul. Unless they were using spells. Which they weren’t. She waved, and they waved back.

“They’re the best friends you could wish for,” she said as they turned the corner. Who else would risk their lives for her?

“They seemed to be a little jealous.”

“Jealous?” She frowned. “Maybe they’re afraid that you’ll act like Harry’s first girlfriend. She was so insecure and possessive, she wanted him to stop spending time with Ron and me.”

“Well, I’m not insecure or possessive, am I?” He pulled her closer to him as he said so. “Just because I want to hold you and never let go again.”

She snorted. “As long as you don’t try to convince me not to visit them at their boarding school you’ll be fine.”

“I know better than to try to convince you to do anything you don’t want to,” he said.

She blushed slightly - she knew he wasn’t just talking about visiting her friends. But while she wasn’t averse to what he meant, they had been dating for less than two months. Although it wasn’t as if there were a minimum time you had to wait before you had sex. And if there were, two months would be fine. Or almost two months. And Mum had ensured that she knew how to use contraceptives. So she was prepared. If she felt ready. Which she usually did, when they were snogging. Still…

“Want to come to my flat for tea?”

“Sure,” she answered. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d be snogging on his couch. Or done more. But they hadn’t gone all the way. Yet.

She leaned into him as they walked towards his home.

*****

“So, what did you think?”

What Hermione Granger thought was that _that_ wasn’t a question you should ask after you’ve had sex with someone for the first time. She took a deep breath and glanced at Paul, lying next to her in his bed. He looked nervous. Which meant that an honest answer - ‘Not bad, but I expected more’ or ‘I hope it gets better with practice’ - was out of the question. She liked him. She didn’t want to lose him. He was a good kisser. She liked talking with him. And discussing - debating - the merits of various books and movies. Being honest wasn’t worth hurting his ego - while he was joking about it, he hadn’t taken well to her running him into the ground the first and only time they went jogging.

So she sat up, smiled at him and ran her fingers over his chest.

“I think that we’ll be late for work and uni tomorrow.”

*****

**Hogwarts, April 11th, 1997**

“There you are!”

Harry Potter winced, then forced himself to smile before turning round. Romilda was standing in the door. “Hi.”

She stepped inside and closed the door. “Why did you want to meet me in the Defence classroom?” she asked as she walked towards him.

“It’s private. Remus isn’t around.”

“Oh!” She grinned, then looked at the desks and the open duelling area. “Doesn’t look too comfortable, though.”

Harry swished his wand and conjured two seats facing each other. “Let’s sit down.”

Romilda looked puzzled but took her seat. “A couch would be better, I think.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, then clenched his teeth as she started to frown. He pushed on. “I’m sorry.” She opened her mouth but didn’t say anything as he continued. “I don’t think that it’s working between us.” He shook his head, trying to both keep looking at her and ignoring the way her expression shifted from surprised to shocked. “It’s just…” He took a deep breath. He had prepared a little speech, but he couldn’t recall most of it. “I mean, I like you. Very much. But I don’t think we’re good for each other. I don’t think we’ll be happy if we stay together.”

“Why not?” There were tears in her eyes now.

Harry wanted to curse Moody’s lesson about watching an enemy’s eyes. “I can’t explain it. Not well. It’s just…” He sighed. “Something’s missing.” Honesty was best, or so he had heard, but telling her that he was sick of how she went along with everything he said? That would make her blame herself, and she didn’t deserve that.

“What?” She was crying now.

He felt as if he had cursed a child. Or a kitten. “I don’t know what exactly. But I know that I’m not happy as things are. It’s not your fault. Maybe I’ve changed, after Voldemort, and it took me time to notice?” he lied. “But it’s best we break up before we start hating each other.”

Romilda shook her head, staring at him. Her lips trembled as tears ran down her cheek. Then she stood and ran out of the room, sobbing.

Harry closed his eyes, leaned back and cursed under his breath.

That had been as bad as he had feared. Or worse. But what else could he have done? He couldn’t string her along any longer and act as if everything was alright.

Maybe he should have talked to Ron or Hermione about this.

*****

 


	30. Secrets

**London, Ministry of Magic, April 14th, 1997**

“But Arthur! With the Dark Lord gone, we don’t need as many Hit-Wizards any more. We can use the gold we pay them elsewhere - like for the repairs needed in the Ministry. Marcus Selwyn’s proposal is very sound.”

Arthur Weasley wasn’t a man who was easy to anger. His patience and tolerance had been a boon when raising seven children - especially Fred and George. Nevertheless, even he could lose his temper when pushed too far, and Fudge was doing his best to make Arthur curse him. “Cornelius,” he said with a forced smile, “the number of Hit-Wizards hasn’t been increased since the end of the last war, despite us needing more guards for Azkaban after the removal of the Dementors. Marcus’s proposal would see us not even replace those Hit-Wizards lost in the battle against the Dark Lord.”

“But we what we lose in quantity we make up in quality,” Fudge retorted, fiddling with a quill on his desk. “By raising the standards of our force, we will be able to do more with fewer wands.”

That had to be straight from Malfoy’s mouth, Arthur thought. He scoffed. “Raising standards? I don’t see anything about that in this proposal.”

“That will be handled in a second bill,” Fudge explained. “It’s still being worked on.”

“I’ve read Dolores’s draft,” Arthur said.

Fudge blinked. “You have?”

“Yes.” Arthur didn’t smile. “I’ve also read her draft for the proposed entrance exam for new employees.” He leaned forward. “She wants to test new Ministry employees on their knowledge of ‘Wizarding Britain’s Traditions and Customs’.”

“Any employee of the Ministry is expected to know how to comport themselves in society, especially at a social event.” Fudge shook his head. “Imagine the scandal if someone insulted a diplomat!”

“Are you aware that there is no course covering such a subject at Hogwarts?” Arthur asked.

“An oversight that can be easily corrected.” Fudge smiled. “I know of a number of wizards and witches who could teach such courses.”

“Do you know why there is no such course?”

“I think Albus opposed it in the past, for budgetary reasons. Which is why this is a very good opportunity to both reduce the amount of dead weight in the Ministry and fund a new course!”

“The course was opposed by the Board of Governors. The official reason given was that wizarding traditions and customs couldn’t be taught at school. That was to be the prerogative of the parents.” Arthur scoffed. “And now you want to test prospective employees on knowledge only a member of an Old Family could have? How do you think the majority of our population will react to such a blatant attempt at discrimination?”

“Discrimination? Now, Arthur, be fair!”

“Yes, discrimination. There’s nothing in that test about Defence at all. It’s not even about Hit-Wizards and Aurors - it’s a generic test for Ministry employees. How do you think you will get more capable Hit-Wizards if you don’t test for skills that are actually relevant to their duties?” Fudge opened his mouth, but Arthur ploughed on. “How do you think Harry Potter will react, once he realises that you plan to discriminate against muggleborns? As the son of a muggleborn witch?”

“What?”

“Imagine the Vanquisher of Voldemort speaking out against a Minister who supports such blatant attempts to favour Old Families in the Ministry.” Arthur hated to use Harry’s name like that, but it was the best way to stop this latest attempt to build up the influence of the Old Families. “Imagine if he refused the Order of Merlin you want to award him, in protest against such measures.”

Fudge gaped, then frowned. “No one would refuse such an honour!”

“You know his godfather.”

Fudge paled. “But… if he refused…”

“If he refused, you’d be the one everyone would blame. You would be seen as the Minister who made the Boy-Who-Lived despise him. You. Not anyone else.”

Fudge sagged in his seat. “But we have to balance the budget somehow! The damage done to the Ministry in the battle, the gold needed by St Mungo’s - they already went through this year’s budget for treating curses! - and the pensions for the next of kin of the dead...”

“Sirius proposed a bill to fine those caught or killed while fighting for the Dark Lord,” Arthur said.

“But… that would be cutting into the family fortunes!” Fudge protested. “It would be like punishing the children for the sins of their parents!”

“How is fighting for the Dark Lord different from gambling away the family fortune?” Arthur asked. “Both are mistakes. But the former is also treason.”

“Well…” Fudge trailed off. “That’s for the Wizengamot to decide!”

That was the best Arthur would get, and he knew that. “And Marcus’s proposal?”

“Will certainly have to be reworked,” Fudge said with an expression as though he were having a tooth pulled. “As will Dolores’s draft.”

Arthur nodded. “Good.” It wasn’t defeated for good but stalled for the foreseeable future. “Now, I have a proposal of my own. Or rather, a joint proposal with Sirius and Amelia. It’s about the regulations regarding the Auror Corps’s size.”

Fudge looked like he’d prefer to be cursed.

*****

**Hogwarts, April 15th, 1997**

As soon as Harry Potter entered the Gryffindor common room, coming from Quidditch practice, he saw Romilda sitting in the corner. She wasn’t looking at him at all. Her friends, though, were glaring at him as one of them hugged her. They weren’t the only ones - a number of the other girls were looking at him as if he had hexed Romilda. And Ginny looked as if she wanted to hex him herself.

He sighed as he went up to his room. Neville, Seamus and Dean were not around - probably in the library, working on their essays or something. He hadn’t seen them in the common room. Ron had followed him inside, though. “Why are they acting like that?” Harry asked as he sat down on his bed and sent his Quidditch gear to his trunk with a few flicks and swishes of his wand.

“Well, mate,” he heard Ron answer, “I’d say it’s because you made Romilda cry. A lot.”

Harry looked at his friend. “I was just being honest! What should I have done instead? Lied and acted as if everything were fine?” He snapped his trunk’s lid shut, loudly enough to startle Ron.

“Luna said that being honest isn’t all that’s it cracked up to be, but it’s better than lying.”

“That’s very helpful.” Harry scoffed.

Ron shrugged and closed his own trunk, more gently than Harry had done. “Maybe it isn’t what you did, but how you did it.”

“And what should I have done differently?” Harry stood and shook his head, then walked over to Ron’s bed. “How do you break up with a girl without making her cry?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “Be nice about it?”

Harry scoffed again. “I was nice. I told her I liked her, and that it wasn’t her fault.” He gestured. “That it wasn’t working out between us. That we’re not good for each other. And that we wouldn’t be happy if we stayed together.” He noticed that Ron was staring at him. “What?”

“That’s nice?”

“But it’s true!” Harry retorted. “She was just doing what _I_ wanted. Nothing else. That’s not healthy.”

“But she seemed happy. As far as I could tell.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry shot back. He walked back to his bed and let himself fall into it. “I didn’t want to keep lying to her, and now everyone - or at least every witch - in Gryffindor hates me.”

“Well, not everyone.”

Harry rolled his eyes. A few witches had flirted with him as soon as news of his break-up had spread. He wasn’t certain if that was worse than if they had been glaring at him, too, or not.

“Maybe you should be asking yourself what you should do, instead of what you should have done?”

Harry glanced at Ron. “What should I do?” he asked, in as flat a voice as he could manage.

Ron chuckled. “Luna says that if you hurt someone, you should apologise.”

Harry snorted. “Sirius said that if a witch is mad at me, I should apologise, regardless of whose fault it is.”

“Well, if Sirius and Luna agree on something…”

Harry almost snapped that that would be a reason to rethink the whole thing - Sirius’s advice had gotten him into this, and Luna certainly didn’t think like most witches he knew. Nor most wizards, either - but that might have made Ron mad - his friend was very protective of Luna. And as much as it galled him to admit, Ron might have a point. He sighed once more. “Great. Now I just need to find a way to talk to her in private again.”

Ron cleared his throat.

Harry glared at him.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, April 16th, 1997**

Hermione Granger stared at Harry. “You snuck out of Hogwarts and came to see me because you need to ask me how to apologise to your girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend. That’s the reason I need to apologise to her.” He smiled at her. “No other witch I know well will talk to me. You’re my only hope.”

“Stop quoting Star Wars,” Hermione snapped. “You’re no princess, and I’m not an old hermit.” Nor an old maid - she had a boyfriend. And they had sex!

He raised his arms. “Sorry, sorry. So, can you help me? Please?” His smile grew more desperate.

She sighed. “Alright.” She couldn’t let her best friend down. Not when everyone else, especially the dog, had apparently done so. Especially not when it probably had been that little witch’s fault in the first place. Maybe she should look into that… No. She mentally shook her head. She wouldn’t meddle in Harry’s love life. “First thing, get her a gift. Something she likes. But not too expensive, so that it won’t look like a bribe. And nothing that reminds her of you.” That should be enough for Vane.

“Uh…” He grimaced.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What is the problem?”

“I don’t know what she really likes. That’s why I broke up with her in the first place.” He shrugged.

Hermione blinked, then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ll have to explain that.”

Five minutes and a few questions later, she was pinching the bridge of her nose again. To think that she could feel sympathy for that little witch… “You are an idiot.”

“I know.” He pouted. It didn’t look good on him.

“Tell _that_ to Romilda as well.” She sighed. “And get her a box of Honeydukes’ best selection as an apology gift.”

“I thought you said that I shouldn’t try to bribe her?”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s compensation.” She glared at him. “And next time, be more sensitive! And don’t listen to Sirius when it comes to witches!”

That dog was such a bad influence on her friend!

*****

**London, Merton, April 18th, 1997**

“It’s the best of the trilogy!” Philip exclaimed.

“No, A New Hope is better.” Mark shook his head.

“A New Hope is second best, at best.”

“A New Hope has a happy ending. The Empire Strikes Back ends on a downer.”

“That’s what makes it so good. It’s darker. Not such a fairy tale.” Philip’s sneer looked remarkably like Malfoy’s.

“The Empire Strikes Back has a muppet.” Mark scoffed. “I’ll take a fairy tale any day over fat Kermit the Jedi.”

Hermione Granger cleared her throat. “The Empire Strikes Back is the most critically acclaimed movie of the trilogy.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Mark protested. “Critics don’t know nothing.”

“Don’t know anything,” she corrected him. Mark nodded in agreement, but Paul poked her side with his elbow. She frowned at him. It wasn’t her fault that his friends didn’t speak properly. And it was certainly his fault that their - by now traditional - Friday movie date had turned into an outing with his friends. His ‘interesting’ friends. Not that she expected him to drop his friends for her; she wasn’t Parvati. But it would have been a nice gesture if he had gone to watch the movie with his fellow Star Wars fans on another date.

“Well, I like The Empire Strikes Back best as well,” Paul chimed in. “It’s the most mature of the movies. We see the rebels get beaten, on the run, we see them take casualties - and there isn’t a victory against all odds in the last second, unlike in the other two movies.”

“The Empire winning doesn’t make the movie more mature,” Hermione countered.

“It makes it darker, though, which is also better,” Paul said. Philip nodded.

Hermione briefly and silently wondered if Paul would think that if he had ever been in battle. Or in danger. She shook her head, both at her own thoughts and his argument. “I disagree.”

“It’s also more realistic,” Paul went on with a grin. “Life is tough, then you die.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t have complained about how unrealistic the plot of the latest romantic comedy they had seen together had been. “It’s a science fiction movie with space physics patterned after World War II aerial combat. It’s not supposed to be realistic.”

“That just means that the plot itself needs an even larger dose of realism!”

Paul could stand to be a little more graceful when he scored a point against her, Hermione thought as his friends agreed with him. And she could stand to be a little less jealous, she added, when she caught herself wishing that Philip and Mark would leave already.

*****

“So, Paul said you’re already working while you study for your A-Levels,” Philip said as he set his pint down.

It sounded less like a question about her work to get her to talk, and more like he was questioning her claim, Hermione Granger thought. But he was Paul’s friend. She nodded. “Yes. I’m working as the secretary of an independently wealthy but somewhat lazy gentleman who prefers to spend his time with his French lover rather than managing his own affairs.”

“And he lets you run his affairs?” Mark sounded as if he doubted her as well.

Hermione kept smiling, as Mr Fletcher had taught her. “I mostly handle his correspondence. He makes the final decisions, but he often follows my proposals. Almost all of his wealth other than his cash is in long-term investments which do not require much work.”

“Doesn’t sound like he has much work,” Mark said.

“He corresponds with a number of friends, and is heavily involved in the running of his gentlemen’s club,” Hermione elaborated. Wizarding Britain and especially the Wizengamot had more than a few similarities to a traditional gentlemen’s club.

“He’s got a gentlemen’s club?” Mark’s smile turned into a leer, and Philip was suddenly far more attentive.

“The traditional gentlemen’s club. He isn’t running a strip club,” Hermione clarified.

Paul chuckled. “You running that kind of club would be hot, though!”

She glared at him, and he smiled and patted her hand. “Sorry. You look so cute when you’re riled up.”

She smiled, although she had to clench her teeth at his friends’ chuckles.

“So, who’s the gentleman?” Mark asked.

“I’m not about to violate his privacy,” Hermione responded.

“Well, in that case: Do you have any juicy stories to tell?” Philip leaned forward. “Elderly British gentleman, French mistress - that sounds like a set-up for a movie.”

“Or a TV show,” Mark added.

“He isn’t elderly,” Hermione corrected him. Sirius wasn’t even forty - and he certainly didn’t act his age most of the time!

“Oh!”

She didn’t like what Mark’s grin implied. Not at all. She didn’t have a crush on the dog. But before she could think of a way to tell him that Philip went even further: “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why did he hire a teenager as a secretary?”

“I went to school with his godson, whom he is raising. Harry’s my best friend, and when I was looking for work, he told his godfather.”

“Ah.”

She caught Philip glancing at Paul and realised that he thought that the dog had taken pity on her. Which hadn’t been entirely untrue, she had to admit - he had paid off her debt mostly to help her, after all. But while it had started as a cover, she was doing real work these days. And she was good at it.

But if she told anyone what had really happened, even if she left out magic, no one would believe her.

Paul wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “Now, you two idiots, stop badgering my girlfriend! Let’s talk about Star Wars again!”

And now her boyfriend had stepped in to protect her. Hermione would have felt a little less conflicted about that - though she would have still resented it at least somewhat - if she didn’t suspect that he didn’t fully believe her story either.

If only she could tell him the truth! Fortunately, he respected her privacy and didn’t pry. He was a really good boyfriend, in that regard.

She ordered a cola for herself and leaned into his side.

*****

**Hogwarts, April 19th, 1997**

Standing on the stairs, right at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter noted that Romilda was sitting where he expected her to be, then turned his glasses’ enchantment off. He cleared his throat, then checked his appearance. It wouldn’t do to have missed some stain or tear - what he was about to do would be embarrassing and humiliating enough. He patted his enchanted pocket - the box from Honeydukes hadn’t disappeared. It had better not have; it had been expensive.

For a moment, he thought about delaying again. Maybe he would manage to catch her outside, or alone… No. He had procrastinated enough, as Hermione would say. So he took a deep breath and then entered the room, heading straight towards his ex-girlfriend.

She saw him coming and ducked her head, and he felt a twinge of guilt that hurt far more than the glares from her friends. One of them even drew her wand, though she didn’t aim it at him.

He cleared his throat again. “Romilda?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Potter!” her friend with the wand - Marcy - hissed. The other witches at the table nodded in support.

He ignored them. He wasn’t here for them. “I’m here to apologise, Romilda.”

She didn’t look up, and, if anything, seemed to hunch a little more. But Marcy didn’t say whatever she had been about to say, and the other girls looked surprised. And, as he had feared, the whole room had fallen silent and was now shamelessly eavesdropping. Great. But if he cast a privacy charm, rumours would fly. Or rather, worse rumours.

He continued. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I did. I made a mess of that, and it’s my fault.” She started to glance at him but stopped. “I should have talked to you about my… feelings much earlier. I should have been honest, instead of acting as if everything was fine until…” He took another deep breath. “Until the break-up.”

She was looking at him now, though without fully facing him. Marcy looked like couldn’t decide whether she should hug Romilda or hex him. Well, try to hex him, at least.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you. It wasn’t right, and it’s all my fault. I was an idiot.”

She finished turning her head and looked at him for the first time. And she wiped the tears from her eyes. “What did I do wrong?” she finally asked, still sniffling.

He clenched his teeth for a moment. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes, people change. And feelings just change. Voldemort’s death changed me. I killed him. I killed others, too. I’ve lived years with the knowledge that he was back, and that he wanted to kill me. I’d trained for years to face him. And with him finally dead...” He shrugged. “I changed.” Or rather, without that pressure and with more free time, he had discovered that he wanted more out of a relationship than snogging. But telling her that would make it look like their entire relationship had been based on a lie.

She nodded slowly. He pulled the box out of his pocket and held it out to her. “It’s… well, you liked the box we got on Valentine’s Day.”

She stared at it, then met his eyes again. “Is there another girl?”

He shook his head. “No.” And given how much grief he had gotten from everyone for hurting Romilda, it didn’t look like there’d be another girl for some time.

She took the box and mumbled something that might have been a thank you. Harry waited a few seconds but couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he turned and walked away.

Once he was on the stairs again, out of her sight, he sighed with relief. He raised his hand to touch the frame of his glasses - to check how Romilda was doing - but refrained from doing so.

She deserved better.

*****

**London, Greenwich, May 2nd, 1997**

When Mr Fletcher had told her that he’d avoid Wizarding Britain for a few months to fake a trip ‘back’ to the New World while he trained her in muggle Britain, Hermione Granger hadn’t expected that this would mean training in muggle methods.

She glared at the lock on the table in her tutor’s flat. She should have been able to pick it easily - she had been picking locks for years - but she hadn’t managed for over ten minutes. And had broken a few of her lockpicks.

Mr Fletcher didn’t even bother to hide his amusement. “That’s one of the latest locks on the market. You’ll need to analyse it before you know how to handle it.”

She turned her glare on him. “You said I couldn’t use magic.”

“I said you couldn’t use magic to pick it. I didn’t say you couldn’t use magic to analyse it.” He grinned. “If you don’t keep up with the magical and muggle security measures, you’ll fail as a thief.”

“I’m not planning to rob muggles,” she retorted, angry at herself for missing the - now - obvious solution.

“That doesn’t matter. A number of pureblood wizards and witches buy muggle locks to enhance their wards. And those among them who have things worth stealing tend to pick the best muggle locks they can get - even if only so they don’t have to actually bother trying to learn anything about them.”

Hermione sighed. At least she didn’t have to worry about electronic locks in wizarding manors. Then she pressed her lips together and aimed her wand at the infuriatingly difficult lock and cast her first spell at it.

An hour later, she had finally figured out a way to pick the lock. Which still took her five minutes.

“I know, I know. I need to be faster,” she said before Mr Fletcher could. It wasn’t the best comeback, not even close, but it made her feel a little better for her earlier lapse.

“Yeah,” he said, going back to reading the newspaper. The Times this time. His prosthetic foot was whipping in the air - it looked perfectly natural covered up by a sock and a shoe, but it wasn’t quite moving like a real foot.

“Do you have a date today?” he suddenly asked.

“Yes.” She and Paul always went to the movies on a Friday evening. It always made her remember their first date.

“Return of the Jedi?”

She blinked. Mr Fletcher knew more about muggle pop culture than she had expected. “Yes. Without his annoying friends, this time.” Paul could learn.

“Annoying?”

She frowned. “They think Sirius is my ‘sugar daddy’,” she quoted Philip’s comment, which she had overheard without him realising. Noticing Mr Fletcher’s expression, she explained: “They think that he’s employing me because I’m his lover.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Like the Prophet’s slander.”

“Yes. And because I can’t tell them about magic, or Sirius’s name, I have to be so vague that they don’t believe me.” She scowled.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“He believes me.” Or at least he had told her so.

“That’s good then.” He sighed and leaned back in his favourite seat. “Relationships with muggles are always a little tricky. You’re not allowed to tell them about magic unless you marry them. And afterwards, it’s a shock. Had a friend in school, muggleborn, who married a muggle girl. She left him after the wedding.”

Hermione winced. That must have been awful.

He shrugged. “If she couldn’t handle that, then the marriage wouldn’t have lasted anyway.”

“He could have told her before, though,” she said. Marrying someone with such a secret between them...

“That would have been illegal.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Just as doing magic outside school is illegal, and yet everyone does it if they can get away with it.”

He chuckled. “Yeah.” He looked at her. “If you plan on telling your boyfriend, don’t. Not until you’re certain that you want to marry him.”

“I’m not planning to.”

Though she couldn’t help wondering how Paul would react.

*****

**Hogsmeade, May 10th, 1997**

“Welcome to Hogsmeade, milady.” Harry Potter held open the door of the carriage he and Fay had taken from Hogwarts. He gestured with his free hand in a flourish, putting on the ‘Old Family Charm’, as Sirius called it.

“Thank you, milord.” Fay held out her hand to him as she stepped down.

He didn’t wince, even though ‘milord’ reminded him of Voldemort. “So, where do you want to go?” he asked with a smile instead.

She hesitated for a moment, not quite managing to raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you have our date planned out?”

Was that a dig at his dates with Romilda? He hoped it wasn’t and chuckled, perhaps a little too loudly. “I like to be a little more spontaneous than that. It’s not as if we’re going to the movies.”

“Movies?”

“Muggle entertainment. Like the telly, just bigger. They’re on a schedule.”

“Ah.”

He didn’t know if she really understood what movies were. But saying that they were like the wireless with pictures would be patronising. “So, let’s each pick a destination, and see where that leaves us. You first. Where would you like to go?”

“Hm.” She looked quite cute as she pouted. “Let’s go to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop! Sophie said that they had a new cake on the menu that was just marvellous!”

“Alright.” At least Fay knew what she wanted.

And half an hour later, Harry knew what he didn’t want: the new cake in Madam Puddifoot’s. “They must have simply replaced any flour with sugar,” he muttered as he took another sip from his - fortunately very good - tea.

Fay simply nodded with a bright smile partially hampered by the fork sticking out of her mouth.

He pushed his plate over to her and her eyes lit up.

“Thank you!” She beamed at him, then started to eat again.

“Have you listened to the Weird Sisters’ latest song?” she asked between bites.

“Haven’t heard it yet,” he answered. “The wireless in our room belongs to Seamus, so he usually decides on the music. Unless we use Silencing Charms.”

She giggled. “Well, you should listen to it. It’s great! Myron really knows how to sing about heartbreak!” She sighed. “I wonder if he’s writing the songs based on personal experience, or if it’s a subtle dig at Donaghan - he married two years ago, you know, and there were rumours his wife isn’t happy with their latest tour arrangement.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, even though Harry had cast a privacy charm earlier. “I heard that she might be in a relationship with Orsino.”

He had no idea who Orsino was. “Ah.” At least Parvati used to gossip about people he knew.

“Though I think it’s actually Herman. He plays the lute, and he’s the most attractive and sensitive in the group. If Donaghan’s wife were to fall for anyone, it would be him!”

“Ah.” He would be saying that a lot, Harry thought. She hadn’t asked him yet what kind of bands he liked.

After half an hour filled with more details about the Weird Sisters than Harry had ever wanted to know, and another slice of cake, Fay finally stood. “So, what do you want to do now?”

“Check out Spintwitches,” he said. “They might have a new broom model on display.”

She nodded but didn’t show much enthusiasm. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign.

*****

**Hogwarts, May 10th, 1997**

“How did your date go?” Ron asked when Harry Potter met him on the way to the Great Hall for dinner.

Harry looked around, checking that they were alone, then sighed. “I wish Hermione didn’t have a date today.” Ron blinked and looked confused, so Harry added: “I wouldn’t have had to listen to hours of gossip about the Weird Sisters.” He’d have to struggle not to blast the wireless to pieces when it next played a song by them.

“Oh.” Ron winced. “That sounds awful.”

“I got her back, though - I dragged her through Spintwitches for an hour and she doesn’t like Quidditch.” Harry grinned.

“She doesn’t like Quidditch?” Ron sounded shocked.

“She doesn’t.” Harry shook his head. “We agreed that we wouldn’t have another date.”

“Probably a good idea. Exams are coming up.,” Ron said. “Luna’s revising a lot.”

“Ah.” He had thought that Ron was around a little more than usual lately.

“I’m helping her in Defence,” Ron added. “Mostly on the practical side.”

“Hexing your girlfriend?” Harry mock-gasped.

“I’m not training her Moody-style.” Ron snorted. “You’re the one who dragged your girlfriend to those lessons.”

“She insisted,” Harry shot back, laughing as they entered the Great Hall. He looked around and saw Fay was already seated. She glanced at him, then went back to whispering to Parvati and Lavender, who also glanced at him.

It didn’t look like Harry would be dating any of the Gryffindor girls in his year for the foreseeable future, but he didn’t mind.

*****

**London, Merton, May 10th, 1997**

“It’s delicious!”

Hermione Granger noted with relief that Paul didn’t repeat his mistake of assuming that her mum had cooked the meal. Or that Hermione had.

“Thank you.” Mum smiled.

Even though, this time, Mum had cooked.

Her dad smiled as well. “You’re learning, Paul. Hermione used to be quite put out when her friends assumed that Ellen was doing all the cooking in our home.” He sighed theatrically. “The lectures she would give…”

Hermione glared at him. “I was ten!”

“A very vocal ten-year-old,” Mum chimed in.

Hermione switched her glare to her traitorous mother as Paul laughed.

“I can imagine.”

He received a glare for good measure as well as Hermione huffed. “I haven’t done that since I was twelve.” Because she had been at Hogwarts, and after her expulsion and move, she had lost contact with most of her old friends and hadn’t made any new ones. But that wasn’t something Paul needed to know.

“Oh? Harry and Ron never made that mistake?” Paul asked.

She was surprised that he remembered when she had met her friends for the first time. And wondered why he’d pick such a topic.

“No.” Dad shook his head. “To be fair, since they met Hermione at their boarding school, she probably lectured them there.”

Everyone but Hermione laughed again. She pressed her lips together, then masked her silence by taking another bite of the - truly delicious - veal escalope with cream sauce. Or, as Mum liked to call it, ‘escalopes à la crème’. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and said: “I didn’t lecture them; I just told them in advance that everyone in our family shares the chores, including the cooking.”

“Even if they can’t cook yet.” Dad earned himself another glare.

“And I didn’t merit such an advance warning?” Paul’s pout seemed not to be entirely faked, Hermione thought.

“I expected better of you.” She shook her head and stuck out her tongue at him. “You’re living in your own flat, after all.”

“And I’m not living with a rich godfather who spends all his time with a French mistress,” Paul said.

Hermione frowned. That sounded like a dig at Harry. “They have a male housekeeper,” she said, maybe a little sharper than she should have.

“A male housekeeper? Not a butler?” he asked.

“No.” Kreacher couldn’t be called a butler.

“Well, if we’d had a housekeeper, my childhood would have been much more comfortable,” Paul said. “Alas, my mum had us do chores as well.”

“Harry had to do a lot of chores when he was living with his aunt,” Hermione said, frowning. “He wasn’t - isn’t - some spoiled rich child.” Rich, but not spoiled.

“Yes. He was very polite when we met him for the first time,” Mum added. “That was before his godfather took him in.”

“Why did he go to live with his godfather?” Paul asked.

Hermione said: “That’s private.”

“Ah, I forgot.” Paul smiled. “You can’t talk about your employer.”

Was there an edge to that remark? Hermione smiled overly sweetly - he should know better than to pry. “Discretion is the hallmark of a personal secretary.”

“They’re called ‘personal assistants’ these days, or so I believe,” Paul said.

“Semantics,” Hermione said with a shrug.

“Words have power,” he shot back. “Calling your employee your personal secretary sends a different message than calling her your personal assistant.”

“My employer isn’t concerned with that.” Hermione pressed her lips together before she said anything more about Sirius.

“I’d certainly believe that!” Dad cut in. “He’s a memorable man, if a little eccentric.”

Mum nodded.

“You’ve met him then,” Paul said.

“Of course we did,” Mum replied. “We wouldn’t have let Hermione take such a job otherwise.”

“Ah.” It looked like Paul was about to say something, but he caught himself and nodded. After a moment, he said: “Could you pass me the salt?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“Which movie are you going to see next weekend?” Mum changed the topic.

“ _Not_ Beverly Hills Ninja,” Hermione said.

“Aw.” Paul pouted again. “I heard it’s funny.”

He was winding her up, Hermione knew. But at least he wasn’t asking questions about Sirius any more.

*****

Two hours and a great tiramisu later, as they ‘took a stroll’ through the next park on the way to Paul’s flat, Hermione Granger still hadn’t forgotten the conversation at dinner. “Why are you so interested in my employer?”

She saw him tense before he answered. “I’m just curious.”

“You know that I can’t tell tales.”

They stopped walking and he turned to face her. “I just want to know if you’re happy with your job.”

“I am.”

His expression told her that he had his doubts. Or maybe suspicions.

She sighed. “I’m happy there. My employer’s a little eccentric, but he’s a good man.” Or dog. As much as a dog could be good. “And he’s my best friend’s godfather.”

“Ah.” He pressed his lips together.

“What do you mean?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t tell me that you’re jealous of Harry!”

“He seemed a little jealous when I met him.”

“You joked about his girlfriend’s name,” she said. “And he’s protective of all his friends.”

“Ah.” He didn’t look as if he were convinced.

“He’s not a spoiled kid, nor is he trying to seduce me; trust me, he didn’t see me as a girl for years.”

“He’s a fool then,” Paul replied with a sweet smile that made her smile at him in return.

“When it comes to girls, yes,” Hermione agreed. “But I’d trust him with my life.” She owed him and Ron her life, too - but that wasn’t something she could tell Paul.

Which meant Paul would misunderstand her remark.

She kept smiling, though. “But I’m trusting you with my heart.”

That made him smile again. “And with your body,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist.

She didn’t like that remark - it reminded her a little too much of the bigots she had spied on as Miss Merriweather - but it was better than letting him stew about Sirius and Harry. So she kissed him and then leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder, as they continued towards his flat.

*****

**Hogwarts, May 17th, 1997**

“Mr Potter! Welcome to my humble abode!”

Harry Potter didn’t really like Slughorn. The man was jovial, a much better teacher than Snape and probably a better Potioneer as well, but he was just a little too friendly. And too focused on influential people. But, as Sirius, Hermione and Mr Weasley had told him, Slughorn was useful. Or, rather, his network was useful. If Harry wanted to keep Malfoy’s father from taking over the Ministry and the Wizengamot, then he couldn’t afford to antagonise the head of Slytherin house. Which meant attending the Slug Club parties. And smiling at Slughorn.

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad I could make it.” He nodded at Slughorn, then at Katie. “This is Katie Bell, my date. She’s a Chaser for Gryffindor.”

“Welcome, Miss Bell!” The man kissed Katie’s hand with more grace than Harry had expected. “If either of you is interested in a career as a professional player, my dear friend Gwenog accepted my invitation for this evening’s soirée.”

“Gwenog Jones?” Katie perked up.

“Indeed.” Slughorn’s smile grew wider. “I think she’s… yes, there, near the buffet. Do try the shrimps; they’re marvellous - an old student of mine caught them himself and sent me a basketful fresh from the sea.”

“Thank you, sir, we will,” Harry said, then tried to act as if he was guiding his date towards the Holyhead Harpies’ Beater, instead of getting dragged along. “Slow down, Katie,” he whispered. “She won’t run away. Let’s get some food first.”

“Sorry!” she whispered back. “I’m just so excited - this might be my chance to get a foot in the league!”

“Ripping my arm out won’t help with that goal,” he shot back. “And what about Alicia?”

“She’s a rookie, she won’t be able to do anything for me,” Katie explained as they reached the buffet table.

“Ah.” That made sense. Harry summoned two trays, and they started to sample the food.

“Mh.” Katie closed her eyes for a moment. “Slughorn was right - the shrimps are delicious.”

Harry nodded, although he wasn’t that fond of seafood. “The pastrami sandwiches aren’t bad either,” he added.

“Pastrami?” Katie asked.

“Romanian speciality,” he said. He’d have added that it was very popular in the USA if Katie had any idea about muggle countries.

“Ah.” She nodded, but he could see her eyes straying to Jones. “Would you mind coming with me, to break the ice, before you veer off to talk to the Head Auror?”

“Of course,” he said. That was the deal, after all.

“Thanks. You know, you could go pro much more easily,” she said, before finishing her last shrimp.

Harry shrugged. “As much as I like flying, I’d rather be an Auror than a Seeker.” He could do much more good that way.

“I understand,” Katie said.

She didn’t, though. Not really, Harry thought. “But even if I wanted to go pro, the Harpies wouldn’t be my team of choice,” he said as he led her towards Jones.

“I didn’t think so,” she agreed, giggling.

*****

Ten minutes later - he had stayed with Jones and Katie long enough not to be seen as rude - Harry Potter was at the buffet again, sampling the desserts and looking for Scrimgeour. He noticed Greengrass approaching the table and moved a little to the side. Both to be polite and in case he needed more room to dodge. But she was headed towards him, not the buffet, he quickly realised.

She nodded at him in greeting. “Good evening, Potter.”

“‘Evening,” he replied, with a tiny nod.

She didn’t acknowledge his curt manners and the message they sent. “Did you try the shrimp? It’s delicious.”

“I did. It’s not bad.” She was wearing very thin, very expensive robes, he noted. Daringly cut, too - a slit went up her right leg to her waist, and her décolleté plunged further than Krum doing a Wronski Feint. She was wearing her wand in a holster on her thigh - that fashion hadn’t been popular in Britain for a number of years, or so Parvati had once told him.

She must have noticed his eyes wandering, since she smiled and nodded towards where Katie and Jones were talking. “Your date seems to be more interested in Jones than in you, Potter.”

He shrugged. “I knew that when I asked her to accompany me to this party.” He smiled. “We are teammates and friends, nothing more.”

She blinked, but kept smiling and pushed her right leg forward a little - enough for the robes to reveal most of it. “And are you looking for more?”

She was actually flirting with him. He couldn’t tell if she was serious - she didn’t seem to be tipsy - but it didn’t matter. He nodded. “Yes.” And right when she was about to say something more, he continued. “Although I certainly wouldn’t consider anyone who was involved in framing my best friend. Or any of their friends.”

She blinked with her mouth half-open.

Harry nodded towards Slughorn. “If not for Malfoy and the likes of you, Hermione would be here. With a personal invitation from Slughorn.” Any witch who managed to brew Veritaserum in her second year would have been seen as a prodigy.

Greengrass sneered. “I’ve seen her O.W.L. results. She wouldn’t have made the cut. Unless she were sleeping with you.”

So someone had leaked Hermione’s tests. Not really a surprise. He scoffed. “She did that while studying mostly by herself, with just one tutor. Imagine what she would have done at Hogwarts, with the best teachers in Britain.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t speak like that about her ever again.”

She paled slightly - it wasn’t easy to spot given her natural skin tone - but then raised her chin. “You should know better than to threaten me!”

He scoffed again. “I’ve faced and killed Voldemort. You think your father or his friends impress me?” He shook his head with a snort. “Now pardon me, I need to talk to the Head Auror about my future career in the Ministry.”

Harry smiled when he noticed that she paled a little more upon hearing that. As if he’d give a Slytherin friend of Malfoy’s the time of day, much less date them.

*****

**London, Merton, May 18th, 1997**

Hermione Granger gracefully walked past Mrs Jefferson’s house, ignoring the stupid rat-sized dog barking at her from behind the fence. That animal was an embarrassment to dogs, and that took some work. She sniffed in derision and jumped on Mr Grey’s fence, stopping to clean her fur for a moment or two as the stupid chihuahua almost went insane down on the lawn. It even tried to jump up and snap at her, despite not having any hope of even reaching halfway up to her spot. Dogs!

She sighed and went on, passing Mr Grey’s house, to slip into the Vanderbilt's garden. That family had very nice children who appreciated a fine cat visiting. They weren’t home today, though, so Hermione continued roaming her territory.

Well, it should be hers. Crookshank had taught every other cat that he was not to be messed with, and he answered to her. Unfortunately, not every cat - none but her, actually - could appreciate logic.

And so she skipped the Brown’s garden and crossed the street - after checking for traffic, of course - before their old tomcat came after her again. A few fences later, she had reached Paul’s home and jumped up on to the stone pillar from which the mailboxes of Paul and his neighbours hung.

She wasn’t spying on her boyfriend. Just… passing by. And checking if there were any cats nearby. Just in case. Maybe some people watching, too. And basking in a few rays of sunlight on this fine Sunday morning. And maybe catching Paul when he was taking a break from his studying, to see if he appreciated a fine cat gracing him with her presence.

She was nodding to herself when she saw the door open.

“Argh… the light! It burns!” Mark stood there, shielding his face with his arm and hissing as if he were a Hollywood vampire.

Hermione sat up and eyed the man. He didn’t look well. Tired. Maybe hungover. But he was laughing as he stepped out, followed by the definitely not laughing Philip. And Paul. She sniffed. That didn’t look like the aftermath of a study session - Paul wasn’t taking the same courses as his two friends.

Her suspicions were proven correct when she saw Paul hand Mark a bag full of video cassettes. Star Trek, her sharp eyes told her from her vantage point.

“Oh, look, Paul, you’ve got a visitor!” Mark laughed loudly and pointed at her - they must have watched videos throughout the night, Hermione concluded, seeing as her presence apparently caused such amusement.

“A rather fuzzy one, too!” Philip added. “Probably a stray.”

She hissed. She wasn’t a stray! And she wasn’t fuzzy either! She was a beautiful, graceful, perfect cat!

“And it’s got an attitude,” Mark said, shaking his head. “It’s not your girlfriend’s cat, isn’t it? Same hair colour.”

Paul laughed. “No, she’s got a massive orange cat with a face as if it had smashed it into a wall a few times when it was little.”

Crookshanks was a lovely tomcat, Hermione thought, glaring at her ignorant boyfriend.

“Speaking of her, was she working last night?” Philip asked. “For her mysterious employer?”

Paul frowned. “I told you: I didn’t invite you two just because she wasn’t available!”

“So, she was ‘working’!” Mark said, and Hermione could hear the air quotes. If she jumped, she could give his nose a good swat, maybe also claw his legs a little before dashing away from the fool.

“Studying. She’s got exams coming up.”

“Ah. What subjects?”

Paul shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“And if you asked, she wouldn’t tell you.” Philip shook his head. “Mate, I tell you, she’s not good for you.”

“She’s cheating on you!” Mark said. “Working late, not telling you about her work, not even telling you where she works - the perfect setup for an affair.”

“Or you’re the affair,” Philip said.

Hermione wanted to claw both of them. If Paul were the affair, would she have taken him to meet her parents?

Paul snorted. “You’re just jealous.” But he didn’t sound that convincing.

And he didn’t pet her, either, when she jumped down to weave around his legs.

*****

**Hogwarts, June 5th, 1997**

“...then stir three times clockwise and reduce the heat to let it simmer for three minutes.”

Harry Potter sighed and closed his eyes, repeating the instructions for brewing a Cramps-Relieving Potion in his head. “Why is this covered in sixth year?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr Biggles answered.

Harry froze - he must have been speaking Parseltongue! He looked around. No one seemed to have noticed the snake peeking out from behind his robes on the bed next to his desk, and the privacy charms would have kept anyone from hearing him hiss. “What are you doing out of your habitat?” he hissed.

“Your sleeping spot is warmer,” Mr Biggles said as if that explained it.

“The terrarium is hotter than this room,” Harry retorted.

“It doesn’t smell as nice,” Mr Biggles said, then started to burrow under his sheets.

Harry rubbed his face and sighed. He still hadn’t learned how not to speak Parseltongue when he saw a snake. At least it was limited to living snakes - pictures and figures didn’t trigger him.

And he hadn’t told anyone about it either. Ron only knew because he had been the one to tell him, and Luna because she had procured Mr Biggles for him. But he hadn’t told Sirius and Hermione. Nor had he told anyone but Ron about the Elder Wand.

He sighed. He would have to tell Sirius soon enough - or at least explain why he had a pet snake. And Hermione, too. And tell Hedwig not to eat Mr Biggles. At least Crookshanks wasn’t living at Grimmauld Place any more or Mr Biggles would be in danger. Hermione’s stray, though… He’d have to ask her to take it home. Or ward the house against cats.

He chuckled at that thought, then sighed again. Sirius would probably be hurt that he hadn’t told him right away. And he might even think Harry was… No. His godfather loved him. He wouldn’t condemn him for talking to snakes. He wouldn’t. Harry knew that. And yet, he was still nervous. Anxious, maybe.

He’d tell Sirius, though. And Hermione too. So they’d know about this and would be prepared if Harry was exposed as a Parselmouth. And maybe they could help him learn how not to hiss when he saw a snake.

But the Elder Wand and the Cloak… Could he tell Sirius? Dumbledore hadn’t told _anyone_ until his death. Not even Moody had known about it, as far as Harry knew. And his father hadn’t even told Sirius, his best friend, his brother in all but blood, according to Sirius, that this was _the_ Cloak of Invisibility. Would knowing about such secrets endanger his family and friends? Sirius hadn’t been told the truth about Dumbledore’s plans. And he was still suffering from Azkaban. Could he be trusted with this? Should he be trusted with this?

Could Harry handle this by himself? Dumbledore had managed, but Harry wasn’t Dumbledore.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He almost wished he didn’t know the truth about the wand, his Cloak and about being a Parselmouth.

*****

**London, Merton, June 6th, 1997**

“Now that was a great movie! Non-stop action!”

Hermione Granger smiled as she listened to Paul go over the movie they had seen, gesturing as he praised it. She liked it very much when he was that excited.

“And the villain was great. Truly evil, not some half-arsed ‘misguided soul’. And the twist with the serial killer!”

“Garland,” she said.

“Yeah, Garland. He had a happy ending in Vegas.”

“He’ll probably kill more people,” Hermione said, frowning.

“He let the girl live.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t kill again. Serial killers aren’t funny.”

“In movies they are.” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes. Not for the first time, she wondered if he’d find them funny if he had ever encountered a murderer. “It was a good action movie,” she said. “I thought The Rock was better, though.”

“Why?” He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

“It had Connery as the lead,” she answered, grinning. “Much sexier than Cage.”

“Ah.” He didn’t laugh and his smile felt a little forced.

Why would he… She pressed her lips together. Did he think this was a dig at him? A veiled hint that she preferred older men, such as Sirius? Who, incidentally, had escaped from Wizarding Britain’s version of Alcatraz, just like Connery’s character in The Rock had from the original. She chuckled at the thought of Sirius as James Bond.

Then she saw Paul wince and wanted to curse herself for her stupidity.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, June 7th, 1997**

Hermione Granger went straight to Sirius’s study as soon as she arrived in Grimmauld Place. To her surprise, he was already up and even working. Or at least, at his desk, she corrected herself when she saw that he was reading a muggle magazine. In as much as you could call staring at nude women ‘reading’.

“Good morning,” the dog greeted her as he hastily hid the magazine he certainly hadn’t bought for the articles. “You’re early,” he said, with a wide if forced-looking smile.

She curtly nodded. “We need to talk.”

“No.” He shook his head.

“Yes.” She bared her teeth.

“Those words have never heralded anything good for me.” He hunched over and pouted. “Especially coming from a witch.”

“Tough. We need to talk.” She cast a privacy spell, then leaned forward on his desk. “I don’t want to hide from Harry any more.” She narrowed her eyes at him as she continued. “My boyfriend thinks I’m having an affair with you. All because I can’t tell him about magic, and so can’t tell him about you and my work.”

“Your boyfriend is jealous of me?” He sounded far too happy to hear about her troubled relationship. When she glared at him and raised her wand, he winced and held up his hand. “Sorry, sorry. But what does your boyfriend’s jealousy have to do with Harry?”

She sighed. “Harry will soon be back home. With Voldemort gone, we have lost our cover for our heists. And Harry will suspect something if we disappear for an evening or a night - he’s not dumb.”

Sirius shrugged. “Well, we don’t have to pull any heists during the summer. Fletcher’s not yet up for anything anyway. Lost his nerve with his foot.”

She glared at him for that. “It’s not just that. I feel bad hiding this from Harry. He’s the only one in the house who doesn’t know what everyone else did in the war.”

“It’s necessary. If he knew what we’re planning, he’d abandon his dream of becoming an Auror. He would probably join us.”

“He’d insist,” she said - she knew him well, after all. “And why shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you enjoy doing a heist with him?”

He sighed. “Of course I’d love to do a heist with Harry! We’d be a great team - all of us. And Harry would fit right in.” He smiled, shaking his head. “It would be like doing pranks with James.” Then he pressed his lips together and stared at her. “But it would be selfish of me. I’d have fun, but he’d be abandoning his dream. For me. For you. And I’m not going to do that to him. I’m not that selfish!”

“He’s sixteen years old. Who says he’ll still want to become an Auror in a year? He might want to become a professional Quidditch player,” Hermione said. England’s team certainly could use a better Seeker.

“He’s been studying the Auror handbook Tonks gave him for months. He’s kept his training up, even with Voldemort dead. Moody said he’s already better than most rookie Aurors.” Sirius snorted. “Harry’s working harder for this than for school. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t want to become an Auror. It’s his dream. And neither you nor I nor anyone else will ruin this for him! All of us owe him too much for that.”

She wasn’t leaning over his desk any more, Hermione realised. She must have taken a step back during his speech - Sirius could be very intense if he wanted to. And cared enough.

He was wrong, though, Hermione thought. But she couldn’t go behind his back. She owed him too much. And Harry, too. If she were wrong… She sighed and nodded. “As you wish.”

“It’s for Harry.”

She nodded again.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, June 21st, 1997**

“Sirius? Do you have a minute?” Harry Potter asked, poking his head into his godfather’s study.

“Always, Harry! Come in.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Harry said as he closed the door behind him.

“Just boring work. Hermione can do it better than I.” Sirius smiled. “Sit down.”

“She’d love to hear you saying that,” Harry said, grinning when he saw Sirius wince.

“Where is she, anyway?”

“Dealing with her cat.”

“Crookshanks?”

“No, the stray with the bushy tail.”

“Ah.” Sirius chuckled.

“I told her that she has to keep that cat out of the house. I don’t want Mr Biggles to end up being eaten. He keeps escaping his habitat.”

“Mr Biggles?” Sirius blinked.

“My pet snake. Luna named him.” Harry said as casually as he could.

“You’ve got a pet snake?” Sirius wasn’t quite yelling, but he certainly came close.

“Yes. I’ve got a good reason for that, though.” Harry forced himself to smile. “I’m a Parselmouth.”

Sirius blinked with his mouth open.

“I’ve been trying to learn not to talk in Parseltongue whenever I see a snake,” Harry went on. “But it’s going slowly.” He clenched his teeth. “I hoped to have it down before returning from Hogwarts, but…” He shrugged.

“You’re a Parselmouth. You can talk to snakes.”

“Yes.” Harry was getting a little worried.

“How did that happen?”

“I don’t know. I remember talking to a snake in the zoo, before Hogwarts, but I thought that was accidental magic. Then Ron noticed that I could talk to the snakes Voldemort conjured in the Ministry. No one else noticed, though.”

“Ah.” Sirius slowly nodded. “The ability is inherited.”

“Dad or Mum?”

“I’d say Lily, but… if James were a Parselmouth, he’d have kept it quiet, but he’d have told me. I lived with him and his parents, you know.”

“I know.”

“So… might have been Lily. Or it happened like Tonks - she’s a metamorphmagus, but neither of her parents has that talent.”

“Ah.” That made Harry feel a little better.

“Well, you’re right in hiding it. Malfoy would love to paint you as a dark wizard. As if that slime is anything but a Death Eater who got smart!” Sirius shook his head. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“Don’t worry; you had your reasons.” Sirius smiled, though it looked a little forced to Harry.

He winced, feeling guilty. Then he took a deep breath. “There’s more.”

“You can talk to dogs too?”

Harry chuckled, despite the weak joke. He drew the Elder Wand. Sirius’s eyes widened - he must have recognised it. “Dumbledore left me this.” Harry put it on the desk. “It’s the Elder Wand.”

Sirius cursed so loudly, Harry was glad he had decided not to tell his godfather about the Cloak.

*****

 


	31. Changes

**London, Ministry of Magic, June 28th, 1997**

Horace Slughorn didn’t have to fake his smile when he stepped out of the fireplace in the Atrium of the Ministry - he loved attending occasions such as this mixer, organised by the Minister himself. Cornelius might not be the most talented wizard or politician, but he knew how to socialise and network. Although not nearly as well as Horace himself, especially now that both the Dark Lord and Dumbledore were dead.

He nodded at the two Hit-Wizards standing guard at the Thief’s Downfall installed nearby. “Good evening, Mr Perkins, Miss Smith.”

“Good evening, sir.” Miss Smith - Slytherin, finished Hogwarts in 1982 - smiled at him. He wouldn’t have ordinarily remembered her name; despite her family name, she was neither particularly bright and talented nor well-connected. But she had been in her seventh year when Albus had forced Horace into retirement in 1982 in favour of his pet spy. Who had been killed by the Dark Lord, allowing Horace to return to Hogwarts as both Potions Master and Head of House.

Mr Perkins - Gryffindor, finished Hogwarts 1980 - nodded with less warmth. Horace had had great hopes for the boy - he had shown an impressive talent in Transfiguration - but the death of his brother had made him enter the Hit-Wizard force upon finishing Hogwarts, and he had apparently never managed to get over what he had seen in the last year of the war. Unfortunate, but not rare.

Horace put the two out of his mind as he walked towards the lift; he had far more important people to care about this evening.

Two minutes later, he arrived on the Minister’s floor. He had timed his arrival well - he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t appear too eager, but he was far from the last; Cornelius wasn’t yet too swamped by people currying his favour to greet Horace.

“Horace!”

“Cornelius!”

They shook hands vigorously. Or what Cornelius thought was vigorously.

“How are you doing? Relieved that the school year is over?” Cornelius smiled widely.

Horace nodded. “Indeed. I had to take over for Severus Snape, and sorting out the schedules and subjects…” He shook his head. “I’m glad I finally have the time to reorganise the syllabus for next year.” He wasn’t really lying - Snape had been a gifted potioneer, but as a teacher, he had been mediocre at best. The man had simply lacked any tolerance for less talented students.

“Ah, but you’ll manage. And I dare say, Hogwarts can use your experience, what with Albus dead.”

He caught Lucius Malfoy, who had been hanging back, using this to insert himself into their conversation. “I would have voted for you as the new Headmaster, had you had been nominated.”

Horace smiled politely at the offer and at the reminder that he had not been nominated. “I think I was away from Hogwarts for too long, enjoying my retirement, to take on such a challenge. Minerva has my trust and full support.” For now, of course.

Lucius nodded with a smile. “And who knows what the future will bring? McGonagall is a gifted Transfiguration teacher, but the post of Headmistress requires other skills.”

Minerva had been the Deputy Headmistress for decades, Horace knew as well as Lucius, but that wasn’t what the man was talking about. So Horace nodded with a smile. “How are things in the Wizengamot?”

Lucius sighed. “We’re doing our best, but, alas, some people prefer to put their personal ambitions and interests above what’s best for the country.”

Such as Lucius himself, Horace knew. Fortunately, Cornelius cut in before he had to comment.

“Are you butting heads with Sirius again, Lucius?” The Minister shook his head. “What are his issues with your latest proposal?”

Lucius sneered. “He’s still opposing a reasonable reduction in Aurors and Hit-Wizards, despite the money the Ministry could save.”

Horace nodded, but he knew better than to get into politics. Especially when Blacks were involved. “Oh, is that Elphias?” he said, acting as if he hadn’t spotted the old wizard minutes ago. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must say hello to him; haven’t seen him since Albus’s funeral.”

A few minutes, and some meaningless platitudes about how everyone was missing the man who had all but destroyed Horace’s lifework for his pet spy, later, Horace was standing at the buffet sampling the wine. It was a good selection; bought from another member of the Slug Club, unless he was sorely mistaken, Charles Shacklebolt. Cousin to the Auror currently in the best spot to inherit Rufus’s position, should there be a vacancy.

“Mister Slughorn.”

Horace turned around, his polite smile growing marginally warmer when he recognised Deborah Greengrass née Rosier. “Madam Greengrass.” She had been an altogether average witch at Hogwarts, not too closely related to the main branch of the family. The only thing she had had going for her had been her beauty; and she had made the best of it, marrying into the Greengrass family. As would have been expected of a Slytherin. Her daughters were cut from the same cloth, in Horace’s opinion.

“I was hoping to meet you here,” she said with a fake smile.

“Oh?” He had an inkling what this was about.

“Yes. Did you know that Mr Potter threatened my daughter at one of your parties?”

Of course he had; he’d be a poor host if he didn’t pay attention to his guests. But he faked ignorance. “He threatened her?”

She nodded. “She was just being friendly when she saw that his date had left him, and he threatened her - over that muggleborn thief with whom his godfather is living. Imagine that!”

“I see.” He nodded slowly. He had expected such a complaint.

She scoffed delicately. “As Daphne’s Head of House, I hope you will take adequate action to set the boy straight. It’s obvious that his godfather and that girl are a bad influence on him. Criminals, both of them! He should have been raised by an Old Family, not by… such a man.” She could sneer almost as well as Lucius, Horace noted.

Horace smiled. “I had heard of that little incident.” He inclined his head. “I think tempers ran a little high there; Harry is very protective of his family and friends. Something, I think, Sirius has taught him. Although I think we are fortunate that Sirius hasn’t taught him the proper forms and ways; if he had thought your daughter had insulted him with her insinuation, that might have been grounds for a duel.” Duels had been outlawed for over a century, but it was an open secret that some Old Families still arranged for a ‘friendly spar’ over some insults. The Blacks had been notorious for that, a few decades ago. Before the first war.

Greengrass paled.

“Fortunately,” Horace continued, “Harry wouldn’t blatantly break the law like that; he is set on becoming an Auror. A fitting career for the Vanquisher of Voldemort, wouldn’t you agree?”

The witch nodded, albeit a little jerkily. Horace had to refrain from sighing. That some people seemed to have forgotten just what Harry had done not even six months ago…

“If you’ll excuse me; I just saw someone I’ve wanted to meet for some time.” He nodded at her; it was a slight, but he would be better off not antagonising the Boy-Who-Lived. The man who took down Voldemort, backed by the Black fortune, would be a formidable force in a few years.

Like Arthur’s son, towards whom he was walking. Percival Weasley’s career was, according to what Horace’s friends had told him, back on track after that unfortunate affair a few years ago. Prefect, Head Boy and member of Albus’s Order - if only Horace had been at Hogwarts during his years there. But, as with the other Weasleys, he had missed his chance there. If he had known just what kind of political mind Arthur had hidden behind his harmless facade, he would have certainly cultivated closer ties with the family.

“Mister Weasley!” He beamed at the young man, intent on correcting his past mistakes.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 1st, 1997**

“Harry? Are you busy?”

Harry Potter closed his copy of the Auror handbook - reading about the procedures for requesting Hit-Wizard support for a raid wasn’t very interesting - and looked at his godfather standing in the doorway. Sirius looked a little nervous, he thought but hid his frown. “No. What do you need?” There couldn’t be any trouble related to the Elder Wand, could there?

Sirius took a step inside, closed the door and cleared his throat. “I need to discuss something with you. Something serious.”

Harry clenched his teeth for a moment. Was this about him being a Parselmouth? He glanced at Mr Biggles, who was sleeping under the heater in his terrarium - Hermione’s idea; he hadn’t slipped out since they had installed that. Although enlarging the terrarium to the size of Harry’s bed - with a lot more plants and a small tree to climb - had probably helped as well. He blinked and focused on the matter at hand. “Yes?”

Sirius took a deep breath, and his smile looked rather forced. Whatever this was, it was important, Harry thought. Had someone been hurt? Had Remus’s curse turned out not to have been countered? Had…

“What do you think about getting a stepmother?”

Harry blinked.

“Because, you know, I think Jeanne is a very nice witch. Not just nice in that sense, but she’s brave - would have been a Gryffindor if she had been a Hogwarts student - and smart, and she has a spine. I know she’s a little young for me, at least from a muggle perspective, as Lily once told me, but I’m not really old either, and…”

Harry held up his hand. “Sirius?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve been expecting you two to announce your wedding or at least your official engagement for months now.” Harry smirked, relieved.

“Oh.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. If I had a problem with Jeanne, I would have said something months ago.” There was no need to mention his fears and his talks with Hermione. Jeanne had proven herself. More than once.

“Ah.” Sirius looked sheepish. “I’m glad to hear that. Although there are a few more things to consider. You see, marriage usually results in children.”

“Yes?” Harry blinked again. “Is Jeanne pregnant?”

“What? No, no.” Sirius frowned. “Did you expect me to get her pregnant, after everything I taught you about safe sex?”

Harry didn’t want to answer that honestly, but judging by Sirius’s frown, Harry’s expression betrayed him anyway. His godfather huffed. “Really!” Then he laughed. “Anyway, no, she’s not pregnant. But once she is, there’s the matter of my heir.”

“What about him or her?” Harry asked, then frowned. “Wait - do you think I’d be jealous of your and Jeanne’s future child?”

“Well,” Sirius said, looking embarrassed, “it’s a possibility. You know I had a brother, and after I was cast out of the family, I certainly felt some jealousy towards him. And scorn, since Regulus was a Death Eater. Mostly scorn, of course. But I didn’t like the thought of him inheriting the Black fortune.”

Ah. “Well, I’m not jealous.” He wasn’t. Not really. He knew Sirius wouldn’t brush him aside in favour of a baby. Not really. And by the time the baby would be born, Harry would be an adult already, and living his own life. Probably. And being jealous of a baby was very, very childish. At least that’s what Hermione would tell him. “I know you’re not…” He bit his lower lip before he finished with ‘my real father’. That would be unkind. He started again, “I didn’t expect to inherit anything from you.” He had his own inheritance from his parents, anyway. It wasn’t a fortune, but it would allow him to get a flat or house of his own, at least.

Sirius shook his head. “But you will. You’re my godson. I won’t neglect you, I promise you. And I still owe you twelve birthday presents,” he added with a smile.

Harry thought about joking that there was a new broom on the market, supposedly better than a Firebolt, but if he did, Sirius would rush out and buy him one. “Thanks,” he said instead.

They hugged each other. And Harry hoped Sirius wouldn’t notice that he actually was jealous. Of Sirius and Jeanne.

*****

**London, Merton, July 2nd, 1997**

Hermione Granger tensed up when she saw the owl landing on the window-sill. She knew that the exams she had taken didn’t really count towards her future - unlike the N.E.W.T.s next year - and that she could use the next year to make up any deficiencies they might reveal, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous anyway.

She checked for curses and other ‘surprises’, then took the envelope from the fidgeting owl. It had to be impatient. Or, she added to herself, spotting Crookshanks eyeing the bird with interest, it was wary of her cat. As any bird should be. She slipped it an owl treat, then gave Crookshanks a few cat treats so he wouldn’t feel slighted and opened the letter.

Outstandings in Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. She sighed with relief. Mr Fletcher would have been very disappointed otherwise. As she would have been. Acceptable in Defence. She winced. She had sandbagged a little too much. She hoped Harry wouldn’t inflict more training on her. Still an Exceeds Expectations in Potions.  Acceptables in Care of Magical Creatures - she hadn’t been as lucky with the test’s subjects as in her O.W.L. exam - Herbology, and History of Magic. She hadn’t taken Muggle Studies. Not after that farce of an exam for her O.W.L. She wouldn’t study, much less write down, obvious falsehoods!

She sighed again.

“How did you do?” her mum asked.

Hermione handed her the letter. “About as well as on my O.W.L.s.”

“But for Care of Magical Creatures,” her mum corrected her.

“But my Arithmancy and Ancient Runes results are better.” Not as close to Exceeds Expectations any more.

“Ah.” Mum handed the letter to Dad, so he could stop craning his neck and trying to read it upside down.

“You did well there,” he said after skimming it, “considering your situation.”

She pursed her lips. Yes, considering her situation. “I expect to do better on the N.E.W.T.s themselves, with the distraction of the war gone.”

Her parents nodded, smiling. They probably wouldn’t smile if they knew what exactly she had been doing during the war.

“Speaking of which,” Dad started, “have you given any thoughts to what you’ll be doing after your N.E.W.T.s?”

She frowned. “I plan on continuing to work for Sirius.” And starting her revenge as soon as Mr Fletcher deemed her ready.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“It’s a good job.” And a good cover. “It’s interesting work. I can help shape the laws of Wizarding Britain.”

“Yes,” Mum said, “but… is it really a good idea to tie yourself so closely to Sirius? What if his own situation changes? You said he’s about to marry his fiancée.”

She frowned. “I doubt that things will change because of that. Jeanne’s already living with him.” And both Sirius and Jeanne knew and supported Hermione’s plans for revenge.

Her parents glanced at each other. “If you’re certain…” Dad said.

She nodded. Firmly. “Yes, I am.” What was their problem?

“It’s just... Paul seemed to have some issues with your work,” Mum said.

“Or rather, your inability to tell him anything about your work,” Dad clarified.

She frowned. “Did he come and talk to you while I was absent?” That would be going too far!

“No, no.” Dad shook his head. “But we couldn’t help noticing a certain tension during our last dinner together when that topic came up.”

She didn’t quite shrug. “That’s to be expected. Many wizards and witches dating muggles are in a similar position.”

“And how many of them manage to solve that?” Mum looked at her.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re allowed to tell your husband once you’re married. Such marriages aren’t exactly rare, but I don’t know how many relationships with muggles fail before marriage.”

“Are you planning on marrying Paul?” Mum asked. She was staring at her, Hermione noticed.

“I’m not planning on marrying anyone,” Hermione answered. “I’m seventeen.” An adult under Wizarding Law.

“Ah.” Dad smiled. “I should have known you weren’t a love-struck girl dreaming of a wedding with her first love.”

“A stack of books would hardly make for a good groom anyway,” her mum added.

She glared at them both and pouted. But she also realised that she hadn’t thought, nor dreamt, of marrying Paul. He was nice, funny when he wasn’t being obnoxious about his movies, and handsome. And he turned her on when they were together.

But she hadn’t been ‘love-struck’, as Dad called it. Not at all. Not once during their relationship.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 7th, 1997**

“Ah, here it is!” Sirius said, holding up the latest Daily Prophet and pointing at an article on page five. Before Harry Potter could read even the headline, though, his godfather had turned it around again and started reading himself: “Engagements: Sirius Black, Head of the Black family, announced his engagement to Jeanne Selwyn, daughter of…” He looked up, frowning. “Jeanne Selwyn?”

“I double checked. The announcement we sent to the newspapers read ‘Jeanne Dubois’,” Hermione told him as she buttered her toast.

“I think my father ‘corrected’ that when they asked him for a comment,” Jeanne said. She shook her head. “He does not seem to understand that such behaviour will not endear him to either of us.”

“Or someone wants you to believe he did that,” Hermione suggested.

“That would be incredibly petty,” Sirius said, shaking his head.

“Skeeter is incredibly petty, in my experience,” Hermione retorted.

“Skeeter would have tried to throw doubt on Jeanne’s parentage and would have mentioned that her father ignored her until he lost his heir. She is petty, but not that subtle.” Sirius shook his head. “No, I think this is my future father-in-law’s ego speaking.”

“I concur,” Jeanne agreed.

“Great. This’ll be a pleasant wedding.” Harry sighed.

“Oh, compared to my parents, Jeanne’s father’s a very amicable fellow,” Sirius said, grinning. “You wouldn’t want to know what they would have told the Prophet.”

“I can imagine,” Harry said. He had heard enough stories about the portrait of Sirius’s mother. Hermione nodded in agreement.

“Anyway, let’s not get annoyed over this,” Sirius said. “It won’t change the fact that I’ll be marrying the most beautiful witch in England next summer!” He wrapped his arm around Jeanne’s shoulder and pulled her in for a kiss. A kiss that turned very French very quickly.

Harry sighed at the display - he didn’t begrudge his godfather his happiness, but the breakfast table wasn’t the right place to show such affection. He shook his head and leaned towards Hermione. “If I’d known they’d make out at the table, I’d have pretended to oppose the wedding,” he whispered.

“Oh, shush!” she whispered back. “They love each other and shouldn’t hide that.”

There was some difference between not hiding your love and snogging at the table, Harry thought. But he didn’t want to appear jealous - he was the only single person in the extended family right now - so he nodded and returned to his breakfast.

*****

An hour later, Harry Potter was at his desk, studying the Aurors’ rules for reporting incidents. And shaking his head - for a force meant to uphold law and order in Wizarding Britain, the Aurors probably spent more time fighting paperwork than anything else. And he was supposed to learn this.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember what he had just read. Date, time and location were easy - that was simply common sense. Everyone involved, split into Aurors, allies, suspects, victims and… He suppressed a curse and focused. He was an Occlumens - he could do this. Occlumency didn’t grant a perfect memory, but if you knew your mind, you knew where to look for what you couldn’t remember. In theory - Dumbledore had taught him, ‘en passant’, as Ron would say, that the human mind had a tendency to alter memories.

But then again, as an Occlumens, he was less susceptible to that. He focused and saw the page he had read before in his mind. “Aurors, allies, suspects, victims, persons of interest - witnesses, mainly - and anyone else,” he said, smiling.

“Aurors, allies, suspects, victims, persons of interest?”

He jerked and muttered a curse under his breath as he turned. He hadn’t noticed Hermione entering his room! Focusing on his memories, to the exclusion of everything else… Moody would tear him a new one if he ever heard of this. “Hermione?” he said out loud.

She snorted. “Yes, it’s me. And you used to tease me about getting lost in books!” she added with a grin.

He sighed. “I’m studying.” Then he winced and held up his hand. “No teasing about that, please.”

“I would never!” she said, but her grin widened. Then she grew serious. “You’re really determined to become an Auror, hm?”

He nodded. “You know, I hadn’t been really serious. Not at the beginning. But now, with Dumbledore gone…” He sighed. “You know what Malfoy’s doing. And his friends.”

“What they are trying to do,” she corrected him. “So far they haven’t been too successful.”

“That’s not enough!” He saw her wince slightly at his vehemence. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s OK.”

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you know how the Ministry works - rich people are pretty much untouchable. If you want to bring someone like Malfoy to justice, you need the backing from someone rich and influential.”

“Like Sirius,” she said.

“Yes. But that’s not a solution.” Harry stood. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work.” He shook his head. “We need to change that. And I think I can do it, with Sirius’s help. As the Boy-Who-Lived, or the Vanquisher of Voldemort, I can do more than others. And as an Auror, I can do the most good. Clean up the Ministry. And ensure that the guilty are punished instead of the innocent. Unlike other Aurors, they won’t be able to easily ignore me.”

Hermione winced at hearing that, he noticed. Why would… of course! She didn’t like being reminded of her expulsion. He sighed - once again, he had hurt a girl without meaning to.

*****

**London, Greenwich, July 8th, 1997**

“What’s bothering you?”

Hermione Granger looked up from her notes on the latest muggle locks. Mr Fletcher had lowered his newspaper and she could see his concerned expression. She considered lying - it was her private business, after all - but decided against it. “I asked Harry about his wish to become an Auror.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And he was set on his course, contrary to your expectations?”

She frowned - was she so easy to read? “Yes.”

“It’s a simple deduction,” he added. “If he hadn’t been determined, you wouldn’t be annoyed, but either happy or angry at Black for still not telling him.”

“He wants to clean up the Ministry. Stop the corruption. Put an end to people escaping justice,” she said, choosing not to comment on his analysis of her mood.

“And you’re afraid he’ll go after you.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said. Or lied - she didn’t know herself. “But I would rather not find out if he values justices more than his family.” Harry had sounded full of conviction and determination when he had talked to her.

“Well, as long as you don’t get caught, there won’t be a problem.” He grinned. “Which means more training, and less worrying about your N.E.W.T.s.”

She huffed - she could do both. “You also said to prepare for the worst.” Azkaban.

Mr Fletcher tilted his head. “Which you did, didn’t you?”

She sighed. “I could escape Azkaban as a cat.” With some additional preparations to get off the island. “But that was when the Dementors guarded it.”

He nodded. “Escaping won’t be easy with the changes the Ministry has implemented.”

“I almost wish they’d kept the Dementors. Or that Malfoy’s attempt to reduce the number of Hit-Wizards would succeed,” she said, scowling.

Mr Fletcher blinked. “I thought he was going after the Aurors.”

“Sirius and Mr Weasley shot that proposal down. But if there are fewer Hit-Wizards, then Aurors might be called on to fill in for them,” Hermione explained.

She saw him frown. “And uppity muggleborn Aurors, or Aurors who don’t know when to drop an investigation, could be transferred to guard Azkaban.”

“Exactly.”

“Would Bones and Scrimgeour allow that?” He folded his newspaper and dropped it on the stack next to his seat. Hermione resisted the urge to straighten the stack with a quick spell.

“Bones, I don’t think so - she lost family in the last war; she won’t work with Malfoy and his cronies.” According to Sirius. “Scrimgeour, though…” She sighed. “He’s got a reputation as both honest and ambitious, but no one knows which of the two he’ll sacrifice if he is forced to choose.”

“Expect the worst, then.”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“What’s Black doing about this?”

“Trying to back both of them. But Bones doesn’t want to appear as one of his followers - or corrupt - and Scrimgeour doesn’t want to commit himself.” Which was a bad sign.

“Typical. Bones is too stubborn for her own good.” He scoffed.

Hermione shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with having principles.”

“Unless they’re the wrong principles.” He shook his head. “Bones’s been in the DMLE for a long time, though. So she has to know how to deal with politics. At least enough to keep her job.”

He didn’t have to say out loud that Madam Bones would treat a group of thieves according to the law, no matter their motives and past deeds - Hermione knew that well enough. And she knew as well that if she didn’t want to make Harry choose between protecting his family and friends and upholding the law, she couldn’t get caught.

It would be so much easier if Harry were not so determined to reform Britain as an Auror.

*****

**London, Merton, July 10th, 1997**

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth and once more pondered abandoning her plan. It was undignified. Inappropriate. Embarrassing. She didn’t need to do this, either - she had done fine so far by herself. She was an adult in Wizarding Britain, and would soon be an adult according to British law as well. And adults didn’t ask their parents for help with their love life.

But this was her first relationship, and she could really do with some mature advice. From someone other than Jeanne. So she took a deep breath and entered the living room, where her mum was reading.

“Mum?”

“Yes, Hermione?” Her mum didn’t look up from her book. That didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention - Hermione had found that out when she was still a little girl. But this was more important than a negotiation over her allowance as a five-year-old.

She cleared her throat. That made Mum look at her. “It’s about Paul.”

“Oh?” Mum put her book away. “What has he done?”

Hermione pursed her lips, “He hasn’t done anything. It’s me.”

“What did you do?” her mum asked.

“I realised that I might not be in love with him. Not at all,” Hermione said.

Her mum snorting wasn’t the reaction she had expected. “It’s your first relationship - as far as I know.”

“That’s true,” Hermione said, a little indignantly - she wouldn’t lie to her parents about _that_.

“So you lack any alternative points of reference.”

Pointing out that she had read a number of books about this wouldn’t help her, Hermione knew. “It’s just… I like him. But I never dreamt of marrying him. And I never even considered sacrificing my plans for the future for him.” Not that her mum knew what exactly those plans were.

“And you shouldn’t!” Mum said, rather vehemently. “Your future is worth more than any romantic relationship.”

Hermione didn’t mention that she had considered - but decided against - abandoning her revenge, or at least postponing it for the foreseeable future, for Harry. They were talking about romantic relationships, not friendships. “I’m feeling a little guilty, though. As if I’m simply using him.”

“Has he mentioned wanting to start living together? Or any plans like that?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head.

“Then you certainly don’t need to feel guilty for not thinking about it either. Just enjoy your relationship for what it is, and if it gets too much, break it off.” She smiled. “Gabriel wasn’t my first love either, you know. And I certainly didn’t think about marrying anyone when I was a teenager.”

That had been in the seventies, so Hermione was inclined to believe her.

“With the exception of Prince Charles, of course,” her mum added with a smirk.

“What?” Hermione stared at her.

“Every girl in my class dreamed of becoming Queen at least once. We were in primary school.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You weren’t seventeen then.”

“But ‘almost a teenager’.” Mum grinned as she reminded Hermione of her attempt to get a later bedtime in primary school.

She tried to get their talk back on track. “So should I simply keep dating Paul, until I get fed up for whatever reason, and then break up?”

“Yes.”

That sounded rather cold, Hermione thought. “Even if it hurts him?” She didn’t want to act like Harry had when he broke up with Romilda.

“You’d hurt him and yourself far more if you stay together when you don’t want to.”

Maybe she should talk to Jeanne, Hermione thought as she nodded at her mum.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, July 31st, 1997**

“I wish you a happy birthday, Mr Potter.”

“Thank you, Mr Doge.” Harry Potter replied.

“Please, call me Elphias.”

“Elphias,” Harry repeated with a nod and a smile that would hopefully look genuine. It wasn’t the old wizard’s fault that, this year, Harry’s birthday party at The Burrow wasn’t a gathering of friends, as it had been in the years before, but had been turned into a ‘mixer’ for mostly adults and old people.

“I was Albus’s best friend, you know,” Elphias said. He wasn’t looking at Harry, or at anyone else, as far as Harry could tell. “We were in the same year and house at Hogwarts, and we planned to do the Grand Tour afterwards. Travel the world together. But then his sister was attacked…” He trailed off with a sigh. “I think Albus never really recovered from that. He changed. And even more so after his sister died.”

Harry was glad he wasn’t expected to smile any more. He already had heard this story from Dumbledore himself. But it would be rude to say so. So he listened to the story, nodding and acting as if he was paying rapt attention, until the man finished and moved away to find another victim.

He noticed Sirius walking towards him. “Smile, Harry!” his godfather said with a smile. “It’s your birthday!”

Harry snorted. “Some birthday.” He made a point of looking towards the Quidditch pitch, where most of his friends were flying.

Sirius looked puzzled. “Why don’t you go and join them?”

“Because I’m being hounded by every old and influential wizard or witch you invited to my party,” Harry spat out. “They all want to talk to the Boy-Who-Lived. Or the Vanquisher of Voldemort.”

His godfather winced at hearing that, then cast a privacy spell. “I’m sorry about that, but we need more support in the Wizengamot and the Ministry if we want to counter Malfoy’s plans.”

“I know,” Harry said. “And I understand it’s necessary.” But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Or like his guests. At least he didn’t have to feel guilty for making Mrs Weasley deal with this - Mr Weasley had helped organise it, with Sirius, so he was to blame for a small birthday party turning into the social event of the month.

“Welcome to politics, Harry.” Sirius grinned. “Being friendly with people I don’t particularly like is the part of my work that I can’t drop on Hermione. And once you’re working for the Ministry, you’ll have to do this more often.”

“Great. I can’t wait to start,” Harry muttered.

Sirius laughed. “Well, since you’re so enthusiastic, how about I introduce you to Amelia Bones? She should get to know her future Head Auror, shouldn’t she? And her niece is a looker.”

Harry snorted, but his godfather had a point. Talking to Madam Bones would be interesting, provided he could avoid sounding like an idiot. And while he wouldn’t normally have invited Susan Bones to his birthday party, the Hufflepuff seemed to be nice. He nodded. “Alright.”

“Just don’t break her niece’s heart. That might harm your future career.”

Harry glared at him. “You said that Bones is a witch who’d never abuse her position.”

“That’s true. But she can make you suffer just by being as strict as the regulations demand or allow.”

Harry sighed. “I hope she doesn’t have a crush on me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because if she has a crush and I turn her down, she’ll be hurt,” Harry explained.

“So don’t turn her down?” Sirius shrugged.

“And once we break up, she’ll be hurt worse?” Harry snorted.

“That’s really pessimistic.” Sirius frowned. “With that attitude, any relationship is doomed from the start.”

“I’m just being realistic,” Harry retorted. After all, so far he hadn’t managed to end any of his relationships on friendly terms. “Let’s go.”

*****

Hermione Granger was almost pressing her chest into the shaft of her broom as she chased that thrice-damned Golden Snitch which had been taunting her for minutes now. It was flying low above the grass, trying to lure her into a collision with the ground. But she was too smart for that ploy - no mere bird would get the better of a cat!

Grinning fiercely, she kept her position behind and above the twittering prey. It would veer off any moment… now! The Snitch pulled to its right, and Hermione dived at it, hand stretching out to grab it.

At the last second, the Snitch dove down and to the left, and Hermione overshot it. Cursing the thing, she pulled up and banked left. That stupid imitation-bird wouldn’t escape her again!

Alas, her prediction came true, but not in the way she had intended: Ginny had been sneaking up on the Snitch and snatched it just as it tried to gain some distance from Hermione.

“Ginny’s got the Snitch! Team Weasley wins!” Hannah, who had volunteered to act as the referee together with Susan, announced as the Weasleys and the assorted other players they had shanghaied to fill their ranks celebrated their victory.

As she landed, Hermione told herself that she had held back anyway. At least a little. At the start. And it was mostly luck anyway, given how random the Snitch seemed to act. She still wanted to use a Reductor Curse on the Snitch, though.

“Well, you tried, but Ginny’s a natural Seeker.”

Hermione glared at Seamus. “I didn’t want to be Seeker,” she lied.

“You did better than expected,” Ron cut in. “Not that you had much of a chance anyway, with the twins recruiting Alicia, Angelina and Katie.”

“Which was rather unfair,” Seamus said. “You get pros, and we get ‘Team Potter without Potter’.”

“No one knew that Harry wouldn’t be able to play,” Hermione said. Although she should have expected it - she had planned the party with Sirius, Mr Weasley and Percy, after all.

“No one agreed to mixing up the teams either when we knew Harry would rather talk to the high and mighty than play Quidditch,” Seamus shot back.

Harry would rather have flown the whole day, Hermione knew. But saying that would run counter to the goal of this party. “They wanted to win. And to look good in front of Mr Farnespudding.” Who was the owner of the Wimbourne Wasps, and might need a new Chaser this season.

“Beating us didn’t exactly make them look good. We sucked worse than the Claws,” Dean said.

“But Katie could show that she could keep up with Angelina and Alicia,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes,” Katie said, smiling. “And I wanted to play with them again. I missed them last year.”

“We all missed them,” Seamus said, suddenly all smiles.

Hermione rolled her eyes - he was so predictable that she was tempted to steal his wallet again.

“I hoped Harry would play,” Susan said. “But he’s been talking to Auntie for what feels an hour,” she added with a sigh and a pout that looked very much as if she had trained in front of a mirror, in Hermione’s opinion. Someone had a crush, if Hermione wasn’t completely mistaken.

Ron said: “He wants to become an Auror after Hogwarts, so he wanted to use the opportunity to ask her a few questions.”

“Really?” Susan’s face lit up. “He can come visit us any time!”

Hermione told herself that Susan would have heard that from her aunt anyway. But she still wanted to hex Ron. The last thing Harry needed was yet another relationship with a girl who had a crush on him.

When Susan and Hannah started to gush about the Boy-Who-Lived and Luna dragged Ron away to look at what she thought was a ‘cross-pollinated pixie’, whatever that was, Hermione excused herself and went to track down Sirius.

She found him at the buffet with Jeanne, behaving as if he were there simply to enjoy Mrs Weasley’s cooking and not to keep an eye on Harry. Who was now talking to Scrimgeour. She took a small plate and put some roast beef and chips on it as she raised both eyebrows at Sirius.

“He’s enjoying himself,” Sirius said.

“I can see that. But how are we doing?” Hermione said. She smiled at him as if he were a random member of the Wizengamot, to drive the point home.

He winced, then smiled. “Well, everyone we invited attended. No one excused themselves. That’s a good sign.”

“Even my father is present,” Jeanne added, nodding towards an older man talking with Slughorn.

“Now _that_ was a miscalculation,” Sirius grumbled _sotto voce_. “I thought he wouldn’t visit the Weasleys.”

Jeanne shook her head with a smirk. “And I told you that he can be very pragmatic when it furthers his interests. That’s why he recognised me despite me being born a bastard.”

“I believe the euphemism du jour is ‘natural born’,” Sirius said. “Damn hypocrite!”

“It’s a good sign, though,” Jeanne said.

Hermione shook her head slightly. “Your father might simply have realised that unless he disinherits you, which would ruin all his plans, he cannot distance himself from Sirius without ruining his position.” Which Mr Selwyn should have anticipated. Unless he had had reason to expect Sirius’s early death during the conflict with Voldemort.

“As I said, it’s a good sign.”

Jeanne’s smile was all teeth.

*****

“Is the coast clear?” Harry Potter asked as soon as his call to The Burrow had gone through.

“All the guests have left, yes,” Ron answered him.

“Finally!” Harry didn’t bother hiding his relief as he stepped out of the fireplace - only stumbling slightly, too! Not even the fact that Hermione entered The Burrow behind him as smoothly as if she were walking through the door could dampen his good mood.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Mrs Weasley asked, flicking her wand to cover the table in the living room with a fresh tablecloth.

“You invited Zacharias Smith, Mum,” Ron said, shaking his head. “How that git was sorted into Hufflepuff I’ll never understand. He’s almost as arrogant as Malfoy!”

“He probably wasn’t cunning enough for Slytherin,” Ginny said. She put on a sneer and imitated the boy’s nasal voice. “You know, Helga Hufflepuff was my ancestor, although I don’t mention it so others don’t feel inferior.” She made retching noises.

“Ginny!” Mrs Weasley glared at her.

“What? He does sound like that!” the witch defended herself.

“Fortunately, he doesn’t say ‘Wait until I tell my Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandmother about this!” Harry said, laughing.

“I think you’re missing about fifteen ‘greats’,” Hermione told him.

“Nineteen, actually - the Hufflepuffs were known for marrying and having children early,” Luna corrected her.

Harry laughed again - he knew that Hermione would check that claim as soon as she could do so without being obvious about it.

“Isn’t Sirius coming as well?” Mrs Weasley asked. “Or did something come up?”

“He’s probably afraid we’ll blame him for the torture we had to go through this afternoon,” Harry said.

“‘We’?” Hermione frowned at him. “As I recall you were the only one who was pestered by everyone.”

“A sacrifice we’ll remember!” Ron cut in.

That earned Ron a frown of his own. Hermione continued: “And as the one celebrating his birthday, such attention was to be expected, at least to some degree,” she added, probably in response to the look Harry gave her.

“You would say that since I bet that you picked half the guests,” Harry said.

“I merely made a few suggestions,” she retorted with a grin. “It’s all on Sirius’s head.”

“And Dad and Percy’s,” Ron added.

Harry shook his head. “I hope it was worth it.”

“Oh, I think it was. A few appearances in the Wizengamot by the Vanquisher of Voldemort and Malfoy should be cut down to size. Once you get your Order of Merlin, you’ll be a member as well.”

“Malfoy’ll be neutered,” Ron said.

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “Even if he wasn’t going to get an Order of Merlin of his own, he’s got several families backing him no matter what. It’ll take more than a few defeats in the Wizengamot to remove him as a political force.” She pursed her lips. “Especially as long as Fudge remains Minister, the man is simply too corrupt.”

“If only he’d contract a gold allergy,” Luna said. “But his bowler hat keeps the Niffler ghosts away.”

Harry wasn’t going to ask. And Ron would already know. Maybe…

“Niffler ghosts?” Ginny asked. “What are they?”

“The spirits of Nifflers who were used to find gold for their owners. Unable to satisfy their natural urges, but cruelly abused, forced to search for gold they couldn’t keep, they linger after their death to punish the greedy. But they can be driven off by bowler hats since those remind them of the traps used to catch them.” Luna sighed. “The poor dears suffer even after death.”

“I haven’t heard of any animal ghosts,” Ginny said.

“Many cultures have tales of spirit animals,” Hermione said, surprising Harry. “Those could be seen as ghosts.”

“A Niffler spirit animal?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It could be possible.”

Luna nodded. “We’re going to try and use the greediest muggle we can find as bait, to see if we can catch a few Niffler ghosts. It’s morally acceptable since muggle money is made from paper, so an allergy to gold won’t harm muggles.” She lowered her voice and leaned towards Hermione. “If you want, we can give them to you, and you can ‘accidentally’ knock off Fudge’s hat before setting them loose in the Ministry.”

“Thank you for the offer, Luna,” Hermione said, “but I think we’ll abstain from using such methods to deal with Fudge.”

“Alright!” Luna nodded. She turned to Harry. “Did you invite Susan and Hannah for this party too?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know either of them well enough to invite them to my birthday party.”

“Susan seems to want to change that,” Ron said with a grin.

“And a party is a great way to get to know someone, Daddy always says,” Luna added. “Especially if they drink too much.”

Harry wasn’t the only one who was staring at her. Did she just…

She blinked. “Didn’t you know that drunk people often let slip things they wanted to keep secret?”

“Ah.” Harry smiled. “I’m not planning to get the niece of the head of the DMLE drunk at a party.” Especially not if she had a crush on him. He clapped. “Now, let’s call the others and get this started.”

It was time to have fun.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, August 8th, 1997**

“...and in recognition of your personal bravery in this battle, and with great pride and pleasure, I hereby award you the Order of Merlin, First Class!”

Harry Potter smiled when the Minister finished his speech. To his surprise, Fudge hadn’t rambled on but had delivered a short and quite succinct speech. He’d have to ask Sirius if he knew who had written it. And maybe ask if they could give Hermione a few pointers - his best female friend was one of the smartest people he knew, but writing speeches wasn’t among her talents. Her drafts read as though they were meant to become a book.

He banished those whimsical thoughts as Fudge approached him, the cushion upon which the medal was resting floating at his side. It wouldn’t do to giggle in the middle of the ceremony; Malfoy would use that to paint him as an immature teenager.

So he kept his expression serious as he lowered his head so Fudge could place the Order’s ribbon around his neck. “Thank you, sir. I’m honoured.”

Then he turned to the Wizengamot’s seats and pulled out his notes for his own speech. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! I am very proud to be here today, and to be elevated into the ranks of such a prestigious Order. I will do my utmost to do such an honour justice, and will strive to keep protecting our country against all enemies, both those from within and from abroad.” He resisted the urge to glance at Malfoy, who was waiting for his own award, as he spoke those lines. “However, I feel that on this occasion, we should also honour and remember everyone else who fought Voldemort. Especially those who gave their lives in the battle.” He hadn’t wanted to use such a euphemism for ‘getting brutally killed’, but Sirius and Hermione had teamed up to convince him that he’d do better to follow the usual phrases in the Wizengamot. “They came from all stations of life, muggleborns, half-bloods and purebloods, gathered and led by Albus Dumbledore, united by their courage and determination not to let the Dark Lord enslave our country. I will wear this Order for them as well. I’m no Dumbledore myself, but I will do my best to follow in his footsteps. He had a vision for our country - a Wizarding Britain where everyone who could work magic, regardless of the circumstances of their birth, was treated equally. And I’ll do my best to turn that vision into reality.”

As expected, the applause was a little one-sided. Harry didn’t mind.

*****

An hour and Malfoy’s own award ceremony later, Harry Potter was in the Atrium, trying not to be too obvious about checking the food that was being served for curses and poison.

“We’re now officially colleagues!” Sirius told him. “You being not just an adult, but now also a member of the Wizengamot.”

Harry snorted. “Non-hereditary.” The Old Families wouldn’t introduce any new ones, no matter how brave. Not even Dumbledore had been granted a hereditary seat. “And in three weeks, I’ll be back at Hogwarts for my seventh year. No more politics for me!”

Sirius snorted. “You’re allowed to attend the sessions, you know.”

“Yes. You told me that yourself. But you don’t need me for anything but the most important votes,” Harry said. “I’d rather hex than talk to half the people here,” he added, glaring at the group surrounding Malfoy.

“Consider it training for your future career as an Auror. You’ll have to work with these people.”

Harry clenched his teeth. That was something he wasn’t looking forward to as an Auror. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Off to powder her nose,” Sirius said.

Before Harry could ask if Sirius was joking, he noticed Madam Umbridge walking towards them and barely kept himself from drawing his wand. That witch was among the worst in the Ministry.

She cleared her throat before smiling overly sweetly at them. “Good evening, Mr Potter. Mr Black. I would like to congratulate you.”

“Thank you, Madam Umbridge.” Harry’s smile was as fake as hers. Sirius’s looked more like a snarl.

But the witch wasn’t so easily deterred. “I’ve heard you’re planning to become an Auror after Hogwarts.”

“That’s true.” It wasn’t exactly a secret.

“Aren’t you afraid that the demands of such a career will prevent you from fulfilling your duties as a member of the Wizengamot? The responsibility of such a position cannot be underestimated.”

Harry kept himself from glaring at the witch. “No, I’m not afraid. I’ve had very good teachers.” He nodded at Sirius. “Not just my godfather, but also Dumbledore himself. He did his best to teach me all I need to know.” Not that the Headmaster had spoken much about politics, but she didn’t need to know that.

She was all but glaring at him over her forced smile. “And have they prepared you as an Auror as well? Many who apply are rejected, and more are found wanting during the probationary period.”

Harry laughed, then chuckled at her expression. “Mad-Eye Moody trained me too. I don’t think I’ll have any problems there.”

“I see.” Her smile had almost disappeared now.

Harry couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Did you think I was a mere pawn? Just a child who was acting as Dumbledore’s figurehead? I was trained to face and fight Voldemort, Madam Umbridge.” He pointed to the repaired lift to muggle London. “My best friend and I fought our way through half a dozen Death Eaters there. They didn’t survive.”

To her credit, she didn’t flee right away. “Neither the Wizengamot nor the Ministry are places where you can fight your enemies like that, Mr Potter.”

He snorted. “We fought Voldemort to ensure exactly that, Madam Umbridge. Something I hope my enemies won’t forget.”

As the witch finally retreated, Sirius chuckled. “And you claim that you don’t have a talent for politics!”

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. He was already sick of this - but someone had to stop Malfoy and his cronies from ruining the country. And, as the Boy-Who-Lived, he had both the power and the responsibility to do so.

*****

 


	32. Suspicions

**London, Merton, August 17th, 1997**

Paul Simms wasn’t a violent man, but there were times when he wanted to hit his two best friends. Like today. They were supposed to watch that Japanese sci-fi movie Mark had bought - so bad it was good, Philip had described it - but they were nagging him about his girlfriend instead.

“You know she’s cheating on you with her employer. Classic set-up, man.” Mark shook his head. “You know how she always gets weird when we ask her about him? ‘He’s not that old. He’s just eccentric, but a good employer’,” he tried to imitate Hermione.

Paul clenched his teeth. “She’s not sleeping with her employer.” Hermione wasn’t that kind of girl. He knew her better than that.

“Paul’s right. She’s working as a call girl,” Philip said. “The ’eccentric independently wealthy gentleman’ doesn’t exist. He’s her pimp. That’s why she was so evasive about that club he’s running.”

“What?” Paul stared at him.

“You’re an idiot,” Mark said. “She’s not pretty enough to be an escort!”

“What?” Paul turned to stare at Mark.

“Don’t be fooled. I bet she cleans up really well if she makes an effort - Paul would know,” Philip said with a grin that Paul wanted to wipe from his friend’s face with his fist.

“No. Even if you were right - and I’m not saying you are - she’s too smart for that. She’d rather be the mistress of an old rich guy. Safer, pays more and it’s much more socially acceptable. That’s why her parents are covering for her,” Mark declared.

Philip shook his head. “No. Brainy birds like her work as escorts because they are smart, and so their clients can pass them off as lovers - and take them into respectable hotels.”

“Are you both crazy?” Paul all but yelled. “Hermione’s not like that! And if you continue slandering her, we’ll have words! But with my fists!”

Mark held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, calm down. We’re just taking the mickey!”

Philip nodded. “We’re not serious.”

Paul stared at them for a moment longer, then sat down again. “It’s not funny.” It wasn’t the first time they had crossed lines they shouldn’t in one of their arguments without realising it until afterwards.

He saw his two friends glance at each other. “We’re just curious why Hermione won’t tell us anything about her employer,” Philip said.

Mark nodded. “She doesn’t have to tell us his name, but what about a few stories?”

“After all, working in such a position for a girl her age is pretty remarkable,” Philip added.

“She told us that her employer requires her to be discreet and that she could lose her job if she gossips. We should respect that,” Paul said. Not for the first time. But the more he said it, the emptier it sounded to him.

He shook his head. “Now, let’s watch the movie.”

“You’ll love it!” Mark said. “It’s a classic. They even made an anime prequel!”

“What? We need to watch that first, then,” Philip said.

Mark shook his head. “No, the movie came out first, so it’s fine to watch the prequels later. You’ll see spoilers otherwise!”

“That makes no sense,” Philip retorted. “The prequel is supposed to come first.”

“No, no, that’s not how it’s done. If you start with the prequel, then it’s not a prequel, but the first movie of a series. It’s only a prequel if you make it after its nominal sequel.”

“That still means it should be watched first.” Philip dug in his heels.

“Can we just watch the movie, please?” Paul said. He needed a distraction or he’d keep wondering what Hermione was hiding. And why she didn’t trust him enough to confide in him at least a little.

*****

But hours later, when his friends had left and Paul Simms was lying in his bed, he was still wondering. And worrying. The movie hadn’t been captivating enough to serve as an effective distraction. Not with his two friends arguing over every little detail.

Paul knew that he wasn’t a jealous man. He wasn’t like those insecure men who couldn’t tolerate their girlfriends being friends with another guy. He winced, remembering how bad Philip had been with his first girlfriend.

Paul also wasn’t the sort to suspect his girlfriend of cheating on him just because she didn’t share everything she did with him. It wasn’t as if he reported everything he did with his friends either.

But his friends were correct - if Hermione didn’t have anything to hide she wouldn’t keep everything related to her work a secret. She’d at least trust him with something. And she did find older actors attractive.

He sighed, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. He loved her. She was smart, pretty and witty, and didn’t expect him to pay for everything just because they were sleeping together. He smiled, remembering their nights, then frowned. Despite all that, they couldn’t go on if she didn’t open up to him. He couldn’t stand the doubts. The worrying. The secrets.

He clenched his teeth. He would do it. He would confront her. And she would answer his questions.

*****

**London, Merton, August 29th, 1997**

“Of all the movies we could’ve seen, you had to pick this one,” Hermione Granger said as she sat down in the theatre.

Paul chuckled, though it sounded a little forced to her.

She glanced at him. “Feeling a little guilty for abusing your power?” she said, keeping her tone light - they had a rule that each of them alternately picked the movie for their Friday dates. It avoided arguments over which movie they’d watch. It had worked very well so far, but maybe Paul was trying to change it? He had been a little tense during dinner, too, Hermione recalled.

He shook his head. “No. But maybe a little afraid.” He turned his head towards her. “Of your reaction, not the movie.”

She huffed. “Just wait until next week. I’ll pick the worst movie I can find. Even if we have to travel two hours to a derelict theatre all the way out in zone six.”

He laughed. Whatever he had been about to reply remained unsaid as the lights started to dim and the movie began. Hermione silently sighed. Horror movies weren’t among her favourites, to say the least.

*****

“I didn’t like that movie,” Hermione Granger said as soon as they stepped out of the theatre.

“Were you scared?” Paul asked, as he slipped his arm around her waist. He hadn’t dared do that during the movie.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Please. Scared by special effects and a plot that so badly combined sci-fi and horror?”

“The effects were good,” he retorted. “And the horror elements were well done.”

She snorted. She had faced a vampire, and lived. Some cheesy American movie wouldn’t scare her. Unless they induced a flashback to that horrible moment when she had been at the mercy of that monster. She shuddered as she remembered how the vampire had bared his fangs at her, right before Sirius killed him.

“Seems like you were a little scared,” Paul said.

“I just remembered something scary,” she said.

“Oh?”

“An embarrassing moment from my childhood,” she lied. “Something I don’t like to talk about.”

“Ah.”

She saw him frown for a moment, before he nodded, accepting it. She smiled as they walked towards his flat.

“I bet you chose this address just because it’s so close to the theatre,” she joked as they reached his home.

He laughed. “Leaves more time after the date, if we don’t have to travel far.”

She grinned. “You have to make up for wasting two hours of my life.”

She expected him to smile and say he’d do his best, as he usually did, but he simply nodded and held open the door for her.

She held her tongue until they were inside his flat - which was a little hard, after staying quiet for an entire stupid and disgusting movie - but as soon as he closed the door behind them, she spoke. “What’s troubling you? You’ve been acting unlike yourself for the entire evening.” When she saw him flinch, she feared the worst.

“We need to talk. Let’s sit down.”

That sounded like he was breaking up with her. She pressed her lips together and nodded. Neither of them said anything as they went to sit down - she on the couch, he in the matching seat, facing her. She tensed up even more.

“So.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve been together for over half a year now. I like you very much. I love you”, he added. “Don’t you think I’ve earned some trust?”

She clenched her teeth. “I assume this is about my job.”

He nodded. Stiffly. “Yes.” He held up his hand to stop her and continued: “I know that you can’t reveal your employer’s secrets. I understand that. But I can’t understand why you won’t even tell me your employer’s name. Or what he does.”

She drew a hissing breath. “I’ve told you before that he requires me to be very discreet.”

“But your parents have met him.”

“Yes.” She knew where this was going.

“So why can’t I even know his name?” He shook his head. “Don’t you trust me at all?”

“It’s not my decision,” she said.

“Rubbish!” he retorted, leaning forward. She noticed his hands gripping his knees rather tightly. “You make it sound as if he dictates your entire life. And I know that you’re not the kind of girl to let anyone dictate her life!”

He was correct, of course - but also wrong. It was illegal to tell him about magic. And while Hermione didn’t have the greatest respect for the law, to say the least, she wasn’t about to casually break any law related to upholding the Statue of Secrecy. That was akin to committing high treason, as far as the wizarding world was concerned. A much more serious crime than mere murder.

She could understand that Paul was fed up with being kept in the dark - Hermione certainly wouldn’t have tolerated that herself. But as much as she liked him - despite his recent antics - she wasn’t certain if she liked him enough to involve him, even peripherally, in that part of her life. She didn’t love him. Not as she wanted to love a partner. But she liked being with him. And he deserved better than her breaking up with him over this. Not to mention that he might start rumours.

“I’ll arrange a meeting with my employer.”

If coached extensively, even the dog should manage not to mess up too badly. At least she hoped so. There was always Obliviate, if things went wrong. And she could hex the dog.

Paul smiled, as did she, but things were still tense enough that she went home instead of staying the night.

*****

**Oxfordshire, Bones Manor, August 30th, 1997**

When Harry Potter arrived at her home, Madam Bones was waiting for him in the entrance hall of her manor. “Welcome, Mr Potter.”

“Hello, Madam Bones.” He had a feeling that asking her to call him ‘Harry’ wouldn’t go over well. He looked around - they were alone.

“Susan’s not expected for another hour.” There was a hint of a smile; she probably had noticed that he was relieved. “If you’ll follow me to the living room?” She gestured to the open door to her left.

He nodded and followed her. “You have a nice home,” he remarked as they passed through a hallway lined with portraits and a few tasteful pieces of art complementing the interior.

“It’s been the family home for centuries,” she said. “Not unlike your own home, I presume.”

He could point out that the Potters hadn’t been an Old Family, and that their home had been destroyed by Voldemort, but she was correct that now Grimmauld Place was his home. “Yes.”

The living room, too, was arranged perfectly, with the furniture matching the room’s walls and paintings. If not for the stack of newspapers and books on the side table, and the row of knick-knacks and photographs on a shelf, he would have wondered if the Boneses actually used the room for anything other than receiving guests.

He had barely sat down on the couch when Madam Bones spoke. “You said that you want to join the Auror Corps after you finish Hogwarts, Mr Potter.”

She looked at him as if he were a suspect, Harry thought. “Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded.

“Why?”

“Why do I want to become an Auror?” She nodded. Curtly. “Because I want to help make Wizarding Britain a better place,” he said.

“Do you think it’s a bad country?” A house-elf served them tea, but Madam Bones didn’t even glance at the creature. All her attention seemed focused on Harry.

He cleared his throat. “It could be better. Voldemort had far too many supporters. And we didn’t get all of them.”

“‘We’?” She took a sip of her tea without taking her eyes off him. No wonder she had managed to impress even Moody as an Auror, Harry thought.

“The Order and everyone else who fought the Death Eaters.” Harry wanted to take one of the scones, but that would mean either breaking eye contact or else risking fumbling about for it.

“Dumbledore founded his Order because he believed that the Ministry couldn’t defeat the Dark Lord. Whether he was correct or whether he would have done better to support the legitimate forces of the government is a question that may never be answered. You’ve alluded in some of your conversations that you might be considered his heir.”

It seemed that Madam Umbridge had been telling tales. He frowned. “I mentioned that I was personally trained by the Headmaster, although that’s no secret. I never claimed to be his heir.”

“Dumbledore apparently spoke very highly of your talents.”

Should he act modest or try to use this? He couldn’t read her expression. So he shrugged. “He said I was quick to master Occlumency, but he might just have been reassuring me so I wouldn’t lose my nerve.”

“You mastered Occlumency?” She sounded surprised.

Harry inclined his head. “According to Dumbledore.”

He saw her narrow her eyes, as if she doubted him. “That’s a rather bold claim. Very few adult wizards ever master that skill. And why would Dumbledore have trained you in it?”

He didn’t think mentioning his connection to the Dark Lord would be a good idea. “Voldemort was a master Legilimens. We couldn’t risk me giving the plan to defeat him away with a careless glance.”

“Are you a Legilimens as well?”

He shook his head. “There was no time to learn that. And it wasn’t needed either.” The visions he’d had of the Dark Lord had been enough. Fortunately.

“There are alternatives to Occlumency if you want to protect your mind.” Bones still sounded doubtful.

“Dumbledore didn’t think that they were enough. Not against Voldemort.”

“When exactly did he start training you?”

“In my fifth year.” Harry suppressed the urge to shrug.

“I see. And how long had Dumbledore known that the Dark Lord hadn’t died?”

“Known?” Harry shook his head “I didn’t ask. But he must have suspected right after Halloween 1981.”

“I see.” Now she was frowning again. “And will you follow in his footsteps? Waging your own private war against Malfoy while paying lip service to the law?”

“I intend to ensure that the law’s enforced equally, on everyone,” he said.

“Do you think this is not the case now?” She was glaring at him.

He didn’t flinch. “No.”

“I assume that you are talking about your muggleborn friend’s conviction.”

“She was framed. And instead of exonerating her, she was pardoned.” He almost spat the words out. “Expediency before justice. And those who falsely accused her escaped justice yet again.”

“So did those who dosed Draco Malfoy with Veritaserum.”

He shrugged. “As his victim, I am too biased to comment on that investigation. And of those who might have taken illegal actions on my behalf, both Dumbledore and Snape are dead.”

“According to what I’ve heard, Snape would have been more likely to poison you than help you.” Her lips showed a faint, cynical smirk.

“He died fighting the Dark Lord at my side. That should tell you enough about his true loyalties.” The thought that praising Snape like that was a means to deflect suspicion away from Harry and his friends let him speak without grimacing.

She shook her head slightly. “If you want to become an Auror, you’ll have to follow and enforce the law. I won’t tolerate anyone, not even the ‘Vanquisher of Voldemort’, pursuing a personal vendetta.”

He nodded. Curtly. “I’ve seen what corruption leads to. We almost lost the war against Voldemort because of it. I won’t be party to such actions.” He took a sip from his now lukewarm tea.

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr Potter.”

Contrary to his expectations, Harry was relieved when Susan arrived early and the interrogation ended.

*****

**London, King’s Cross Station, September 1st, 1997**

“Enjoy your last year at Hogwarts! Have fun!” Sirius winked at Harry Potter, then hugged him, hard, and whispered: “It’s your last year of freedom!”

“Bon voyage, ‘Arry!” Jeanne smiled and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Don’t wait until the last moment with revising for your N.E.W.T.s!” Hermione said, but she was smiling. And, after a moment, she hugged him.

Harry Potter didn’t want to let her go. “You should be on the train with me,” he whispered, his face hidden in her hair.

“We’ve been over this, Harry,” she whispered back, and he knew she was pursing her lips.

“I know,” he said, then released her. “Keep Sirius in line, will you?”

Hermione and Jeanne nodded while Harry’s godfather acted as if he was hurt.

Then Harry got on the Hogwarts Express and found himself a compartment. And locked the door with a few spells before settling down with his copied Auror’s Handbook. He didn’t expect Ron, Luna and Ginny to arrive until a quarter to eleven at the earliest.

And he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, anyway.

*****

“Hi, Harry!”

“Hello!”

“Hi, Ron. Luna.” Harry Potter nodded at his two friends as they entered the compartment. He grinned - as expected, less than ten minutes remained until the Express’s scheduled departure. And, judging by how close to each other the two were sitting down - Luna was all but crawling into Ron’s lap - it was obvious that they had had a much better month than he had. “Where’s Ginny?” he asked, once he realised that Ron’s sister hadn’t arrived with them.

“She’s sitting with her roommates,” Ron replied.

“She said she didn’t want to watch us snog each other for the entire trip,” Luna added. She leaned into Ron’s side, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“Ah.” Harry didn’t want to watch them snog either. Not after watching Sirius and Jeanne flirt and kiss at home, and knowing that Hermione spent every Friday night with Paul the Boyfriend.

“Yeah.” Ron shrugged. “She’ll come around. She wasn’t happy that she was basically alone with Mum and Dad until we returned yesterday.”

“And she doesn’t have a boyfriend, so she feels left out,” Luna added.

“Did you find a Niffler ghost?” Harry tried to change the subject.

“Well, we did find the perfect bait - a very greedy muggle, an ‘investment banker’ - but, unfortunately, the Niffler ghosts were smarter than expected,” Luna said. “They avoided all of our traps.”

A muggle investment banker? Traps? “What did you do?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“We found a whole building full of ‘investment bankers’, in the middle of New York!” Luna said, beaming. Then she pouted. “We had some trouble getting inside, though.”

“Yeah. The muggles didn’t want any visitors.” Ron shook his head. “But we managed to get inside anyway. With a little magic, it was easy.”

“And we prepared traps for the ghosts, but we didn’t catch any,” Luna told him.

“Maybe there weren’t any ghosts?” Harry said. “They might not like muggles.”

“There were ghosts!” Luna said, nodding emphatically. “The traps kept getting triggered. And even the muggles knew that there were ghosts!”

“Yeah. They wrote in the muggle newspaper about the ghosts haunting the place,” Ron said. “They called it ‘The Haunted Bank’.”

“Exactly! But what they described weren’t normal ghosts - instead of a cold feeling, the muggles described getting ‘zapped’, whatever that means,” Luna explained. “And they noticed that their things were moved during the night - something normal ghosts can’t do either.”

Harry had a suspicion about the ‘ghosts’. “How exactly do you trap a ghost?” He hadn’t heard about anything like that in Care of Magical Creatures.

”Well, normally, you’d need a necromantic ritual to do that,” Luna said.

“Which is illegal and something we’d never do,” Ron cut in.

“Yes.” Luna nodded. “But, since Nifflers aren’t like normal ghosts, and are attracted to greed, Daddy found a way to trap them using a magical version of what muggles call ‘aversion therapy’.

“I see,” Harry said. “With electricity?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a chance that the muggles could have triggered those traps?” Harry asked.

“Not unless Daddy made a mistake with the spell,” Luna said with an expression that clearly stated this wasn’t the case.

And Ron was nodding, which either meant he agreed with his girlfriend or simply wanted Harry to stop questioning Luna - faulty spells were a very touchy subject for her after her mother had died when an experimental spell went awry.

Harry nodded.

“So, what did you do while we were in the New World?”

Harry sighed. “Dealing with politics.” And feeling like a fifth wheel at home, he added silently.

“Ah.” Ron winced. “Percy bothering you to endorse his proposals? He mentioned something before we left.”

Harry chuckled, though he wasn’t amused. “No, it’s not that. I don’t mind helping your family and Sirius. But all the others, who either act as if they were my best friends, or else try to trap me...”

“Trap you?” Luna asked, her eyes wide.

“Make me lose my temper, say something that they can twist around to accuse me…” He scoffed. “It’s like dealing with Slytherins when Snape’s lurking around the corner.” He winced. “Was lurking around the corner, I mean...”

Luna nodded. “Yes. He can’t do that any more since he’s dead.”

“And Slughorn doesn’t tolerate that,” Ron added with a grin.

Harry scoffed again. “Slughorn’s an opportunist. If Malfoy were controlling the Ministry, he’d let Draco do as he pleased.”

“Still better than Snape ever was,” Ron said.

Harry didn’t disagree with that. He noticed that Luna was frowning, though. “Luna?”

She looked startled, then shook her head, “It’s nothing.” With a bright smile, she asked: “So, did you visit the Boneses?”

Harry winced. “I did,” he said. “Madam Bones was very impressive.” He’d call her scary, but compared to Voldemort, Susan’s aunt wasn’t anywhere near as terrifying. “She told me a lot about working as an Auror.”

“Oh?” Ron perked up. “Share!”

Harry sighed. “Well, I didn’t get to ask many questions - she was grilling me about Dumbledore and the Order, and my plans as an Auror.” He shook his head. “It was more an interrogation. Or a lecture.”

“Really?” Ron looked as if he couldn’t believe him.

Harry shrugged. “She didn’t like it when I implied that the Ministry wasn’t perfect.”

“It should have been obvious that the Ministry wasn’t perfect when the appalling lack of any defences against Nargles was revealed!” Luna chimed in.

“Yes.” Ron smiled at her. “But they fixed that.”

She nodded happily and leaned her head against his shoulder. Harry tried not to think of how Romilda had done that too. “Anyway,” he said, “while I didn’t get to ask questions, I did find out that she’ll be keeping an eye on us, to see if we’re ‘conducting a personal vendetta instead of enforcing the law equally’.”

“I thought she wasn’t in Malfoy’s camp.” Ron sounded concerned.

“She isn’t. But as far as I can tell, she really hated that Dumbledore didn’t work with the Ministry when he fought Voldemort.” Or for the Ministry. Harry snorted.

Ron scoffed. “That would have been a disaster. Dad and Percy told me all about how the Ministry was riddled with spies. Might as well have told Voldemort all our plans directly.”

“Maybe she wanted to use that to fool the Dark Lord?” Luna asked.

Harry doubted that. “Doesn’t sound like her style. I think she’s projecting her anger at the Ministry’s deficiencies on to Dumbledore,” he said.

“Or she’s simply too proud to admit her mistakes.” Ron shrugged, then apologised to Luna for almost dislodging her head in the process. “Sorry!”

“It’s OK,” she answered, smiling sweetly at him.

Harry cleared his throat when he saw Ron raise his hand to cup Luna’s chin. “Anyway, that’s the gist of it.”

“Did you talk about Hermione’s conviction?” Ron asked.

“I mentioned that she was framed. She didn’t comment on that, but I think she might suspect that we dosed Malfoy with Veritaserum.”

Ron winced. “That’s not good.”

“I mentioned that Dumbledore and Snape both had the means and motive to do it.“ Harry shrugged. “Anyway, Sirius and Tonks were correct: Bones wants everything done by the book.”

“But what if the book’s wrong?” Luna asked.

“Well, Sirius and Percy and Ron’s dad are supposed to correct the books,” Harry answered. He hoped that would be enough.

“We’re still going to be Aurors, right?” Ron asked.

“Of course.” This was too important to let an unpleasant boss scare him off. He’d had Snape as a teacher for almost six years anyway, so he knew how to handle worse.

A knock at the door interrupted whatever Luna was going to say next. “Harry?”

That was Susan Bones’s voice. Harry winced again.

“Yes?” he replied.

A moment later, Susan opened the door and stuck her head inside. “There you are!” she said, beaming at him before she stepped inside. “I’ve been looking for you all over the entire train.”

“Ah,” Harry nodded as Hannah followed Susan into the compartment. “Hello, everyone.”

“Hi!” Luna said, beaming at the two witches. “Did you have a nice summer?”

Susan blinked, then nodded. “Yes. We went to Ireland for two weeks, visiting a distant relative of ours, then Hannah and I went to her parents’ cottage on the coast for another two weeks.”

Hanna nodded. “It was great! We visited the muggle beach too - there were so many people, I thought they would have to take shifts to go into the water!”

The two Huffelpuffs, prompted by Luna and Ron, went into a detailed tale of their adventures with the muggles. Harry listened, more amused than he had expected. It all sounded so… he wasn’t sure. Naive? Innocent?

“...and then we had some muggle ice cream.” Hannah made a face. “Fortescue’s is so much better!”

“But it was hot, so we ate it anyway,” Susan chimed in. “It was still a fun excursion.”

“We went on an expedition to the New World,” Luna said. “We hunted Niffler ghosts!” And she proceeded to recount everything she and Ron had done in great, but not very structured, detail. Susan’s smile started to look slightly strained after a few minutes, Harry noticed.

Unlike their two visitors, he had heard the story already, so he had no trouble following the narrative, as Hermione would say. He wondered if the Hufflepuffs’ obvious ignorance of muggle America made it easier or more difficult for them to understand what Luna and Ron had done.

“...and we came back right on time to return to Hogwarts, although if the muggle aeroplane had been even later, then we might have had to go straight to the station from the airport,” Luna finished her tale, her hands still showing how the plane had circled before landing.

“That’s nice,” Susan said. “I still wouldn’t fly in those muggle aeroplanes.” She shuddered. “I’d be too afraid.”

“They’re safer than cars,” Harry said.

“Really?” Hannah stared at him.

Susan, though, smiled. “You’d know, Harry. You grew up in a muggle family, didn’t you?”

“Until I moved in with Sirius,” Harry said.

“Why did you leave your family?” Susan asked.

“They were afraid of magic,” Harry said. And they hated magic, too, which had started to extend towards him, but he didn’t say that.

“Oh.” Susan looked as if she couldn’t imagine that.

Harry shrugged. “We’re both happier now. Sirius is great.”

“Will you be holding your next birthday party at your home?” Hannah asked. “The party at The Burrow was great, but we were curious about your home.”

“I don’t know,” Harry lied. “The Burrow has more space - my home’s in the middle of London. We couldn’t play Quidditch there, either, even if we had the room.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” Susan said. “I thought the Blacks had a manor like we do.”

“The had several,” Harry said. “But they lost them all over time. The last one was destroyed in a family dispute over who should inherit it, back in the eighteenth century. After that, they stuck with this house. At least that’s the official story.”

“Ah.” Both girls nodded - apparently, the Blacks’ reputation made that easy to believe.

“Oh, I wanted to apologise once again for my aunt, Harry,” Susan said after a moment. “To make it up to you, I would like to invite you to my home.” She beamed at him.

Of course she would, Harry thought. Before he could think of a way to politely refuse the invitation, Luna cut in: “Oh! Are you planning to sneak out of Hogwarts together? Since, you know, we won’t be allowed to leave for months, and you don’t live in Hogsmeade.”

“What? No, no. I meant during the holidays.” Susan shook her head.

She was actually blushing slightly, Harry noticed with a sinking feeling. Yes, she still had a crush on him. She was nice, he had to admit. And friendly. And pretty.

But he had no intention of dating the niece of his future boss. That wouldn’t end well.

*****

**London, Merton, September 2nd, 1997**

“Remember: don’t mention magic!” Hermione Granger said in a low voice as she and Sirius walked towards the café in which they were meeting Paul.

“I know,” Sirius replied, in that too familiar tone that meant he was humouring her.

She clenched her teeth and glared at the dog, but he wasn’t looking at her. “Don’t hint at it, either. Don’t joke about our relationship.”

“We have a relationship? Oh, my!” Now he was looking at her, with that grin of his.

She refrained from hexing the dog. They were in public, and he wouldn’t learn his lesson anyway. After taking a deep breath, she reiterated: “Just be a muggle.”

“An eccentric, rich and handsome muggle, please!” He grinned at her.

She should have never told him how she had described him to Paul. “Just not too eccentric. Please,” she added through her teeth.

“I still think we should have taken Jeanne with us; me having a hot fiancée would show him that I’m not sleeping with you,” Sirius said as they reached the crossing.

Hermione shook her head. “Paul’s been to France. He’d ask her where she’s from, and Jeanne doesn’t know enough about muggle France to fool him. The goal of this meeting is to make Paul less suspicious of us, not more,” she said with a toothy smile. The dog just wanted to show off Jeanne.

“There are a few spells that would easily resolve that issue,” Sirius remarked.

“No,” she spat. “I won’t do that to him.” That would be as bad as using a love potion on him. She was better than that. And his friends would suspect something, anyway.

“So, Sirius the eccentric, handsome and rich muggle gentleman will have to save the day!” He beamed at her. “Don’t worry; I’ve read up on muggle gentlemen. Paul won’t suspect a thing!”

“You’ve read up on muggle gentlemen?” She blinked. She hadn’t seen him reading any muggle books. Not even newspapers. “What did you… No.” He couldn’t have.

He nodded happily. “I told you I was reading them for the articles.”

He had! “We need to reschedule this meeting!” Hermione said, paling. “I’ll make up an excuse. An accident.” She could even take pictures of the hurt dog.

“Hermione! There you are!”

That was Paul’s voice! Hermione froze.

Sirius didn’t. His face lit up with a wide smile, and he had reached Paul before she could react. “Hello! So, you’re the fine lad who nabbed this bird, huh?”

“And you’re Sirius Black! The man who spent ten years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit!” Paul exclaimed with wide eyes.

*****

“You know, I now perfectly understand why you didn’t want to tell me about your work,” Paul said an hour, and a dozen moments when Hermione Granger had been about to hex the dog and damn the consequences, later. “Sirius Black! The man framed for mass murder, then imprisoned for ten years until he broke out and managed to clear his name! It’s straight out of a movie! The media would be hounding him if they had even a hint about his new life.” After a moment he added: “And he is still stuck in the seventies.”

She looked at him with her best long-suffering expression.

He nodded. “You know, for a while, I thought he was acting. That this was an elaborate prank.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you!” she blurted out.

“I know, I know.” He shook his head. “It was just a thought when he told me that I was a nice man for dating ‘a seven’.”

Hermione nodded. The dog would pay for that remark.

“But when he tipped the waitress a hundred pounds, I realised that he was serious.”

She glared at him. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that stupid pun?”

“I can imagine.” He sighed. “I’m sorry for, you know, my attitude. I thought you were lying to me.”

“It’s OK,” she lied. If only he knew how right he was...

“But you know what this means?”

She frowned. “No?”

He grinned widely. “We must watch Austin Powers this Friday!”

*****

**Hogwarts, September 12th, 1997**

Harry Potter stopped and tapped his glasses, activating their enchantment, when he heard voices from the corridor around the corner. Voldemort was dead, the Death Eaters were hiding and no one had been following him - or should be expecting him here - but that didn’t mean he should be careless; Moody might not have been joking when he had told Ron and Harry that he would be checking if they were slacking off.

It was Parkinson’s clique, probably coming back from the library. He grinned. They were no threat. Quite the contrary. He deactivated the enchantment and turned the corner.

Parkinson was talking but stopped when she saw him. She stopped walking, too. Greengrass took a step to the side as if trying to hide behind Bulstrode. The others tensed up and stared at him.

Harry shook his head. “Is something wrong?”

Parkinson spat: “What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through,” Harry said, with a grin. “Did I scare you? If so, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to.”

She glared at him. “Off to a rendezvous? What would your muggleborn lover say if she knew you were cheating on her?”

“She would wonder who would be so stupid as to believe such baseless rumours,” he answered, a little sharper than he wanted - he was sick of that rumour. “But only for a moment - then she’d realise it would have to be you and your friends.”

She huffed. “First you threaten us, now you insult us? Do you think you’re above the law?”

Had such a rumour been the reason for Bones’s interrogation? He shook his head. “No one’s above the law. Least of all you.” He nodded at her and walked past them. He had some research to do in the library for his essay.

But when he entered the library a few minutes later, he ran straight into Susan and Hannah; he should have checked first with his glasses.

“Harry!” Her face seemed to light up as she saw him.

“Hi, Susan. Hannah.” He nodded at the two witches.

“Are you here to work on Slughorn’s essay?” Susan asked.

For a moment, he considered lying. Then he nodded. “Yes, actually.”

“That’s why we’re here, too!” She beamed at him. “Want to work together?”

“Sure,” he lied.

*****

“We finished our essays!” Susan cheered as soon as Harry Potter and the two Hufflepuffs had left the library and the looming presence of Madam Pince, who was even more protective of her library than Hermione was of hers - that technically neither the Hogwarts library nor the Black Family library belonged to either of them didn’t change that.

“You were a great help,” Hannah added, smiling. “You’re good at Potions.”

“Of course he is,” Susan said. “He’s studying to become an Auror, and they need to have a N.E.W.T. in Potions.”

Harry nodded. “Even though that’s a relic from the time when Aurors were expected to brew their own potions.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that. Maybe I should ask a few questions of my own to Auntie Amelia.” Susan giggled.

“I thought you didn’t want to become an Auror,” Hannah said.

“I don’t.” Susan shook her head. “But I can’t look bad when Harry visits, can I?” She giggled.

Harry felt like wincing. “Speaking of that, Susan - I’d like to talk to you, privately,” he added with a glance towards Hannah.

“Oh.” Hannah blinked, then nodded. “Of course. I’ll go back to the dorm.” She smiled at Susan and left.

He saw Susan bite her lower lip as she watched Hannah go, but she smiled at him when she turned back to him.

Watching her hopeful but nervous expression almost hurt. He took a deep breath. “I’ve noticed that you seem to like me,” Harry started.

She swallowed, then nodded. “Yes. I mean, yes, I like you. I was rather obvious, wasn’t I?”

He nodded. “A little.” He took another deep breath. Stalling. “The thing is,” he started to say, “you’re a very nice girl.”

Her face fell and she interrupted him. “But you already have a girlfriend, right? You’re with Hermione; the rumour’s true.”

“What? No,” he said. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“But…” She trailed off and bit her lower lip.

“But I don’t think it would work out between us,” he said.

“Why?” She wasn’t crying. Yet.

“Because your aunt is the Head of the DMLE.”

“What?” She gaped at him. “Did she threaten you?”

“No, no. She didn’t say anything about you,” he said quickly, then winced when he considered how that sounded. “But I’m going to be an Auror, and having a relationship with my boss’s niece would be… problematic. People would accuse me of profiting from the relationship.”

She blinked, and he thought he saw traces of tears in her eyes. “I didn’t think of that. But… we’ve only just started our last year.”

He nodded. “Yes. But I’m thinking of the future.” That had sounded less lame when he had been thinking of what to say.

“I understand,” she told him.

He stared at her for a moment, unsure what else to say, and nodded.

She swallowed again. “Hannah’s waiting for me.”

“Alright,” he said.

But it wasn’t.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 17th, 1997**

“...and it is exactly because the Dark Lord perverted and abused our traditions that we need to strengthen them. We cannot abandon our heritage because of the actions of one madman and his followers.”

Sitting behind Sirius in the Wizengamot Chamber, Hermione Granger kept her expression neutral as Malfoy went on at length about the need to emphasise pureblood traditions. She glanced at Umbridge. As expected, the witch was gloating. Umbridge had resubmitted her proposal to test new employees on their knowledge of pureblood traditions - ‘adjusted to take their blood status into account’. Which meant that the examiners would be given a lot of leeway. Leeway Hermione had no doubt Umbridge would see used to fail whoever she wanted.

If the proposal were to pass. Which it wouldn’t. Malfoy might be nigh-untouchable in the Wizengamot after his ‘brave and heroic’ actions against Voldemort, but that didn’t extend to his views. Fortunately.

As soon as Malfoy had finished, Sirius rose. He cleared his throat. “My esteemed colleague Mr Malfoy talks about how Voldemort abused our traditions - and yet he proposes to do the very thing he condemns: Abusing our traditions to push an agenda of pureblood bigotry. He talks a lot about how important it is that the wizards and witches of our fair country know our heritage - but Madam Umbridge’s proposal isn’t about actually teaching our children our traditions. He says nothing about a new course at Hogwarts. Nothing about textbooks, either. It doesn’t even cover testing standards.”

Hermione saw a number of Wizengamot members reread the proposal. Or, as she suspected, read it for the first time. Umbridge wasn’t smiling any more, she noted.

“So, essentially, this proposal would have the Ministry test new employees on their knowledge of our traditions, without either defining what they need to know beforehand, nor how they could learn it.” He sneered. “It’s a blatant attempt at discrimination!”

Some members nodded in agreement, Hermione saw. Many didn’t react, though. Sirius continued: “Now, some of you might not care about the muggleborns being barred from employment in the Ministry. However, as I pointed out, this proposal is worded so that whoever is conducting those tests can fail a candidate at will.” He bared his teeth. “So ask yourself: Do you trust that your relatives, your children, will be treated fairly? That your rivals and enemies will not influence the examiner? I would wager that whoever controls this exam will become very wealthy in short order.”

Hermione noted many glances being directed at Umbridge, who looked livid.

Hermione hid her smile behind her notes.

*****

**Hogsmeade, November 29th, 1997**

Harry Potter was skimming through the latest Quidditch Weekly in Spintwitches when he noticed a Hufflepuff witch walking towards him. He didn’t know her name, but he had seen her at Hogwarts before. She had to be a sixth year - she had been talking with Ginny about Defence once, he remembered. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be a threat, of course. Polyjuice Potion, the Imperius Curse, or simply a relative killed while fighting for Voldemort… He put the magazine back - he could read the article about the Harpies later - and drew his wand, covering up the action by casting a cleaning charm on his robes.

“Hi, Harry!”

“Hi.” He inclined his head. “You’re in sixth year, aren’t you?”

She nodded, smiling widely. “Yes. We met when you were helping Ginny.”

“Ah.” He nodded - that had been shortly before their break-up. He hadn’t thought much about that time. Or about Ginny. But he could. Easily. “Daria, right?”

“You remembered!”

He smiled and nodded. Occlumency didn’t grant an eidetic memory, but it made remembering something easier. Knowing your mind included your memories, after all. When he saw her put her hands behind her back, he tensed. He ran his left hand through his hair and used the gesture to subtly activate his glasses’ enchantment. She wasn’t drawing her wand behind her back.

“So…” She cocked her head to the side. “I’ve noticed you’re not here in Hogsmeade with anyone.”

He nodded. Ron and Luna were on a date. They hadn’t called it that, but Harry knew when he would be the fifth wheel. And Hermione was with Paul the Boyfriend. In London.

Daria brushed her long brown hair - darker than Hermione’s mane - back behind her right ear, and he glanced at her left hand, just in case that was a distraction. “You know, there’s a rumour that you’re dating your muggleborn friend. But Hannah said that that wasn’t true.”

His smile grew a little more polite and a little less friendly. “We aren’t dating, no.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

He blinked at the question. That was far more direct than he had expected. Or experienced. “I’m currently single,” he answered. And he saw her smile widen.

“Hannah said you turned down Susan because you were thinking of your future.”

Apparently, Hannah had been saying a lot of things about him. He didn’t say that but nodded again. “Yes. It wouldn’t have worked long-term between us.”

“Well, I’m not looking for anything long-term, just so you know.” She lowered her head just a little, and looked up at him as she spoke, smiling.

She was pretty, he thought. She looked in good shape too. He almost focused his glasses on her robes, to check, but refrained from doing so. And had she just proposed what he thought she had? Sirius had mentioned this, he remembered. “So, you’re just looking for some fun without commitment?” Harry quoted his godfather.

She nodded, and he saw her tongue quickly wet her lips. “Nothing long-term.”

“Ah.” He slowly nodded. That sounded… quite attractive, actually. No baggage. No regrets. He nodded more firmly and put on his best smile. “Shall we head to the Three Broomsticks? My treat.”

Her arm was around his as soon as he offered it, and by the time they reached the pub, he had remembered to ask her family name as well. Abbott - but unlike Hannah, not a member of the main branch of the family. But it would explain why Hannah had been so talkative.

An hour later, they were snogging in a side alley.

*****

**Hogwarts, November 29th, 1997**

Harry Potter used his glasses to check out the room Daria had described - apparently, it used to be the club room of the Hogwarts Horse Association, which had been dissolved a few decades ago. He didn’t spot an ambush, nor any traps. Just Daria, on a bed in the middle of the room. Wearing a rather skimpy piece of lingerie. So skimpy, even his glasses’ enchantment wouldn’t do much if used on her.

He still checked for curses and poison with spells before actually entering, although he almost forgot - Daria was even more attractive without her robes. And the way her face lit up when he stepped inside the room… “Hey!”

“You came!” She sounded a little surprised. And very delighted.

“Of course.” He was briefly at a loss for what to do. Should he strip down as well? He couldn’t ask her, of course. He sat down on the bed, next to her. “I didn’t know there was anywhere like this in Hogwarts,” he said.

“It’s mostly been used by the Hufflepuffs. We leave the cupboards to the Gryffindors,” she said, grinning. “You probably like the thrill of risking getting caught by the teachers or prefects.”

“Some probably do,” he said.

“You don’t?” she asked as she sat up and slid over, straddling his lap.

“I’ve faced Voldemort,” he said, and felt her shudder at the name, “That was dangerous enough.” That had sounded better in his head, too.

But Daria seemed to like it. Love it, even, judging by how she snogged him. If not for his training by Moody, he wouldn’t have noticed how she stripped him at the same time. For a moment, he wondered if this was an elaborate trap. He had mentioned to Ron that he was meeting her, and where. But he hadn’t asked Ron to keep an eye on him - that would have been, well, not something he could ask of his friend. Or should. Would this be the first time he’d actually have to use his training in grappling?

But then she pulled off her skimpy top and Harry stopped worrying. And talking. For hours.

*****

**Hogwarts, December 13th, 1997**

‘No commitment’ sounded much better in theory than in practice, Harry Potter thought when he saw Daria enter a carriage to Hogsmeade arm in arm with some sixth-year Ravenclaw boy. He knew what she had said, what they had agreed upon. Just some fun. And it had been fun. Loads. They hadn’t just stuck to the room, either - he had invited her to a cupboard the next day, just to prove a point. The room was more comfortable, though. And more fun. Oh, the memories.

But he wanted more than just some fun. And he very much didn’t want to see his… she wasn’t his girlfriend. His lover? He very much didn’t want to see Daria with another boy. Why would she, even, when she had Harry? He hadn’t disappointed her, either, or they wouldn’t have done it so often.

And Daria had said that she was looking forward to doing it again. Harry wasn’t. Not just, at least. He wanted to do it again with her. But not if it only meant seeing her with someone else later.

He knew what Sirius would tell him: to just enjoy it. Or her. To not expect more than what had been agreed. And Harry tried to heed that advice.

But he couldn’t. He was just too jealous. Hermione would say that his ego couldn’t handle it. She would be right.

But that didn’t change anything.

*****

**Rye, East Sussex, Britain, April 2nd, 1998**

“Let’s do this ‘heist’ before we fall asleep. Harry’s coming back from Hogwarts the day after tomorrow, and if we keep doing nothing, we’ll still be here then.”

Behind her mask, Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at the dog’s whining. Just because this wasn’t an Old Family’s manor but an old smuggler cottage was no reason not to take it seriously. Mr Fletcher didn’t pick easy targets for these ‘exercises’. The cottage looked rather unimpressive, but it had been a wizard’s home for centuries, dating back to Rye’s heyday as a smuggler’s port. The wards she had spotted were old, powerful. Not on a manor’s level, but strong all the same.

And yet they wouldn’t serve the owner at all.

“Chéri, focus.” Jeanne was on the ball, though. Hermione had no doubt that once they were married in the summer, the French witch would keep a tight leash on her husband. She blinked - that would make a nice wedding gift! She still owed the dog more payback for the ‘seven’ comment! She was certainly no seven! No cat was a seven!

“Stop complaining and start moving,” Mr Fletcher said. “Show me what you’ve got.”

The dog perked up. “Oh?”

Hermione hissed. “If you make a joke about this, I’ll hex you.”

“You’d have to manage to hit me, first,” he retorted.

Oh, she’d show him. After this. “Shut up and follow my lead!” she said instead and changed. A second later, a graceful brown cat was dashing across the field surrounding the cottage, chased by a clumsy dog barking as loudly as he could.

They raced around the cottage, avoiding the wards, Hermione always staying ahead of her pursuer. No one came out to deal with them. She changed back as soon as they returned to their hiding spot. “Looks deserted.” As expected.

“Cadbury was caught working for Voldemort. He won’t be back,” Mr Fletcher said. “Good to test that, though.”

Hermione nodded. That left the wards. Which, while impressive, hadn’t been maintained as well as they should have been. She had spotted a few weaknesses already. “This shouldn’t take too long,” she said, drawing her wand.

*****

An hour later, Hermione Granger finished breaching the wards. “Done,” she announced. “We can enter on this side, through any of those windows.”

“I thought you said it wouldn’t take long,” the dog complained again. “That took hours!”

“One hour,” she corrected him, more than a little annoyed - the wards had taken longer than she had expected, but not too long. “And that’s a good time for old wards like these.”

He scoffed. As if he would have managed to go through them!

“Let’s go, then!” Jeanne said. She sounded a little too eager in Hermione’s opinion. But she was right - they didn’t have all night.

And with the wards dealt with, and the owner away, all that was left was the searching for the loot.

She grinned with anticipation.

*****

**London, Merton, April 26th, 1998**

“Are you hurt?”

Hermione Granger flinched when she heard Paul’s question. She wasn’t hurt - her ribs had been healed after the dog had gotten lucky with a Bludgeoning Curse during training. But she was a little sore anyway. Right where Paul liked to rest his hand when they were walking arm in arm. Which they hadn’t been since they had left the theatre. “No. Just a little sore. I was at the gym yesterday and sprained a muscle.”

“On your side?”

“It happens,” she answered. It was possible, at least.

“You might be overdoing your training. I’ve noticed that you’ve been sore a lot lately.”

She winced. Sirius had stepped up her Defence training. Considerably. And apparently, Harry was still better. By quite some margin. “It’s not that bad,” she said.

He snorted and, when she glanced at him, she saw that he was frowning. And not looking at her. “You’ve been ‘sore’ in very unusual spots for months now. Bruises too - faded ones. Bruises that should have been noticeable for a long time before they faded.”

She tensed and knew that he felt that, too. She hadn’t considered that since they were intimate, he would see much more of her body than her parents. And he’d have a much closer view, too. Magical healing was great, but not always perfect. And he had noticed.

He was looking at her while she tried to come up with an answer. “They’re not fading bruises. Just micro-bruising. From training.”

“Is that even a word?” He laughed. But he didn’t sound amused.

“Bruises so light, they don’t form fully. Like micro-fractures.”

He stared at her. She stared back.

“You’re lying. I know you well enough to tell.”

“I’m not hurt,” she insisted.

“But you were.”

She clenched her teeth.

He waited a moment, then nodded. “My first thought was that someone was abusing you. But it didn’t add up. It made no sense, either. I’ve been to your gym, too.”

She hissed. “You’ve been spying on me?”

He ignored her remark. “They didn’t remember you visiting very often.”

“I usually run for exercise. You know that.” She refrained from biting her lower lip.

“You don’t get hurt like that running. Unless you keep running into things.”

“It’s possible.”

He scoffed. “Hermione! Don’t treat me like I’m a fool!” He shook his head. “You lied about your gym visits. You lied about not being hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.” She wasn’t lying about that.

“You lied about not having gotten hurt then,” he spat.

She pressed her lips together.

“What are you hiding?”

She swallowed. “Is this another ultimatum? Spill my secret or we break up?” she said, glaring at him.

“Is that what it’ll take?” he shot back.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at each other. She couldn’t tell him. Not about magic. And she realised that she didn’t want to tell him, either. Not after hearing how he had spied on her. And had harboured this suspicion for apparently months. This wasn’t a visit as a cat on a lark. This was serious.

“I can’t tell you,” she finally said. They weren’t married. They weren’t going to marry, either.

“You mean, you won’t.”

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” she corrected herself, baring her teeth at him.

“Is someone experimenting on you? A corporation? The government? Some experimental healing method?” he suddenly blurted out.

“We’re not in a movie, Paul.”

“Then tell me what’s going on!” he insisted. “I deserve to know.” He raised his hands, as if to grab her shoulders, then let them drop and took a step back.

She bit her lower lip until it hurt, then took a deep breath. There was only one solution. “You want the truth?”

“Yes!”

She scoffed. “You can’t handle the truth. But you’ll get it.” She grinned at him. “Magic is real. I’m a witch. And I was hurt in magical self-defence training, but my wounds were healed. With magic.”

He laughed as he shook his head. “We’re not in a movie.”

She drew her wand. “I know.”

“Is that your magic wand?” He chuckled.

“Yes.” She was smiling, though she felt like crying. She knew what she had to do, knew there was no way back. But she hated it. And, right at this moment, she hated herself as well.

“Obliviate.”

*****

“Hermione?” her mum said when Hermione Granger entered her home. “Did something happen?”

“We broke up.” She wasn’t crying. Not any more. Not yet. She wasn’t sniffling, either. But she took a deep breath.

“Oh!” Mum didn’t say anything else. She didn’t ask any questions, either. She just hugged Hermione.

And Hermione cried on her shoulder.

*****

 


	33. Wedding Blues

**Kent, Smith Manor, June 14th, 1998**

“You lost your foot to a dark curse? How dreadful!”

Mundungus Fletcher nodded, his expression grim, as Mrs Smith clasped a hand to her gaping mouth.

“How did it happen?” Michael Smith, on the other hand, leaned forward, looking almost eagerly at Mundungus’s outstretched artificial foot.

Before Mundungus could answer, the Head of the Smith Family reprimanded her son. “Michael! Show a little decorum!”

“Sorry, mother,” the little pissant said with a perfunctory glance at the witch before staring at the peg leg again.

Mundungus wasn’t wearing his enchanted muggle prosthetic, of course - it would be too easy to connect his cover identity to that of the washed-up guttersnipe if both were sporting the same peg leg. Even so, this visit was likely pushing it - but he couldn’t abandon the Smith identity. It was his best means of infiltrating the social circles of the Old Families. And that was needed if Hermione were to succeed with her revenge.

“It’s alright,” he said, smiling politely. “It was my fault, after all. I foolishly thought that, with the recent war between the Free Republic of Maine and Québec over, it would be safe to visit my parents’ country.” He winced. “I had not counted on the Québécois leaving cursed traps behind - one of them in what was left of my ancestral home.” He shook his head and sighed, almost smiling when he saw Mrs Smith shudder in apparent empathy.

“Savages!” she hissed with obvious outrage on his behalf.

“Actually, the savages would be the Red Indian tribes out west,” her husband corrected her. “The correct term for the wizarding enclaves on the East Coast of the New World would be ‘colonials’, I believe.”

She frowned at him, but while reprimanding a boy barely out of Hogwarts - or at least, a boy who wasn’t behaving any more maturely - was acceptable in a semi-private gathering with extended family members, such latitude didn’t extend to one’s spouse.

“Oh, yes. I heard they skin their captives and use the skins for dark rituals!”

Michael sounded far too enthusiastic, in Mundungus’s opinion, about such a disgusting practice. He smiled politely, though, as he responded: “I think you or whoever told you that misunderstood the tales of the Skinwalkers.”

“Skinwalkers?” For once, Michael didn’t hide his ignorance.

Mundungus nodded, glad that he had extensively studied the New World for this role. And had listened to Black for once. “Oh, yes. Skinwalkers are shamans who use the skin of an animal in a ritual to grant them the power to assume that animal’s form.”

“Is that another way to become an animagus?” Mr Smith asked.

“Some claim that,” Mundungus said. “But it’s a very dark and unsafe method - often, those who undergo that ritual end up behaving like werewolves during the full moon.” All three Smiths shuddered.

“A ghastly thought,” Mrs Smith declared. “Who would choose to do such a thing?”

Your son might, Mundungus thought after a glance at Michael’s expression. Maybe he shouldn’t have told this particular tale. He shrugged. “Deranged people already too close to an animal, I would think. Fortunately, when the natives were pushed back west, so were the Skinwalkers. Some enclaves still kill animagi on sight.”

“And werewolves?” Michael asked.

“They’re generally treated the same in those places,” Mundungus replied.

“That’s a policy we should adopt,” Mrs Smith said, nodding. “At least for werewolves. Rabid beasts, the lot of them. Worse than muggles!”

Mundungus smiled politely as the witch voiced her opinions about both.

*****

Mundungus Fletcher’s fake smile disappeared as soon as he entered his flat in London and was replaced by a scowl. Hermione was already waiting for him - she must have heard him on the steps; he’d have to make sure that she didn’t overly rely on such clues without checking.

“What happened? Didn’t they fall for your act?” The way she fidgeted, he knew she was barely restraining herself from casting a few spells to check on him.

He shook his head. “No, they bought it hook, line and sinker.” He scoffed. “And, as a result, I spent half an hour listening to Eleanor’s bigoted views on muggles.”

That put a scowl on his pupil’s face. “I see.”

He wasn’t sure if she did. “Mind you, the Smiths aren’t like Malfoy and his cronies. They don’t rant about blood purity. But muggles and pretty much anyone other than wizards and witches? Beneath them. And, of course, while muggleborns are among the real people, they’re not quite as civilised as the Old Families, which a well-bred wizard has to take into account when interacting with them.”

She was clenching her jaw; he remembered teaching her to hide that when she didn’t want anyone to know she was angry. “That’s barely better than the blood purists!”

He shrugged. “That’s the Old Families for you. They look down on everyone.”

“Maybe we should take them down a peg or two.”

She had that glint in her eyes again. Like his daughter had had, when she had tried to convince him to slip her some sweets behind his wife’s back.

Mundungus shoved the memories away. That part of his life was over. Hermione was his pupil, not his daughter. Even if he was as proud of her as if she were. He chuckled. “Save them for last - they’re our key to the Old Families. If they are ruined, their supposed peers will shun them quicker than a Nundu can strike.”

She pouted, which made her look younger - or rather, made her look her age. Not that he’d tell her that. He shook his head. “You’ve waited years, you can wait a little longer.”

“I guess so,” she said. She’d been as stubborn as a mere second-year witch.

He grinned. “Trust me. Now, show me your Ancient Runes homework. You’re sitting your N.E.W.T’s in a week, after all.”

“Oh, yes!” She quickly turned back to the table with her notes. “I think I got it all, but there were a few questions I’m not sure if I answered correctly…”

He smiled at her back and wondered, not for the first time, how she would behave had she remained at Hogwarts. And hoped that her future wouldn't change her too much.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 6th, 1998**

Harry Potter looked at the letter in front of him, which a cranky owl had just delivered in the middle of breakfast. His N.E.W.T.s. Seven years at Hogwarts, two weeks of exams, distilled - or broken down - into one letter. He almost didn’t want to open it. Even after he had checked it for curses and poisons.

“Open it! Come on! Aren’t you curious?” Sirius prodded him from across the table. “Are you nervous? You know you did great!”

Harry Potter snorted. “This letter is supposed to define and shape my future and you want me to rip it open as if it were a Quidditch supplies catalogue?”

“Well, I’m curious, and it’s not as if the results matter that much, do they?” Sirius said. “You’re the Boy-Who-Lived; only a fool would judge you by your N.E.W.T.s after what you’ve done.”

“A fool, or Umbridge,” Harry retorted. “She’d love an excuse to stop me becoming an Auror.”

Sirius scoffed. “I’d like to see her try! In fact, I could probably use such an attempt to reform the Ministry’s hiring practices - Umbridge’s attempts to manipulate the Wizengamot haven’t gone over well with many members.”

Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t want to enter the Auror Corps thanks to your influence.” That would undermine his plans right from the start. He couldn’t fight against corruption if he benefited from nepotism.

Sirius frowned, then shrugged. “I’m certain that you did well anyway.” He grinned. “So, come on, open it!”

Harry sighed and sliced open the envelope with a flick of his wand. He wasn’t really nervous. He knew he had done well, especially in the practicals. Still...

He looked at the results and grinned. Then frowned when he caught how relieved Sirius looked. “I thought you were certain that I did well?”

Sirius winced. “Well… I was mostly certain. So, how did you do?”

Harry shook his head and handed the letter over. Sirius all but ripped it out of his hand.

“Outstanding in Defence - of course, that was a given. Another in Charms. Like Lily.”

“Mostly thanks to all the Charms used in Defence,” Harry admitted.

“Ah. Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration? James was great at it.”

Harry suppressed a frown. He wasn’t his father. Nor his mum. But he knew that Sirius couldn’t help making comparisons. Especially today. “The test didn’t really cover the Transfigurations used in combat,” he said.

“Outstanding in Potions?” Sirius blinked.

Harry grinned. “I might have overcompensated for that weakness.” Slughorn was a far, far better teacher than Snape, too. And since he had been single for the rest of the school year, he had spent more time than usual studying.

“Exceeds in Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology and History of Magic.”

Harry nodded. Hermione had told him that he should pay more attention to his study of history if he wanted to change its course. Or something like that.

“And Acceptables in Astronomy and Divination, both of which no one cares about.” Sirius beamed at him. “Well done, Harry! This calls for a celebration!”

“A private one,” Harry said quickly.

Sirius laughed. “Last year was an exception - you only turn seventeen once in your life, after all. This year you’ll have a smaller party. Not as small as you want, though - can’t snub too many people by not re-inviting them after last year.” He handed the letter to Jeanne. “But you need to get used to that anyway, now that you’re starting your career in the Ministry,” he added with a grin.

“I can get used to that at your wedding,” Harry pointed out with a grin of his own.

Sirius frowned, then turned to Jeanne. “Chérie, let’s elope!”

Jeanne looked up from Harry’s results and gave Sirius a flat stare. “Out of the question. It’s just one day, and it’ll do a lot to keep my father happy enough to not meddle further with our lives.”

Harry glared at him. “You made me suffer through all the planning sessions for your wedding! You’ll attend the ceremony, even if I have to drag you there in person!”

“Wouldn’t that be Remus’s duty as the best man?” Jeanne asked.

“Remus wouldn’t betray me like that!” Sirius exclaimed.

“He wouldn’t want to give Tonks ideas, you mean,” Harry corrected him. He scoffed. Remus should man up and either break up with Tonks or marry her.

Sirius frowned at him - they had talked about this before. “Remus has his reasons.”

But they weren’t good reasons, Harry thought. He shrugged. “He should be glad there’s a witch who loves him.”

“They’ll work it out,” Sirius said.

“Once Remus stops hiding at Hogwarts,” Harry said. “We can but hope that at your wedding Tonks doesn’t get him drunk and then drags him off to the altar.”

“Andromeda would stop her. She wants a big wedding for her girl,” Sirius told him, smiling. “A classic Black wedding. Just without the dark curses.” He frowned. “Unless Skeeter dares attend, of course.”

Harry nodded in agreement as he reheated his tea with a quick charm. That witch wouldn’t even be allowed near the wedding.

*****

**London, Merton, July 20th, 1998**

The mail was late, Hermione Granger thought with a frown. It was past nine - the letter with her N.E.W.T. results should have arrived already. “The stupid owl is probably taking a break on the way,” she mumbled under her breath. You couldn’t trust birds; they were too flighty.

“If you stare any harder at the window, it’ll break.”

She glared at her dad who was smirking at her; this wasn’t the time to tease her.

He chuckled. “After seven years, a little delay doesn’t really matter.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!” she said, frowning. It was bad enough that she had to take her N.E.W.T.s after the Hogwarts students, but to wait even longer… “Harry’s letter arrived during breakfast. At eight,” she added before her dad could say something about how that wasn’t an exact time.

He did it anyway. “Technically, you haven’t yet finished your breakfast.” He pointed at her cup of tea.

She rolled her eyes and took a sip. After reheating it with a quick charm.

“At least you’re impatient, not nervous,” Mum chimed in, taking a seat on the couch.

“Shouldn’t you be at work already?” Hermione asked.

“We took the morning off,” Dad said. “Your mother thought you could use the company.”

“Really?” Hermione wasn’t twelve any more. “I’ll have you know that I was perfectly composed when I received my O.W.L. results,” she said, pursing her lips.

Her parents glanced at each other. Her mum sighed. “We just want to be there when you officially finish school, dear.”

“It’s an important moment. Our little girl, all grown up,” Dad added.

Hermione gasped. Of course her parents would want to be here when her N.E.W.T. results arrived - this was the closest they would have to a graduation ceremony! “I’m sorry,” she said, “I wasn’t thinking about that. I forgot that, with me having been expelled, there wouldn’t be...” She clenched her teeth; remembering how she had been forced to leave Hogwarts didn’t just made her angry, it also still hurt, even after all these years.

Mum sighed and stood, then walked over to Hermione, patting her shoulder. “We know, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded. “Thanks, Mum. Dad.” Her parents were the best.

“Of course,” her dad said. “Now, should we let the owl come in? It’s been staring at us through the window for a while now.”

“What?” Hermione turned around. Yes, there was one of those useless birds, looking at her as if it was Hermione’s fault that the owl was too stupid to make itself known. But it had her letter. Her N.E.W.T. results.

Hermione apparated to the window.

*****

“Outstandings in Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes,” Hermione Granger summed up. She had expected that. “Exceeds Expectations in Potions, Herbology and History of Magic.” Having more time to study those had helped. Not enough to make up for not having gone to Hogwarts, of course. And an Outstanding in Potions would have caused more love potion rumours, she thought. Although History of Magic she really should have done better in. But she had had to focus on subjects more useful to her career. “Acceptable in Defence and Care of Magical Creatures.” And no Muggle Studies - she wouldn’t take that exam until the Ministry corrected their tests!

“That’s great, Hermione!” Her mum hugged her while her dad read the letter.

Hermione nodded, even though she knew that it was, at best, great for someone who hadn’t gone to Hogwarts. If Malfoy hadn’t framed her… She clenched her teeth. He would pay for that. She would see to it.

“These are excellent results, Hermione. With those grades you shouldn’t have much trouble finding a good job,” he said.

“I have a good job,” Hermione answered, more sharply than she had intended. If this was another subtle enquiry about whether she might want to consider a job where she wouldn’t have to lie to a muggle boyfriend… Once more, she felt guilty for obliviating Paul, but forced the emotion away. She and Paul would have probably broken up over mundane issues anyway, seeing as he spied on her for months. “It pays very well and the hours are very reasonable, and leave me with ample time to read,” she added with a grin to lessen the sting of her rebuke.

“We know that,” Mum said, releasing her. “But are you certain that it’s what you want to do with your life?”

“You were quite determined never to become a secretary when you were little.” Dad smirked at her.

Once she had learned what a secretary did, Hermione remembered. She smiled. “I’m the Personal Assistant of one of the most influential members of the Wizengamot. I help shape the country’s future.” It wasn’t a lie - Sirius did listen to her. Not always, of course. And probably not often as he should, she added to herself, thinking of Harry. But she did co-write most of his proposals.

“Well, as long as you are doing what you want,” her dad said, “we’re content.”

“And proud,” her mum added and hugged her again.

Hermione hugged her back and tried not to feel too guilty. Her parents didn’t know her real plans. They couldn’t know.

Now that she had finished her education - her official education, of course; Mr Fletcher still had things to teach her - she could focus on her future. Her future career as a thief.

And on her revenge.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, July 22nd, 1998**

“Aurors are allowed to use dark curses if they are granted a special exemption,” Harry Potter said with his eyes focused on a plant in Mr Biggles’s terrarium. Then he looked straight at the snake. “Did you understand that?”

“I don’t understand why you want to learn how not to talk to me,” the little snake responded. “It makes absolutely no sense.”

Harry sighed. “I told you: When I’m talking to you, my family doesn’t understand me. I want to learn how to talk to them in your presence.”

“Just don’t talk to them when I’m with you.”

Harry closed his eyes. His pet was so demanding and vain, Mr Biggles should have been born a cat. “Did you understand me or not?”

“I didn’t understand you,” Mr Biggles answered - in a rather petulant tone. Harry smiled. He had finally done it! Then the snake asked: “What’s an ‘exemption’?”

Harry sighed and tried again. “A special exemption can be granted by the Minister for Magic or a majority of the Wizengamot. If the Minister grants a special exemption, he needs the approval of a majority of the Wizengamot within seven days.” At least he could use the time spent trying to ignore Mr Biggles to study for the Auror entrance exams.

Hedwig barked from her perch behind him. He sighed again. His owl had a definite opinion on how to solve his problem. If Harry had known how jealous Hedwig would be, he’d have stuck to conjured snakes for this.

“You should get rid of the bird,” Mr Biggles said, as Harry had come to expect.

“I’m not getting rid of Hedwig,” Harry said. She had been his first pet. And in a way, his first friend.

“But she wants to eat me.”

“She won’t eat you. I won’t let her.” Harry glanced over his shoulder at the owl, but Hedwig showed no sign of understanding him. He frowned. “I know you heard me.” She ignored him and kept staring at the snake. He sighed and turned on his seat towards her. “It’s not my fault that you can’t talk.”

Hedwig barked at him, and he didn’t need to speak Owl to understand that she disagreed with him. He turned back to his notes and the terrarium. “I really wish my pets would listen to me.”

“What did you say?”

Harry froze for a moment. “You didn’t understand me?”

“You weren’t talking properly. You just made those weird noise, like the others.”

Harry focused on the terrarium again. “All humans talk like that.” Those of them who spoke English, at least, Hermione would correct him.

“What did you say?” Mr Biggles asked again.

Harry smiled widely. He had done it! He had finally managed not to talk in Parseltongue in Mr Biggles’s presence! “Yes!”

“Hmph.”

“What?” Harry looked at Mr Biggles. The snake was sliding under the long branch in the centre of his terrarium. “What are you doing?”

“If you don’t wanna talk to me, then I don’t wanna talk to you either!” came the reply.

And now the snake was ignoring him. Harry sighed again. He simply couldn’t win with his pets, or so it seemed.

*****

She shouldn’t be doing this. Hermione Granger knew it. Knew it very well. Harry had forbidden it. And she perfectly understood his reasons, even though they were based on a faulty assumption.

But right now the sun was shining directly into Sirius’s study, right on to his favourite armchair. Which was, as Hermione knew very well, the perfect spot a cat could choose for a short nap in the morning. And she was alone. Sirius and Jeanne were off checking with the caterer for their wedding - the dog would probably sample every dish - and Harry was revising for his exams in his room. Experience had taught her that he wouldn’t come down until he had finished studying for the day. That gave her plenty of time.

She grinned and stood, locked the door for good measure, then changed. A few seconds later, she was comfortably arranged in her seat and basking in the sunlight.

“Why did you lock the door… you!”

Hermione jerked awake at the loud voice. Harry! And he sounded angry. She whirled around and looked for whoever had made him mad. Then she realised that he was staring at her and ducked her head.

“So that’s why she locked the door… to keep you from exploring the house,” Harry said, shaking his head.

Hermione looked at the window. Closed. But if she was quick enough, she could dash past Harry and out of the door.

Then Harry closed the door. “But I told her, and she agreed, not to let you into the house any more.”

Hermione glared at him, her fur bristling. She was perfectly safe for his stupid pet! As if she’d lower herself to hunt it!

“Don’t stare at me like that; I’m really fed up with haughty pets right now.” Harry took a step closer. “Hedwig, Mr Biggles, and now you, the stray.”

She tensed, getting ready to make a dash to freedom - or at least to the door - but Harry had his wand drawn. “Go ahead, make my day.”

She blinked. Did he really...?

He picked her up. Not roughly, but not gently either. And she couldn’t squirm out of his grip - she tried as he carried her out of the room, down the stairs, to the kitchen. No, to the back door. He wouldn’t actually throw her out, would he?

He did. Not literally, at least - he simply put her down outside the door. But he closed the door and left her on the porch.

Hermione closed her eyes and cursed herself. She could make up an excuse easily enough - a quick trip to the next shop for some supplies, or a magazine. But Harry would likely tell Sirius about this.

And she knew that the dog wouldn’t let her live it down.

*****

“No, really, you threw out the stray?” Sirius seemed to be struggling not to laugh out loud.

Harry Potter narrowed his eyes at his godfather. “Yes, I did. I don’t understand why you think that’s funny, though.”

“Well, you don’t know how nasty that cat can be,” Sirius said, with a glance at Hermione. “The number of times she clawed my nose…” He shook his head.

Hermione glared at him in response, and Harry could see her clench her teeth together before answering. “I’m sure that each time she had a very good reason. You probably teased her.”

Sirius waved the comment away.

“That’s not the point,” Harry cut in, shaking his head at the two. “I told you that you couldn’t let your cat in the house any more.”

“She’s not my cat,” Hermione said. “And she was perfectly safe - the door was locked, after all. She was just taking a nap in one of her favourite spots.”

“She shouldn’t have been in the house at all. What if she had attacked Mr Biggles?” Didn’t either of them care about his snake?

“She wouldn’t have attacked your snake. She knows better than that.”

“She doesn’t know not to sleep in my study, though,” Sirius added. “Or how to avoid Harry. It’ll be good training for when you’re ordered to chase down missing familiars as a rookie Auror.”

“Well, I don’t think he’d have such an easy time when the familiar’s not locked up in a room,” Hermione said. “Unless it’s a dog; those are easy to catch or trick.”

“Dogs wouldn’t run away from their family in the first place,” Sirius shot back.

“They would probably get lost chasing after a rat or trying to scrounge up food,” Hermione retorted.

Harry sighed and looked at Jeanne, the only other sane person at the dinner table. His future step-godmother, as Sirius called it, seemed amused rather than annoyed by the antics of the other two, though. He shook his head and turned to Hermione and Sirius. “Stop it, both of you.” He really had better things to do than to listen to the two of them argue over pets. Especially after having to deal with two difficult prima donna pets himself.

Hermione sniffed but nodded. Sirius was about to have the last word, but a glare from Harry made him shut up as well.

Although, as Harry found, the awkward silence following his intervention was only marginally less annoying than the row he had stopped. Fortunately, Jeanne spoke up: “I wanted to ask, Harry: Are you certain that you want to start your career as an Auror this autumn? I did the Grand Tour when I was your age, after graduating from Beauxbatons.”

Harry would like to do the Grand Tour - travel the world, visit the various wizarding countries, experience the different cultures - but that would be irresponsible. He shook his head. “I want to enter the Auror Corps as quickly as possible, before Malfoy gets entrenched in the Ministry.”

“I think we have him under control,” Sirius said.

“Stalled is more like it,” Hermione corrected him. “And he’s not abandoning his efforts to gain more influence. Fudge must be getting rich from all the bribes.”

One more reason to become an Auror right away, Harry thought.

His godfather frowned. “It’s not as bad as you make it out to be. If Harry wants to do the Grand Tour, we can manage. I didn’t do my own, seeing as we were at war and I was needed in Britain.”

Harry nodded. They weren’t at war any more, but he was needed as well.

“What about you?” he asked Hermione.

She frowned at him. “I’m needed here.” She nodded towards Sirius. “Who knows what he would get up to without me keeping him in line.”

Jeanne laughed. “I think I could take over,” she said.

“No, you’d enable him,” Hermione retorted.

Sirius pouted, but Harry was happy to hear that Hermione wouldn’t be changing jobs, now that she had her N.E.W.T.s. He was also happy that she had broken up with Paul the now Ex-Boyfriend, but that wasn’t a subject that was talked about at home.

*****

**Finchingfield, Essex, Britain, August 22nd, 1998**

Despite herself, Hermione Granger was impressed by the opulence of the wedding. Not surprised, of course - she had known that for all his talk about spurning conventions and eloping, Sirius wanted to show off. And not just because the prestige that he’d gain from such an expensive and traditional wedding would help him in the Wizengamot, but because, for Sirius, only the best was good enough for his wife-to-be.

In a certain way, it was endearing, Hermione thought. And the whole ceremony was fascinating. There was no priest and no religious rites; the bride and groom in a British wizarding wedding simply took their vows in the presence of their families. And yet the similarities to a Christian ceremony were obvious to her, from the seating arrangement to the way Sirius was waiting at the, well, altar, for Jeanne to arrive in the company of her parents. Of course, Christianity had built their own ceremonies on pagan rituals in order to replace the pagan faith, so maybe the roots of this went back further than the Christian era in Britain. On the other hand, Hermione was certain that until the Statue of Secrecy went into effect and the magical world hid from the muggles, all wizards married as Christians in England. So the absence of a priest had to be a deliberate decision.

Harry’s cough interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at him, and he whispered. “Jeanne’s arriving.”

The music should have clued her in. Hermione blushed a little; she hadn’t been ‘lost to the world’ like this, as her dad called it, in a long while. Jeanne looked resplendent in her decidedly French robes, which formed a marked contrast with her father’s very conservative and very British dress robes. Something the journalists from Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet were certain to remark upon, Hermione thought - although the fact that Mr Selwyn was walking with his daughter should put a stop to the rumours of a rift between them.

The music faded as soon as Jeanne reached Sirius and Mr Selwyn, the only parent present, her mum not having forgiven her for leaving for Britain, took a step back as the couple faced each other. At the same time, Remus and Marie, a cousin of Jeanne’s, took a step forward from where they had been waiting, to formally bear witness as Sirius and Jeanne drew their wands.

Sirius went first. “I, Sirius Orion Black, take you, Jeanne Dubois, to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, with magic as my witness.”

That was a dramatic wording, Hermione thought, but about as magically binding as any muggle wedding oath.

“I, Jeanne Dubois, take you, Sirius Orion Black, to be my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death us do part, with magic as my witness.”

“Lumos!” they spoke simultaneously, the tips of their wands lighting up in unison.

Hermione leaned forward. This part was fascinating. Sirius and Jeanne touched their wands, then handed them over to each other. The lights didn’t dim perceptibly, and Hermione heard some of the older guests whisper - probably commenting on the good omen for the marriage. Remus and Marie drew their own wands, casting Wand-Lighting Charms as well.

Then Harry and Hermione rose, together with everyone else in attendance, and added their own lights - she had to squint in order to avoid getting blinded, so bright was all the light - as the couple kissed each other, quite passionately, before they took their first symbolic step into their life together.

And, to her surprise, Hermione found herself crying. And more than a little envious.

*****

“...and Finchingfield is said to be one of the most beautiful villages in England. Of course, I think many villages claim that, and it’s not as if it’s a legally enforceable claim. Did you know that the Blacks had a house here, dating back to the early twelfth century? And kept the land after it was destroyed in the seventeenth century, hiding the entire area from the muggles?”

Standing in line at the buffet, Harry Potter smiled. Hermione in a lecturing mood was a familiar and comfortable sight. “Yes. He told me so.” Several times - his godfather had been a little nervous about his choice of venue for the ceremony. “Ironically, the Blacks suspected that the Selwyns were responsible for the destruction.”

She frowned. “He didn’t tell me that.” She pouted, slightly. “And I helped him organise this!”

“Sirius didn’t tell me. Kreacher did,” Harry said.

“Oh.”

He nodded. She knew as well as he did that Kreacher wouldn’t have told her. The house-elf was as bigoted as Sirius’s mother had been. Surprisingly, he had warmed towards Harry after Voldemort’s defeat, but Hermione… Well, he didn’t insult her. Not any more. But it was obvious that he considered her beneath everyone in the house - including himself. And probably Mr Biggles, too.

“Sirius should let the elf go,” he heard her mutter under her breath, and he was glad he had - reflexively - cast a privacy charm before they joined the line. He looked at her, and she scoffed. “I know, I know. You don’t let elves go, or you’ll never get to hire another elf.”

“I’d tell you that if you get him fired, you’d have to take over his duties, but we both know we’d starve in that case,” Harry said. She frowned at him but dropped the subject.

Just in time, too - they had reached the buffet, and the spread of delicacies deserved their full attention. The very best of British and French cuisine. More French than British, of course. Much more.

*****

“So, are you and Hermione dating now?”

Luna’s question surprised Harry Potter. He quickly swallowed his mouthful of scrimp salad so he could answer. “No, we aren’t. In fact, neither of us is dating. Right now, I mean.” Which was why they both had attended the wedding without a ‘plus one’.

“Oh.”

Ron grinned. “Told you so.”

She pouted. “I was certain. You arrived together, after all.”

“Well, we left Grimmauld Place together, too,” Harry said.

“I thought she was living with her parents,” Luna said.

“She stays the night a few times per week,” Harry explained.

“Oh?” Luna blinked.

“When she works late,” Harry said before the witch could speculate.

It didn’t stop her, though. “She could apparate home, though. There has to be a reason she’s all but living in your home!”

“She probably doesn’t want to live full-time with her parents,” Ron said. “I wouldn’t, if I had the gold for a home of my own.”

“You can live in the Rookery!” Luna exclaimed, beaming. “With me!”

Ron shook his head. “But you’d be at Hogwarts for the next year. And when you’ve finished, I’ll be working as an Auror.”

“Oh. That’s true, I suppose.” Luna frowned. “And we can’t have you living at Hogwarts; people would notice. Although perhaps with Polyjuice Potion… Do you think anyone would notice if there were two Mariettas?”

“I think the amount of Polyjuice Potion we’d need would be more expensive than renting a flat,” Ron said, as if he were taking this proposal seriously.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if Ron being with Luna was a good thing. Fortunately, she hadn’t managed to convince his friend to abandon his plan to become an Auror together with Harry and become a reporter for the Quibbler instead.

“That is true as well. I guess we’ll have to suffer being apart for a year. Where is Hermione?” Luna suddenly asked.

Ron pointed behind Harry. “She wanted to talk to Bill about his work as a Curse-Breaker.”

Harry frowned as he turned. Hermione wouldn’t be considering that line of work, would she? She had the grades for it, but everyone knew that it was a very dangerous job. Then he saw her standing with Ron’s brother at the edge of the area warded off for the wedding and frowned even more. Bill was being far too friendly, in his opinion. He was almost ten years older than her, too, and from what Ron had told Harry, Bill was also a ‘player’.

*****

“Oh, risk is part of the job. Every Curse-Breaker knows that.”

Hermione Granger nodded at Bill’s words.

He smiled at her. “Of course, the pay makes up for the danger.”

He had a nice smile, a nice body under his dress robes, as far as she could tell, and was very attractive. But his slightly patronising attitude put her off. She wasn’t a silly girl he could impress with tall tales about robbing Egyptian tombs - she was an accomplished Curse-Breaker herself, not that she could let him know it.

Of course, getting him to talk shop instead of trying to impress her with his job would have been easier if she didn’t have to maintain her cover. Or if she hadn’t let Jeanne persuade her to dress up more than a little for the occasion. But she wouldn’t let that deter her. “But the danger is just one reason for the high wages, right? A Curse-Breaker has to be very skilled in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, after all, and such skills are in demand.”

“Yes.” He hadn’t lost his smile. Nor his attitude. “Although the next best paying job, Spell Creation, isn’t exactly safe either.”

“But at least no one’s intentionally trying to kill you when you’re creating spells,” she retorted. “Anyway, I’ve been reading Arithmancy Monthly when I was studying for my N.E.W.T.s, and there was this fascinating article about cascading wards. Though the article wasn’t from a Curse-Breaker’s perspective.” What she really wanted to know was whether the Curse-Breakers in Gringotts’ employ had found an easier or quicker way to deal with such wards, but Sirius’s private secretary wouldn’t be asking that.

“Ah, yes, I remember the article.”

“You do?” She beamed at him. “Have you encountered such a ward in your work?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m mostly dealing with ancient tombs, and those wards are a relatively new invention.” He grinned. “Gringotts frowns upon breaking and entering as a side-job, you know.”

She forced herself to laugh at his joke. “I was asking because Sirius is considering updating the wards on his home.” Which was even true.

“Ah.” He rubbed his chin, then pushed a stray lock of his long hair that had gotten free of his ponytail out of his face. “I think trying to adapt old wards to such a new array would be more trouble than it’s worth. You’d almost certainly have to weaken the original protection in some way to fit the new spells in, and the interference between the two triggers would certainly have to be taken into account.”

Hermione smiled. This was what she had wanted. She nodded emphatically. “I thought that, too. But wouldn’t the cascading wards still be protected from being dispelled by the older wards’ curses?”

“In theory, yes. But the interference would weaken the whole array and make the spells harder to conceal, which could be exploited by a skilled Curse-Breaker.”

She nodded. That was what Mr Fletcher had told her as well, but it was good to hear it confirmed. “So it would be a bad decision to upgrade the wards like that?”

“Barring special circumstances, yes.” He nodded firmly. “I would advise against it.”

“And what about replacing the old wards entirely?” At his expression, she added: “The article seemed to suggest that a cascading array was superior to the old spell arrays.”

His smile grew more patronising once again. “In theory, yes. But that doesn’t take into account how wards grow more powerful with age.”

She had known that, of course, but she wanted more of his insight into cascading wards. So she nodded. “I see. But when choosing wards for a new home, you’d pick the new array?” She asked, then noticed Harry approaching them followed by Ron and Luna.

“There you are!” Harry said, smiling at her. “Hi, Bill,” he added with a nod. “I hope she hasn’t been badgering you too much about your work.”

“Hi, Harry.” Bill returned the greeting while Hermione pursed her lips at her friend. She hadn’t been badgering Ron’s brother! “No, no, we were just discussing the best way to protect a new flat or house.”

“Why?” Harry looked at her. “Are you planning to move out?”

“I’m not going to live with my parents forever,” she pointed out.

“But you can live with us!” he said.

Bill laughed. “That would put a cramp on her love life, I think.”

Harry didn’t have to look so surprised, Hermione thought, glaring at him. Not that he noticed.

*****

Her love life? Harry Potter shook his head. “I don’t think that will be an issue,” he said. After all, Hermione had had a boyfriend for months while living at her parents’ home and at Grimmauld Place.

“Really?” She was glaring at him, as if he had said something wrong. And Bill was laughing.

“Well, it didn’t affect your relationship with Paul, didn’t it?”

She was still glaring at him, though. “Other than that, ultimately, the need to keep magic a secret made us break up, you mean? Because I had to obliviate him so he thought we broke up for other reasons.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he retorted. He should have known better than to mention Paul the Ex-Boyfriend. “Just that you can have relationships just fine while living at Grimmauld Place.”

“Of course I can.”

“Do you have a room free?” Luna chimed in.

“What?” Harry blinked.

“Do you have a spare guest room? You could take in Ron, in that case.”

“Luna!” Ron whispered through clenched teeth.

“What? You heard Harry; we can have a relationship just fine there.” Luna looked puzzled. Not an unfamiliar sight.

“I didn’t want to beg for a room, Luna. I can pay for my own as soon as I start working,” Ron said.

“You didn’t beg; I asked,” she pointed out. “And since our friends are not dating, you wouldn’t be the third wheel.”

“Fifth wheel, Luna,” Harry corrected her.

She frowned. “That makes no sense. With Ron, you are three, not five. Unless you count Sirius and Jeanne, I guess. But would they count?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Hermione explained.

“Well, someone needs to check that figure, I think,” Luna retorted.

Bill was still laughing. Harry ignored him and addressed Ron. “We’d love to have you, Ron. I would have offered before, but I thought you had things planned out with Luna.” His friend did seem to spend most of his free time with her, after all.

“Oh, we have!” Luna cut in. “Plans, I mean. We just need to sort them out and tell each other.”

Which seemed to indicate that they didn’t have plans, at least in Harry’s opinion. But Ron nodded. To Harry, he said: “I’ll have to consider this.”

“Alright.” Harry nodded.

“Say yes,” Bill said. “Mum’ll understand.”

“Really?” Ron stared at Bill as if he had lost his mind.

“Unlike me, Charlie or Percy, you’ve got a witch you’re going steady with,” Bill said. “She’ll understand, trust me.”

“OK.”

“Good! Let’s tell Sirius and Jeanne that you’re moving in!” Luna said, dragging Ron away.

“Mrs Weasley will think that they’re about to marry, won’t she?” Hermione said as soon as Ron was out of earshot. She sounded like when she was talking about Sirius, Harry noticed.

“Yeah,” Bill replied, grinning widely. “But it’ll be good for Ron.”

Harry nodded in agreement. He had been thinking that Ron was spending too much time with Luna, and not enough with Hermione and himself.

*****

Hermione Granger wasn’t at fault. She firmly told herself that as she saw Luna and Ron approach the happy couple. That was all Harry’s doing. And Bill’s and Luna’s. Not hers, in any case. Not that inviting Ron to live with them at Grimmauld Place was a bad thing - on the contrary. But there were better times to spring that on Sirius than the wedding reception.

On the other hand, she thought with a grin, it wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve to taste a little of his own medicine. See how well he dealt with ‘some spontaneity’.

Quite well, as it turned out - at least she interpreted Sirius smiling and clapping Ron on the shoulder as hearty approval. Well, she should have expected that - Sirius would do anything for Harry.

She excused herself from Harry and Bill, who were swapping stories about the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and made her way towards the buffet again. She shouldn’t stuff herself; there was an entire banquet in the evening, but the food was just too delicious not to indulge now, at least a little.

She wasn’t the only one who felt that way, she found when she saw Mr Selwyn refilling his plate. “Did you try the shrimp salad?” she asked him, taking a portion for herself.

“I don’t particularly like seafood,” he answered.

She didn’t know if his curt manner was due to her blood status, or the rumours of her having an affair with both bride and groom - Skeeter hadn’t taken her exclusion well. But she wasn’t planning to antagonise him; Jeanne didn’t deserve even more strain on her relationship with her father. So she nodded, picked up two slices of pâté, foie gras to be precise, and left Selwyn at the buffet to mingle with the other guests.

Especially those bigots who, as she knew from her appearances as Miss Merriweather, would not normally lower themselves to talk to a muggleborn like her, but were forced by custom to be polite to her on this occasion. Like Michael Smith, Zacharias’s older cousin.

“It is a very beautiful wedding, don’t you think so, Mr Smith?” she asked with the best fake smile she could manage.

“Yes. Quite impressive,” he responded with a rather forced-looking smile.

“Did you know that on this field once stood a manor of the Blacks?” More like a fortified estate, but she didn’t think he cared much about actual history.

He blinked. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

She nodded. “It was destroyed in the seventeenth century - by the Selwyns, according to the records of the Black Family.”

“Ah.”

She nodded again. “Very ironic, and yet somehow fitting, to hold the wedding here, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, quite.” He was looking around, searching an excuse to leave her.

“And to think some people thought Sirius would eschew traditions. He doesn’t; he adapts them.” She nodded slowly.

“Ah.”

He didn’t seem to be listening to her any more. She was tempted to sprout nonsense and see how long it took for him to notice, but this was Sirius and Jeanne’s big day; she wouldn’t cause a scene. Even if he was ignoring her, despite her tighter than usual robes. He was a bore, anyway - his mother didn’t even take him to the Wizengamot to teach him the ropes; otherwise they could at least have talked about politics.

She spotted Andromeda and Ted Tonks in a corner and went over to them. “Are you enjoying the reception?” she asked once she reached them.

Sirius’s cousin smiled at her - in a very similar way to how Sirius himself did when he was pulling a prank, Hermione noticed. “We’re currently enjoying my daughter’s attempts to use the occasion to persuade Sirius’s friend to propose to her.”

“She’s enjoying it; I’m merely observing,” Ted corrected her.

Andromeda snorted. “You just don’t want to admit that the whole situation is funny.”

“I think that Mr Lupin has clearly shown that he doesn’t want to commit himself to a relationship, much less marriage.”

Andromeda shook her head. “That just means Nymphadora will try harder. Look at them!”

Hermione did. Remus looked like a cornered deer, in her opinion. Quite pathetic for a grown man. Literally cornered - he had his back to the wall and Tonks in his face. “Did she change her robes?” She didn’t remember Tonks’s dress being _that_ low cut.

“After she saw what Jeanne’s friends were wearing, yes,” Ted said. “As if that would make him change his opinion!”

“It usually works with wizards,” Andromeda said with a smirk that hinted at a story.

“Emphasis on ‘usually’.” Ted shrugged. “As much as I agree that only a fool would spurn the advances of our precious daughter, I don’t believe that marrying a fool is a wise choice.”

Hermione shrugged. “I do think that he likes her, but Sirius said that he has some personal issues dating back to the last war.”

Ted scoffed. “Sirius had worse issues, I think, and look at him now.”

There wasn’t much Hermione could say to that. But perhaps she could talk to Remus.

Not today, of course. It could wait until after the wedding.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 23rd, 1998**

Harry Potter was usually the first up in the morning. The only other regular resident of Grimmauld Place who was an early riser was Remus, and judging by how much the man had drunk yesterday after Tonks had apparently blown a fuse, Harry doubted that he’d wake up before noon. Hermione wouldn’t rise before nine unless Harry woke her. And it went without saying that he didn’t expect Sirius or Jeanne to leave their bed any time soon.

So he was the one who had to answer when Kreacher informed him of a Floo call from the Ministry. He already knew it would be important - no one would be calling from, much less working in, the Ministry on a Sunday morning if it wasn’t.

“Hello?”

“Mr Potter?”

That was Shacklebolt. A veteran Auror and a member of the Order. “Yes?” Harry inclined his head as he sat down in front of the fireplace.

“Would you mind letting me visit? I need to talk to Mrs Black in person.” Shacklebolt sounded very serious.

Harry frowned. “You know that Jeanne and Sirius just got married.” And therefore had started their honeymoon.

“I am aware of that, yes.” Shacklebolt sighed. “But I need to inform her that her father has been murdered.”

*****

 


	34. A Black Beginning

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 23rd, 1998**

If there was one part of his duties as an Auror that Kingsley Shacklebolt hated more than paperwork, it was telling someone that they had lost a loved one. Although, he thought as he stepped out of the fireplace in Black’s home, it remained to be seen if that description was accurate when it came to Mrs Black’s father. He had heard rumours that their relationship, his presence at her wedding notwithstanding, were rather strained.

The entrance hall was more modern than he had expected - the rumour that Black was cut from a different cloth than the rest of his family was apparently true. He hadn’t compromised on security, though - Kingsley couldn’t even spot the hidden passages for the house-elf who had taken his call.

Potter was standing in the centre of the room, nodding at him. “Good morning, Mr Shacklebolt.”

Kingsley nodded back. Under normal circumstances, Potter’s lack of an obvious reaction to the grave news would have made Kingsley suspicious, but this was the boy who had fought and killed the Dark Lord. With a lot of help from Albus, granted - but then, Kingsley was also aware of the half a dozen Death Eaters Potter had killed on his way to the Dark Lord. Mad-Eye hadn’t been boasting when he had told Kingsley that Potter was already better than most Aurors. At least at fighting - being a good Auror was more than just killing dark wizards, after all.

“Sirius and Jeanne are still in bed. If you’ll wait in the living room while I fetch them?” Potter gestured towards a door.

“Thank you.” Normally, Kingsley would have preferred to talk to people before they had time to compose themselves and come up with a story, but this wasn’t how things were done when the Old Families were involved. An Auror who treated a member of the Wizengamot as if they were just another suspect was likely to see their career ruined.

Not that Kingsley thought Black was a suspect - Albus had trusted the man, after all. But Mrs Black née Dubois? For a bastard daughter of an Old Family raised in France, she had risen in status very, very quickly. Married to one of the richest wizards from one of the Old Families, and now, presumably - Kingsley hadn’t yet seen the will - the heir to another Old Family?

Many people would kill to achieve that, Kingsley knew. It remained to be seen if Mrs Black were one of them.

Although, he mused silently as he followed Potter through a hallway lined with portraits and other art, she’d certainly fit in well with her husband’s family if she did.

*****

“Please take a seat; we’ll be with you in a minute.” Potter inclined his head just enough to be polite - the boy had the forms of an Old Family member down. “Kreacher will provide you with light refreshments, should you wish.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded back. “Thank you, Mr Potter, but I’ll be fine.”

He looked around after the boy had left. He had been in many Old Families’ manors, and few of them could match the casual wealth displayed in the Blacks’ living room. And fewer, still, looked as if people actually lived there. There were no portraits, but that didn’t have to mean anything - the landscapes displayed on two walls would provide any of the portraits he had spotted in the hallway with ample opportunities to watch him discreetly. And Potter had announced that there were passages for their house-elf.

He took note of the magazines stacked next to the couch. Various muggle magazines mixed with Quidditch Weekly and Arithmancy and Ancient Runes periodicals as well as copies of La Sorciére and Witch Weekly. The newspapers stashed in a basket on the other side showed the same mix of muggle and magical publishers. There were far more books than he’d expected, unless the Blacks didn’t have an actual library, and he didn’t recognise half the knick-knacks on display, other than the muggle car models arranged in what looked like a miniature racetrack on the reading table.

His observations were cut short when the door opened and the Blacks arrived, followed by Potter and, surprisingly, Granger. Some of the rumours Skeeter had published might not be too far off, Kingsley thought, if the girl was living here.

“Mr Shacklebolt?” Mrs Black sounded composed and her makeup was perfect, but her eyes looked a little wet. Magic could easily fake that, of course. “I was told you had grave news about my father.”

He nodded. “He was found murdered this morning in his bedroom.”

“Murdered?” Black cut in. “How?”

“A dark curse,” Kingsley answered. He noted how the other man’s eyes narrowed at his lack of details.

“What kind of curse?” Potter asked.

“We’re still investigating.” Officially, they were waiting for the report, but the Aurors already knew which curse had taken Selwyn’s life. And Kingsley was certain that Potter knew it as well, judging by the way the boy frowned. Tough, Kingsley thought. If the boy wanted to become an Auror, then he had to learn that you didn’t share information with suspects.

And the Blacks were suspects. They had the means and the motive to murder Selwyn. And, unless another rumour of Skeeter’s turned out to be not quite as ridiculous as he thought, they didn’t have an alibi either.

That didn’t mean that they were guilty, of course. But it was ample reason to investigate them.

*****

“When did you last see your father?” Shacklebolt asked, a Dictaquill writing on a roll of parchment next to him.

Harry couldn’t help thinking that Sirius and Jeanne would have to answer more than the ‘few questions’ they had agreed to.

“When he left the wedding dinner,” Jeanne answered. She was sitting on the couch, back straight and head held high, with Sirius holding her hand as she faced the Auror, but Harry had seen her gape and cry when he had told her, so he knew how she really felt - shocked and miserable.

“When was that?” Shacklebolt asked. He seemed to be ignoring both Harry and Hermione, who were seated to his left and right, respectively.

“I believe it was around ten,” Jeanne said.

“Yes,” Sirius confirmed. “I checked the clock because I had a bet going.”

Harry suppressed a wince when he noticed Shacklebolt reacting to that. “A bet?” the Auror asked, cocking his head to one side.

“Yes. How long he’d stay past the first opportunity to leave without appearing rude.” Sirius shrugged. “He stayed an hour longer than I expected.”

“That sounds like your relationship wasn’t too cordial,” Shacklebolt commented in a mild voice.

Sirius shrugged again. “We had an understanding,” he said, smiling at Jeanne, “but our political differences were well known.”

Shacklebolt nodded. “I see.”

Harry didn’t. He clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t blurt out a question of his own. He wanted to know so much more. Which curse had killed Selwyn? Who had found him? When had he died? Who had last seen him alive? But he wasn’t an Auror. Yet.

“What did he say when he left?”

“He said ‘good night’,” Sirius answered, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Jeanne confirmed, and Harry saw her squeezing Sirius’s hand. “We didn’t talk much during dinner.”

“Why not?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Because we had talked extensively during the days before the ceremony and, at the wedding, there were a lot of old friends and acquaintances whom we hadn’t seen in a while. We talked to them,” Jeanne replied, her tone growing sharper.

“Ah.” Shacklebolt nodded, without showing much of an expression.

Harry wanted to ask if the Auror really believed that Sirius or Jeanne had killed her father - Shacklebolt had been in the Order, hadn’t he? And he had fought in the Atrium. On the other hand, the man was simply doing his job. Madam Bones had made it clear that she wouldn’t tolerate any favouritism. Still, the Auror could be a little less confrontational. Sirius hadn’t forgotten what he had experienced at the hands of the DMLE, and Harry saw that his godfather was far angrier than he outwardly looked.

“Is that all? Or do you wish to ask what we were doing during our wedding night? Our last position, maybe?” Sirius snapped through clenched teeth.

Yes, Harry thought, this isn’t going to end well if Shacklebolt continues. He glanced at Hermione. She was looking tense, too - probably remembering her own experiences with the DMLE.

The Auror shook his head. “No, thank you. You’ll likely be asked to give a formal statement to the DMLE in a day or two.”

“Really? Oh my, how things have changed! Back in my day, people were simply thrown into Azkaban on the slightest hint of suspicion.” Sirius snarled.

Harry winced at that. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if Sirius managed to get into a fight with an Auror.

To Harry’s relief, Shacklebolt didn’t take the bait. “Madam Bones has changed regulations and procedures to prevent such miscarriages of justice since she took over as the Head of the DMLE.”

“I’m not impressed so far,” Sirius spat.

Whatever Sirius was about to add was cut off when Jeanne stood. “Thank you, Auror Shacklebolt, for informing us of my father’s death. However, I need some privacy to deal with this.”

“Of course.” Shacklebolt nodded at everyone present.

“I’ll see you out, Auror Shacklebolt,” Hermione said, in what Harry had dubbed - privately - her ‘secretary tone’.

As soon as the door had closed behind her and the Auror, Sirius exploded. “What does that pillock think he’s doing, interrogating us in my our home? He’s acting as if he suspects us!”

Harry hoped that the privacy charm on the door kept the Auror from overhearing his godfather. “He has to cover all the bases,” he pointed out. “I don’t think that he actually suspects us.”

“Perhaps not you,” Sirius said, baring his clenched teeth. “But I’d make a convenient scapegoat for the Ministry.” He turned to Jeanne, who was staring at the floor. “Or her. Her ‘dear family’ would like to get rid of her, and this would be a good pretext.”

“Then it’s even more important that an Auror we can trust is leading the investigation,” Harry said. “And if he were too friendly with us, he’d get reassigned.” Any Auror investigating the death of a Wizengamot member would be watched very closely - and not just by Madam Bones.

Sirius scoffed and shook his head, but didn’t contest the point. Instead, he sat back down and hugged Jeanne, whispering in her ear.

Harry almost tried to listen in, but forced himself to turn away. He didn’t want to see Sirius and Jeanne like this.

He should have gone with Shacklebolt. Maybe the Auror would have let something slip on the way.

*****

Hermione Granger kept her face expressionless as she walked back to the entrance hall with the Auror. She didn’t know him, not personally, but according to Harry, Moody had said the man was a good Auror, which was high praise from that paranoid old man. She’d have to ask Mr Fletcher later if he knew the wizard.

He certainly looked competent, she thought, as she stole a glance at him. Tall, dark and handsome, as some of the novels she had read in secret would describe him. And perceptive, she added to herself when his eyes met hers and she caught a faint grin on his face.

“Your employer doesn’t seem to have a high opinion of the DMLE,” he remarked.

“He has his reasons,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Anyone who has suffered what he has gone through would be less than impressed of the DMLE.”

“Such as yourself?”

“Being framed for theft and expelled from Hogwarts hardly compares to being tortured for over a decade in Azkaban,” she replied, with a hint of a sneer. If he thought she’d mention the pardon, then he would be mistaken.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Is this an interrogation?” she asked, tilting her head to the left.

“Of course not. That would be against regulations.” He had lost the hint of a grin, but his tone was just a little too mild.

It grated on her nerves. “My opinion of the Auror Corps and the DMLE would be higher if I trusted them to follow regulations, instead of the orders of the rich and influential.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“Your employer is among the rich and influential,” he shot back, although he was smiling politely.

“And that’s a good thing,” she said. “If he weren’t, he’d be the perfect scapegoat for this murder. A role he has been cast in before.” They had reached the entrance hall with the fireplace.

“He has also killed before,” Shacklebolt said.

“Death Eaters. Not family.”

“Some of his relatives would fall under both categories.”

“But not Mr Selwyn.” She gestured at the bowl with the Floo powder. “Help yourself.”

He didn’t move, though. “You seem certain of that.”

She didn’t ask if he meant Sirius’s innocence or Selwyn’s views. She simply nodded. “Yes, I am.”

He nodded at her, and finally walked away. She watched him until he disappeared in the green flames - he was travelling to the Ministry, she noted - then returned to the living room.

There she found Sirius and Jeanne hugging each other while Harry awkwardly tried to give them some privacy. She shook her head. “He’s left.”

“Damn pillock,” she heard Sirius curse. “Did he accuse you as well? Did he mention that you were once a suspect in the ‘attack’ on Harry?”

“No. Although he did mention my criminal record.” She shrugged. “Just trying to get a reaction, would be my bet.”

“Do you think he honestly suspects us?” Harry asked.

She shook her head. “Not unless the murderer planted false evidence to frame us. But I think they’d have taken us in for questioning in that case. Though Malfoy will certainly use this against us.”

“Bloody Death Eater,” Sirius cursed again. “Should have killed him in the battle!”

“But who would kill Jeanne’s father?” Harry wondered.

“Apart from half his family for accepting Jeanne as his heir?” Hermione replied.

“They’re not that bad,” Jeanne said. “I don’t think that more than a third of my relatives would be willing to murder mon père.” She made a noise that was half a sob and half a laugh.

Hermione nodded and forced herself to smile at the joke. She looked at Harry, then back at Sirius and Jeanne. “We’ll prepare breakfast.”

“Yes,” Harry was quick to agree.

They’d take their time doing that. Until Jeanne and Sirius had regained their composure.

And then they’d start unravelling this mess.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 24th, 1998**

“She should be here already,” Harry Potter muttered as he paced in Grimmauld Place’s entrance hall. “Her shift ended at six, and it’s now half past.”

“An Auror can’t just up and leave their work - ‘the case takes precedence’,” Hermione commented from where she was sitting on one of the benches lining the wall to the back of the hall. She didn’t add ‘you told me so’, but Harry could hear the quote marks in her sentence.

He frowned at her. “She would have sent word if she couldn’t make it.”

“Unless there’s an emergency,” Hermione responded. She sounded far too calm for his liking.

He clenched his teeth. “If there were an emergency, she would certainly have sent word.” Unless the DMLE was about to arrest Sirius and Jeanne and had ensured that Tonks couldn’t warn them. If he had to arrest a member of the Wizengamot, or another prominent member of an Old Family, he’d certainly ensure that they wouldn’t be tipped off by one of their friends or relatives. The DMLE might already be moving in. Standard procedure was to cover the area with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes, lock down the Floo connection, then start on the wards.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Just impatient,” he said. Or perhaps paranoid.

She narrowed her eyes. “No, it’s not just that.” At his look, she added: “I know you too well. So?”

He pressed his lips together before answering. “What if she isn’t here yet because the DMLE is moving to arrest us?”

“After the murder of Bagnold and Crouch, I don’t think the DMLE would do such a thing without solid evidence - which they wouldn’t have since we’re innocent,” she answered.

“Evidence can be faked,” Harry retorted. Witnesses could be manipulated, things stolen and planted, documents forged...

“And everyone knows that - especially the Wizengamot. Can you imagine what would happen if the DMLE arrested Sirius on trumped-up charges? He’s one of the richest men in Wizarding Britain, he’s a prominent member of the Wizengamot, a known hero of the war against Voldemort, and he has been wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban without trial for over a decade. Any Auror who tries to charge him would be destroying their career.” Hermione snorted. “I’d even bet that he could murder someone and get away with it unless he confessed.”

Harry didn’t know if he should feel reassured or horrified, or both. After all, as far as most of Wizarding Britain was concerned, the same went for Lucius Malfoy, with the exception that he hadn’t spent time in Azkaban.

Before he could comment on that, though, the fireplace lit up and he drew and aimed his wand. Just in case it wasn’t Tonks.

*****

Hermione Granger was tempted to tell Harry that if he truly thought that the DMLE was trying to arrest them, greeting them with his wand drawn wouldn’t be the best course of action, to say the least. But that would be nagging.

And, anyway, she wasn’t as confident as she was acting for Harry’s benefit. While she knew that Sirius and Jeanne were innocent and was quite convinced that the DMLE wouldn’t be able to make anything stick, things would get a little dicey if they searched the house and found their collection of loot in the basement. Unlike Sirius, Hermione wasn’t a known war hero, nor a pureblood member of the Wizengamot.

They needed to move the loot to a safer place, she thought. But they might be well-advised to wait until they weren’t under such scrutiny - the Daily Prophet had been speculating wildly about the murder - right after the wedding of the year, that had to be expected - and part of that had been aimed at Jeanne, Sirius and even herself, courtesy of Rita Skeeter. Who would pay for that.

“Harry? It’s me. Can I come through?” she heard Tonks’s voice from the fireplace.

“Yes,” Harry said. But she saw that he was still tense. And hadn’t stowed his wand.

Then Tonks stumbled out of the fireplace, almost falling to the ground.

“I don’t think someone impersonating her would be able to match that entrance,” Harry commented, lowering his wand.

“I know a few spells which could help you with that,” Tonks shot back. She shook her head. “And stash the wand.” Hermione heard her mutter something about Mad-Eye under her breath.

“We’re all a little on edge,” she said. “What with the DMLE apparently suspecting us of having murdered Jeanne’s father.”

“Yeah, about that.” Tonks shook her head. “They actually don’t suspect you. Not seriously.”

Hermione thought that for such good news, Tonks looked far too grim.

“Shacklebolt certainly acted like it,” Harry said, scowling.

The Auror shrugged. “He likes to cover all angles.”

“But why didn’t they tell the Prophet that?” Hermione asked.

“Better: Why don’t they suspect us?” Harry said before Tonks could answer. “We all know that we didn’t do it, but there is an obvious motive to consider.”

“Because Selwyn was killed in a dark ritual,” Tonks said. “Blood magic. Like the Dark Lord’s murders three years ago.”

Hermione froze.

*****

Harry Potter drew a sharp breath. Voldemort’s murders. Voldemort’s blood magic rituals. He remembered his visions of those atrocities. Even though he had only caught fragmented impressions, they sometimes appeared in his nightmares. But… He shook his head. “It can’t be Voldemort. We - Dumbledore and I - killed him.” He tapped his scar. “I’ve got proof, too.”

Tonks shook her head. “Well, the Unspeakables are investigating it. If this is the Dark Lord, we should know soon.”

“They took over the case?” Harry blinked; that wasn’t covered in the handbook.

Tonks shrugged. “Technically, they’re ‘lending their assistance to the DMLE’, but in reality, they’ve taken over the case.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. That made sense. He didn’t like it, though. “Moody said that the Unspeakables value their secrets more than helping the DMLE.”

“I think they’ll make an exception for the Dark Lord,” Tonks said. “I heard Croaker worked with Dumbledore against him before.”

But Dumbledore was dead, Harry thought. “Why didn’t they tell us that?”

“They want to avoid a panic,” Tonks said. “Until they have solid information - and a way to deflect blame away from the Ministry, I guess.”

“The internal affairs of the Ministry are a fascinating subject, but haven’t we a more important question to consider?” Hermione cut in. “Namely: If this wasn’t done by Voldemort, then who did it?” She wasn’t quite glaring at them, but it was clear that she was upset.

“Shouldn’t we discuss this with Sirius and Jeanne?” Harry shot back.

She bit her lower lip, presumably at his tone, but nodded. “Right. Let’s go get them.”

Tonks blinked, then agreed. “Yes. I don’t want to go over this twice.”

They found Sirius and Jeanne in Sirius’s study, reading books. Harry was sure that Hermione was as surprised as he was.

“Tonks finally arrived?” Sirius asked as soon as they opened the door.

“Yes, I did,” Tonks said. “Though if you’re going to be rude, I can leave right away.”

Jeanne stepped in before Sirius could snap back at Tonks. “Please - we’re all stressed. Let’s not fight each other.”

Sirius nodded. “Sorry.”

Tonks was a little slower but nodded as well.

Harry exchanged a brief, relieved smile with Hermione before closing the door behind them.

“So, what does the DMLE know that they haven’t told us?” Sirius asked, crossing his arms.

Tonks clenched her teeth, but Jeanne put her hand on her arm and glared at Sirius. “Chéri.”

Once more, Harry’s godfather relented - at least his huff sounded vaguely like ‘sorry’.

Tonks repeated what she had told Harry and Hermione.

And Sirius started to curse up a storm.

“But I thought…” Jeanne began.

“Voldemort’s dead,” Harry said, with as much confidence as he could muster. The Dark Lord was dead. For real. His scar healing was proof of that. Dumbledore had said so as well. And his plan had worked. “It has to be someone else.”

“It could be a copycat killer,” Hermione said. “Among muggles, there have been criminals who try to imitate infamous murderers.” She frowned. “But that would require inside information in this case. And quite the skill in the Dark Arts.”

“Or it could be a die-hard Death Eater,” Sirius said. “But why did he wait so long to strike? The last time Voldemort was defeated, Bellatrix and her friends struck right away; they didn’t go into hiding.”

“That presumes that Voldemort let others know what he was doing when he committed those murders three years ago,” Hermione said. “And who would he have trusted so much?”

“All of his inner circle are accounted for - dead, in Azkaban or living in Malfoy Manor,” Sirius said.

Harry blinked. There was something… He closed his eyes and focused on his mind. His memories. His first vision, of that bloody murder he had seen parts of. Then he gasped.

“Harry?”

“Did you have a vision?”

He shook his head. “I need to use the Pensieve.”

“You’ve got a Pensieve? Why didn’t you tell me?” Tonks exclaimed.

But Harry was already rushing for the door.

Twenty minutes later, he withdrew his head from the rune-covered basin.

“So what did you see?” Sirius asked.

“Not what I hoped,” Harry said. He closed his eyes. All that blood…

“And what did you want to see?” Hermione asked.

He sighed and looked up. “The face of Voldemort’s accomplice.”

*****

“He had an accomplice for the murders?” Hermione Granger asked. A bit more loudly than she had intended. “You didn’t mention that before.” Dumbledore hadn’t mentioned anyone either. But then, her group wouldn’t have needed to know that.

“I’m not sure that he had one, actually,” Harry admitted, “but it would make sense. We know that he recruited followers for a long time before Dumbledore lured him out into the open.”

She pondered this, but before she could say anything, Tonks butted in: “Did you see anyone in your vision?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I didn’t see anyone other than Voldemort and his victims. But that doesn’t prove anything - I had a very fragmented vision.”

Hermione cleared her throat and refrained from glaring at Tonks. “He might not have wanted to let anyone know anything about these rituals - not even his trusted followers. Malfoy didn’t know about them, did he?”

Sirius, who was holding Jeanne’s hand, scoffed. “He claims that he didn’t know anything.”

“Dumbledore would have told us if he had more information about the rituals,” Harry said. “And I don’t think he let Malfoy lie to him. More importantly, though: If Voldemort took no one into his confidence, then how would any of his followers know about this ritual? I don’t think he hid his notes in easily found locations.”

“They might not know about it,” Tonks said, “and this could simply be an attempt to copy him without actually using the same spells and rituals.”

“Which poses the question: What’s the goal of the murderer?” Sirius said. “Why did he kill Jeanne’s father? Is this another attempt to frame me?”

“If it is then they did a rather bad job,” Tonks said. “Other than the motive, there wasn’t anything pointing at you.” She must have noticed the glares from everyone else since she quickly added: “And the motive itself is weak as well, of course.”

“It’s only weak if you don’t think like my family,” Sirius said. “Mother would have approved of killing the in-laws to inherit their wealth. Still doesn’t excuse Shacklebolt, though.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if Sirius was joking or not. She bit her lower lip. “If it’s not an attempt to frame you, then it means that Jeanne’s father was the target. Of course, they could still try to frame someone for their crime.”

“Did your father have enemies?” Harry asked. He sounded like a detective, Hermione thought.

Jeanne sighed. “He was the head of an Old Family, so of course. His acknowledgement of me wasn’t very popular among my relatives.”

“But killing him at this point makes no sense,” Hermione said. “His wealth will go to you, not to his next heir.” And should Jeanne die, her heirs - her mother - would be the next in line.

“They might simply be after the position of Head of the Selwyn Family,” Sirius said. Which, Hermione knew, Jeanne couldn’t inherit. Not married to another head of an Old Family. Which meant she’d inherit her father’s personal wealth, but not the family fortune. Of course, there were ways around that restriction - but they required time. “Jeanne’s cousin Martin is in line for that, last I heard,” Sirius went on, “but he’d be a fool to commit murder.”

“My cousin isn’t that stupid,” Jeanne said.

“Could it be someone else in line hoping to implicate Martin and replace him?” Hermione asked.

“Unlikely,” Tonks said. “It would take a conviction to remove Martin.”

Or another dark curse, Hermione thought. After her experiences in the fight against Voldemort, she didn’t doubt that many members of the Old Families would be willing to go to such lengths.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so either. This murder draws far too much attention for such a plot. They even called in the Unspeakables. No, I think this is the work of a follower of Voldemort. Someone who helped him with his rituals. Someone who wants to scare Britain by using the Dark Lord’s own spells and rituals. And who has a grudge against us for killing his Master.”

Hermione nodded - she had to admit that Harry had a point there.

“And against Malfoy,” Sirius pointed out. “He betrayed Voldemort, after all. Cursed him in the back. I wonder if Malfoy will push for more Aurors working on this case.”

Tonks snorted. “I bet he’s already talking to Fudge.”

“Back to the case,” Hermione said. “How did the murderer reach his victim?” She knew that the man’s manor would have been protected by old wards. Old and powerful - and lethal ones. “Did he break through the wards? Or did he have help? Or did Mr Selwyn know him and let him inside?”

“The Corps is still investigating,” Tonks said.

Hermione noted that the Auror hadn’t said if she would share the results of that investigation with them. She might have to look into alternative ways to access that information, if Tonks proved uncooperative. But that could wait. And speaking of waiting… “If this was a trusted Death Eater, why did they wait so long until the murder? Did any of the Death Eaters escape the battle?”

Sirius shook his head. “None of the Death Eaters who fought escaped. But some suspected spies went into hiding.”

“He might have been busy planning this. Preparing his revenge,” Harry said. “Which means that this is just the start.”

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, August 26th, 1998**

Harry Potter wondered if it would be considered a faux pas to cast a cleaning charm on the seat in the Leaky Cauldron before sitting down. Even after years of living with Sirius, he still didn’t know everything about wizarding etiquette. For all his vitriolic remarks about his parents and his tales of teenage rebellion, Sirius had been raised as a pureblood scion of an Old Family. As a result, Harry knew how to behave among the tiny upper class of Wizarding Britain, but his knowledge of how to act in places like the Leaky Cauldron without appearing to be a snob was somewhat spotty. That almost everyone in the pub was staring at him didn’t help, of course. Sometimes his fame wasn’t as helpful as it should be.

And he didn’t want to get his robes stained and acquire a reputation as a slob or fool, either. Fortunately, Moody’s training helped. He drew his wand to cast a cleaning charm on his glasses and used that as cover to discreetly clean his seat as well.

Fortunately, the glasses and silverware looked clean. Or cleaner. He still frowned at Tonks when she appeared.

“What’s wrong?” Tonks asked. “I’m only five minutes late.” She looked at the clock on the wall, then at her watch. “Alright, ten minutes.”

“It’s not that,” Harry said, after ordering and casting a privacy charm. “I’m just wondering why we couldn’t have met in Grimmauld Place.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that this is good training for you since Aurors often eat their lunches here?” Tonks beamed at him.

“No,” Harry said and narrowed his eyes at her.

She sighed. “Moody ruined you. Future rookie Aurors are supposed to be gullible when talking to grizzled veterans like me.”

He didn’t take the bait and remark that she was but a few years older than he was - the last time he had done that, she had changed her appearance into a female version of Moody. Instead, he simply looked at her. “So, why are we here?”

“Well, I like their Wednesday special meat pie,” Tonks said. “But honestly? I wanted to avoid Sirius. His temper’s showing and I don’t want to take the blame for whatever Shacklebolt has done wrong in Sirius’s opinion.”

Harry nodded. Sirius had been in a bad mood ever since the murder - understandable, but unpleasant.

“And I wanted to tease the rookie a little,” she added with a grin.

He snorted. “There should be plenty of other rookies to pick from and on.”

“More than expected,” Tonks said, grinning. “As soon as he heard that the murder was very similar to the Dark Lord’s killings, Malfoy’s been pressuring Fudge to increase the number of Aurors.”

Harry leaned forward, gently pushing his glass to the side. “Does that mean that the Unspeakables verified the curses used?” He already knew that Selwyn had been discovered by his house-elf, who had also been the last one to see him alive.

She shook her head. “No. They haven’t had any results yet. Or so they claim. But the mere possibility was enough for our ‘brave pureblood hero’ to completely reverse his stance on hiring. Now he’s pushing for additional funding.”

“Madam Bones must be ecstatic,” Harry remarked.

Tonks grinned widely. “Ah, there’s the rookie mistake I expected! No Auror calls her ‘Madam’ unless it’s to her face. It’s always ‘Bones’ when she’s not around.”

Harry nodded.

“Of course, it won’t help you fit in that much,” Tonks went on. “You’re the Boy-Who-Lived - you won’t be just another Auror.”

“I don’t want to be just another Auror,” Harry said. He saw her eyes widen in surprise. “I don’t want to be another cog in the Ministry, either getting greased or blocked by whoever controls the Wizengamot. I want to ensure that what happened to Sirius and Hermione won’t happen to anyone else. And that gold can’t buy an acquittal.” He smiled. “And I think my fame will be helpful there.”

Tonks snorted. “And Sirius’s gold.”

He shrugged. “Sirius alone won’t be able to deal with Malfoy. He can check him in the Wizengamot, but that won’t be enough to bring him to justice.”

“He got a pardon for his spying for Dumbledore,” she pointed out.

“For his past crimes. Do you think he has really turned over a new leaf?” He raised his eyebrows.

She snorted. “No. But whatever he’s doing, he’ll have it buried so deep, you won’t uncover it easily. He’s got friends in every department and most people think he’s a brave hero.”

Harry shrugged. “Voldemort had spies in the entire Ministry and most people thought that he was invincible.”

“Malfoy won’t be as stupid as to openly attack you in the Ministry,” Tonks retorted.

“Not with his wand, at least,” Harry said. “But I know that. I’m not planning on duelling him.”

Tonks grimaced; obviously, she didn’t have that much confidence in him.

“Anyway,” he said after a moment, “did you make inquiries to France and Prussia about similar murders?”

“I think that if there had been any such murders, we would have read about them in the Tribune Magique or the Hexen-Anzeiger,” Tonks said.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Harry leaned forward.

“You’re already acting far too much like Moody,” she complained. “Whoever gets to train you won’t be happy.”

He shrugged. “They can complain to Moody.”

Tonks shook her head. “I can tell things will be interesting with you in the Corps.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I really shouldn’t.”

He didn’t grin, though he felt like doing so. He slowly nodded instead.

“Shacklebolt has sent formal inquiries to Prussia, France and whatever passes for Ministries in the Balkans,” Tonks said. “Don’t expect much, though - international cooperation has suffered greatly since Dumbledore’s death.”

“Why did that happen?”

“To be precise, international cooperation with Britain has suffered; I don’t know how other countries’ relations with each other have fared.” Tonks spread her hands, almost knocking over her own glass. “It seems some countries are glad that Britain doesn’t have the most powerful wizard in the world around any more. His views of the Dark Arts weren’t that popular at Durmstrang, for example, but no one was willing to stand up to the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald.”

“Great,” Harry muttered. “Politics again.”

“Get used to it, rookie,” Tonks said. Her smile looked forced, though.

Then lunch was served, and Harry discovered that he really didn’t like the special meat pie. At least his reaction made Tonks laugh.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, August 28th, 1998**

Hermione Granger smiled when the lift which had carried her from the Wizengamot opened into the Atrium. She didn’t feel like smiling, but appearances had to be upheld. Sirius’s personal secretary - and co-author of his policies - had to appear confident, composed and polite at all times, or his enemies would try to use such a perceived weakness.

Her smile grew rather cold, though, when she spotted Skeeter waiting in the Atrium. And when that odious witch started walking towards her, she clenched her teeth and reminded herself that she couldn’t curse the witch, no matter how justified her grievance was.

“Miss Granger, a word!” the witch called out as soon as she was near Hermione.

“I’m sorry, Miss Skeeter, but I’m not at liberty to comment on my employer’s policies. Or his private life,” she said, her own smile as fake as Skeeter’s.

“And what about his past? Are you willing to comment on the fact that he is once again a suspect in a murder case? And my sources tell me that there are chilling similarities to other unsolved murders for which he was a suspect - the same curses were used!”

Hermione frowned. She should just refuse to comment - it wouldn’t be the first time Skeeter would twist such a refusal into a near-confession of guilt. “The DMLE doesn’t suspect Mr Black.”

Skeeter smiled patronisingly. “Not officially, at least.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Are you accusing the DMLE of colluding with a suspect? I believe that Madam Bones would be interested to know on what evidence you base your accusation.”

“It’s merely an obvious suspicion in light of the unusual secrecy surrounding this case. That is usually a sign that someone powerful is involved. Given your close personal relationship with him, which has continued even after his marriage, you would know, wouldn’t you?” Skeeter’s smile grew sickly sweet. “I’m speaking of your position as his secretary, of course.”

Hermione scoffed. “If your sources are as high placed as you claim, then you’d know the reason for the secrecy.” The Minister wanted to avoid causing a panic about a possible return of the Dark Lord. It was a doomed effort and, as Skeeter demonstrated, the attempts at secrecy would only worsen the situation.

“And do you know the reason?” Skeeter looked so eager, Hermione almost expected her to drool.

“No comment,” Hermione replied and walked past the witch, towards the Floo connections. As if she were stupid enough to tell Skeeter anything! If anyone were to break the secret publicly, it wouldn’t be her; Sirius’s enemies wouldn’t be able to pin that on her.

As soon as she stepped out of the fireplace in Grimmauld Place her smile vanished. Skeeter! Hermione hissed. She wanted to turn the evil muckraker into a rat and hunt her down. Play with her until she was too exhausted to fight any more, then snap her neck with a quick bite…

She shook her head. Such bloody fantasies were useless. She wouldn’t kill Skeeter - she would ruin her.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, August 29th, 1998**

“And this is your room,” Harry Potter said as he opened the door. “It’s rather bare right now, but Sirius has a stash of furniture in the attic if you want anything.”

“Or I can conjure it,” Ron said as he put down his trunk and looked around. “But it looks like it has all the essentials - bed, desk, armoire, bookshelves and plenty of space for posters.”

Harry laughed. “I told Sirius that we should have turned the walls orange.”

“Yes!” Luna exclaimed. “Orange walls - we could make them look like a sunset.” She jumped on the bed and laid down on her back, limbs spread. “It’s couple-sized!” She beamed at them. “We will sleep much more comfortably here. Although I’ll miss using you as a pillow,” she added with a frown.

“You can still use me as a pillow whenever you want,” Ron said, smiling at her.

Harry felt a stab of jealousy. Those two were just so… He clenched his teeth. He wanted a relationship like that as well. Not the sex. The closeness. The trust. The love.

“No, I can’t!” Luna said.

Harry blinked. What?

“In two days, I’ll be at Hogwarts and you’ll start your Auror career.” She frowned. “You should become an undercover Auror at Hogwarts!”

“I don’t think they let rookie Aurors pick their own investigations,” Ron said with a smile as he sat down on the bed.

“But any experienced Aurors would be too old to pass as a student.” Luna sat up and hugged Ron from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Can’t you do something, Harry? Use your fame to get him assigned to Hogwarts? Or at least Hogsmeade?”

Harry laughed, even though he wasn’t sure just how serious Luna was. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can do anything about it either.”

“It’s just a few months until the holidays,” Ron said, turning around and pulling her into his lap. “And I’ll visit every Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Unless we’ve got a weekend shift,” Harry cut in.

Luna gasped and Ron glared at him. “We’ll trade shifts in that case. Even if we have to offer double shifts, I’ll be in Hogsmeade for you.”

Harry wanted to protest but held his tongue. What was a little overtime compared to the happiness of his friends?

Footsteps outside - no one had bothered to close the door - made him turn around. Who would… Ah!

Hermione entered with a smile that matched his. She was still in her work robes, he noticed. Expensive, but not too stylish. And not tight enough, he thought - as long as that murderer remained at large, they needed to be ready for an attack. He’d have to talk to her about more defence lessons. He should have done that as soon as he had seen her N.E.W.T. results.

“Hi, Ron. Hi, Luna. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you arrived - work ran late at the Wizengamot. I brought biscuits, though.” Hermione presented a tray. “Kreacher made them,” she said before Harry could ask. “He is very happy to have proper pureblood guests in the house. He told me that twice,” she added with a frown.

Harry hoped he would be present when the cantankerous old elf discovered just how ‘proper’ Luna and Ron were. He smiled as he imagined Kreacher’s reaction. On the other hand, if he thought of what he had heard about the ‘eccentricities’ of Sirius’s ancestors… maybe Kreacher would consider them a proper pureblood couple.

He couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing and pushed the thought away. Now that Hermione had arrived, he didn’t feel like a fifth wheel any more.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 1st, 1998**

“I don’t want to go!” Luna whined.

“I don’t want you to go. But you have to.”

Ron was still hugging her. Or again - they had been at it for ten minutes already. Hermione Granger had checked. She was just about to clear her throat and tell the loving couple that the Hogwarts Express would have already left if they didn’t finish when Luna blinked and said: “I don’t think that I really have to, actually. I could stay here and study - Hermione did that, too. I could study with her tutor!”

Hermione struggled not to wince. That would be a disaster. She shook her head. “As much as I hate to say it, a tutor can’t replace Hogwarts. You will not do as well at your N.E.W.T.s if you skip this year, Luna. No matter how hard you study, trust me.” Not that she thought the witch would study that hard if she stayed in London with Ron.

“But I think it would be worth it!” Luna retorted. “A year with Ron, instead of a year at Hogwarts without him…” She sighed and looked so miserable, even Hermione considered her proposal for a moment.

Only for a moment, though. “He’ll be very busy with his job. New employees, especially in such positions, are usually given a lot of work and the worst shifts.” Mr Fletcher had taught her to plan heists so they happened during shifts usually taken by the inexperienced new Aurors. Which meant the graveyard shifts. She leaned forward. “And since my tutor wouldn’t be teaching you at night, when Ron’s often likely to be working, you wouldn’t have much more time here than if you were at Hogwarts.” She glared at Ron so he wouldn’t contradict her.

Fortunately, Harry chimed in, supporting her. “She’s right. We’ll be buried in work.”

“Really?” Luna said, sounding as if she were close to tears.

“Really,” Harry confirmed. “Now let’s go - we have a train to catch.”

Luna perked up. “You’re coming with us to Hogwarts?” She beamed at them.

Hermione closed her eyes as Harry tried to explain what he had meant. Ron was one of her best friends, and anyone with a heart had to like Luna once they knew her, but together, they were a little much at times.

Especially for a witch who was - currently, mind you, not forever - single. Not that she would have time for a boyfriend with her work, her real work and now that murderer to worry about. She glanced at Harry while Luna and Ron hugged each other again. Knowing that he was in the same situation as herself made her feel a little better, no matter how selfish that was.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 2nd, 1998**

This is it, Harry Potter thought, as he and Ron entered the Ministry. This was the day they’d become Aurors. Rookies, of course, but still members of the Auror Corps. They just had to take the entrance exam. Which would be a breeze - they had been trained by the best Auror in the Ministry. The most experienced as well. They had studied for over a year for this. Both of them had earned Outstandings in Defence N.E.W.T.s. They had actual combat experience. There was no reason to be nervous. None.

And yet, he was nervous. The exams might be rigged to keep them out of the Ministry. It wasn’t very likely, but Harry was sure that Umbridge would try such a ploy if she thought she could get away with it. It wouldn’t work, of course - Sirius would be able to set things straight - but Harry and Ron would be known as the Aurors who had had to call on a Wizengamot member to enter the Corps. And that reputation wouldn’t help him achieve his goals at all.

“Calm down, mate,” he heard Ron whisper, despite their privacy spell. “We’ve got this.”

Harry glanced at his friend. Ron was smiling, but… he wasn’t really smiling. “You’re nervous too, aren’t you?” Harry whispered.

Ron snorted. “Of course I am. So much is hanging on this. Our plans, our careers, maybe our very lives - I don’t know what Mum would do if I failed this right after I moved out. Granted, I could work for Xenophilius, but…” he grimaced. “We better pass, you hear me?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.” He checked the letter he had received in response to his application. “We’re to go to the third floor, to the main conference room.” He snorted. “Wanna bet that they use the same uncomfortable chairs they did for our N.E.W.T.s?”

Ron just laughed.

They reached the room with a few minutes to spare - Hermione had wanted them to head to the Ministry half an hour early so that they wouldn’t be late no matter what might happen, but neither Ron nor Harry had fancied sitting in the examination room for that long, waiting and growing more and more nervous.

As expected, there were other candidates present. And, as expected, most of them were a year or two older than Harry - even though not everyone did the ‘Grand Tour’ any more, many wizards and witches still took a year off between leaving Hogwarts and entering the Ministry. Mainly those who could afford it, of course.

The one candidate from their year was a surprise, though.

Theo Nott. Slytherin.

For a moment, Harry wondered how to handle this. If Nott passed the exam, then they’d all be Aurors instead of a Slytherin and two Gryffindors. Perpetuating their school rivalry didn’t seem smart or mature to Harry. Nott hadn’t been with Malfoy that often anyway.

That didn’t mean that they had to be overly friendly, of course. “Nott.” Harry nodded at him.

“Potter. Weasley.” Nott didn’t quite sneer, but he came close.

“Nott. Fancy seeing you here,” Ron said. “Didn’t think you wanted to become an Auror.”

“Didn’t you want to become a reporter?” Nott retorted. “Or did you break up with Lovegood because she’ll be at Hogwarts for her seventh year?”

“Who do you think I am? Zabini?” Ron shot back. He didn’t look mad, to Harry’s relief.

“No, I think you’re Potter’s shadow.”

Harry clenched his teeth. What was the git implying? That Harry would do such a callous thing? He would… Harry narrowed his eyes at Nott. “Trying to provoke us into hexing you so you can get us thrown out?” He shook his head. “Seems you didn’t learn anything from Slughorn. Pity.” He turned away.

“Well, we’re off to a great start,” Ron said as they took their seats. “Bloody Slytherins.”

Harry shrugged. At least he wasn’t feeling nervous any more.

They’d show the git soon enough just what they’d learned from Moody.

*****

 


	35. Baptism of Fire

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 2nd, 1998**

“This concludes the practical part of the exam. Thank you, Mr Nott,” Archibald Brocktuckle said with the ease of long practice as he gathered the notes he had taken during the young wizard’s test.

“When will we receive our results?”

That, too, was a question almost everyone asked. Archie smiled. “You will be informed within a few days.”

Nott nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. Nott was from an Old Family, so he was likely aware that Archie wouldn’t be spending most of that time grading the tests of the ten candidates, but rather dealing with all the people who wanted to talk to him about one candidate or another who might have been a little too nervous when taking the test. They were usually important and generous people. And so Archie usually understood quite well that a slightly less than impressive showing at the entrance exam didn’t mean that a candidate was actually unfit for the position - after a few years in the Corps, even the somewhat less skilled wizards and witches could do their job well enough.

He looked at the next name on the list and sighed. Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Vanquisher of Voldemort. And the most controversial candidate this year. Madam Umbridge had been quite clear that the boy should receive no favouritism due to his fame or family. Which meant she wanted Archie to fail him.

He snorted. As if he’d sacrifice himself for Umbridge’s plots. If he failed Potter, Archie would be wrecking his own career. Umbridge certainly wouldn’t lift a finger to help him, and Black would crush him. Maybe literally - Archie shuddered, remembering the rumours about Selwyn’s murder.

No, Archie would even be quite understanding if the boy should not live up to his reputation - although, given what Archie had heard about the boy’s N.E.W.T.s, that was very unlikely. And he’d keep a copy of his paperwork sealed and filed. Just in case there were discrepancies. After all, Umbridge would be aware that she couldn’t actually stop Potter from becoming an Auror - but she could damage the boy’s reputation in the process.

He arranged his notes, then stood and went to open the door. “Mr Potter?”

The Boy-Who-Lived stood. “Yes.”

“I’m ready for you now.”

*****

Archibald Browtuckle stared at the remains of the target dummy, then at Potter. “Why did you break it _after_ hitting it with a Stunner?” He had asked for a non-lethal takedown of a suspect, not a kill.

Potter looked puzzled for a moment. “Well, it didn’t have actual limbs to break after stunning it.”

“What?”

“Breaking the target’s limbs means that even if an ally revives them, they’ll still be neutralised as a threat.” Potter nodded. “That’s standard procedure when dealing with dark wizards.”

Archie blinked. That most certainly wasn’t the standard procedure!

He was about to tell the boy that when Potter went on. “Well, it’s not in the book, but it’s what Moody taught me.”

“Moody? Mad-Eye Moody?” Archie managed to maintain his composure - with an effort. He had heard that rumour, but had dismissed it. “He taught you?”

Potter nodded. “Me and Ron - Ron Weasley.”

The next name on the list. “What exactly did he teach you?”

Potter smiled. “Everything.”

Archie felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

*****

An hour later, Archibald Brocktuckle was done with the exams and made his way to the floor’s break area. He needed a cuppa. Badly.

“Hey, Archie! Already done with the kids?”

Archie turned his head and suppressed a groan. Dawlish. “Yes,” he replied.

“How did it go? Did Potter live up to his reputation?”

Archie snorted. “Whoever gets to show him the ropes is in for a treat,” he said.

Dawlish frowned. “Why? Is he as arrogant as some claim?”

Archie shook his head. “No. Quite polite and respectful, actually.” He waited a moment, then cut Dawlish off right before the other man could ask another question. “But he was trained in how to be an Auror by Mad-Eye.”

Dawlish started to curse quite colourfully. Archie didn’t mind - he used the opportunity to get his cuppa. And he was very happy about the fact that as a desk-bound Auror - unlike Dawlish - he wouldn’t have to deal with Potter.

*****

**London, Greenwich, September 2nd, 1998**

“Hello, Mr Fletcher,” Hermione Granger said as she entered her tutor’s flat.

“Hi, Hermione.” Fletcher frowned. “I guess there’s no news regarding Selwyn’s murder.”

Hermione frowned. “Was I that obvious?” She had thought that she had hidden her frustration at the DMLE’s lack of progress well.

“No.” He grinned. “But I know you - if there had been any progress, you would have already told me everything.”

Hermione couldn’t dispute that. But she consoled herself with the thought she wasn’t a bad actress - her tutor simply knew her too well. She sighed. “No, there isn’t any news. The Unspeakables still haven’t released any information, and the DMLE hasn’t found out anything. We checked multiple sources,” she added before he could ask. “Jeanne has asked her mother if there have been similar crimes in France, but she doesn’t recall hearing or reading about any.”

He nodded. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck with my contact in Prussia either.” He shrugged. “Of course, he isn’t exactly working for the Ministry, so the DMLE’s formal enquiry might have more success.” He shrugged. “As I told you, Shacklebolt is a good Auror. Pain in the ass, and too smug for his own good, but competent. He might be able to get help from them.”

Hermione doubted that, knowing what she did about international politics. But perhaps the Prussians were still ashamed enough of how easily they had fallen to, and then in with, Grindelwald to cooperate when it concerned the Dark Lord. Perhaps. She shrugged. “What about the rest of Germany?” Apart from Magical Prussia, there were a lot of other magical countries in Germany, after all.

He laughed. “Bavaria is the only other country there that has an effective Ministry. The others…” He shook his head. “They’re far too small. But their rulers would loathe surrendering their power to the Prussian or Bavarian Governments.”

“Typical,” Hermione said, shaking her head. Politics were the same everywhere. “So all we can do is hope for the best.” She sat down at her usual place at his table and tried not to show how much she hated this. Not that it would fool her tutor.

“Your friends are taking the Auror entrance exams today, right?”

She looked up from her magazine. “Yes.” And both of them had been more nervous than they had been willing to admit, in her opinion.

“Black boasted that Potter would blow the testers away.”

“Probably literally, if a duel is part of the test,” Hermione said. Which, according to all the information she had helped gather, had gone out of style in the last few decades. “He’s that good in Defence, and Ron’s almost as good.” And she wasn’t, as much as she hated to admit that - even to herself.

He nodded, slowly. “Good enough to be a problem for you, once you go after Malfoy?”

Hermione shook her head. “No.” They were better in a fight, but that wouldn’t help them - Hermione wouldn’t be seen in the first place. And it was unlikely that they would even be assigned to that case, anyway. “And Harry will be more interested in investigating Malfoy than a thief, anyway.”

Mr Fletcher nodded, but Hermione couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look like he was entirely confident in her assessment - she knew him well, too, after all.

She’d show him, though. She was a cat - born to prowl in the night. No dog or Auror would ever catch her.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 2nd, 1998**

“Hi, Harry! Hi, Ron!”

“Hi, Hermione.” Harry Potter didn’t draw his wand, but he came close as his best female friend suddenly appeared in the hallway.

“Oi! Don’t ambush us like that!” Apparently, Ron had almost drawn his wand too.

Hermione dismissed the complaint with a gesture and a grin. “I trust you not to curse me. How did your entrance exams go?”

Ron muttered something about priorities, but Harry nodded and said: “They went very well. I think we impressed the examiner.”

Ron chuckled. “You said he paled when you told him about Moody training us.”

“He did,” Harry confirmed. “I would have expected that to be known, though.”

“He might not have taken it seriously,” Ron said, shrugging. “Or someone lied to him about it - Percy complains about that a lot. Says people keep trying to sabotage him.”

“They’ll try that with you as well,” Hermione pointed out.

“Trust no one, as Moody said.” Harry snorted. “But it’ll probably go beyond the usual rookie hazing.”

“They’ll try,” Ron said as he shrugged again.

“Aren’t you supposed to trust the other Aurors to have your back?” Hermione asked.

“Moody said that that’s a good way to get killed,” Harry explained. “Even if someone doesn’t plan to curse you in the back, odds are they’re incompetent.”

“Moody’s standards are a little high, though,” Ron cut in.

“And he sounds more than a little paranoid,” Hermione added with a frown.

“He’s still alive after two wars against Voldemort. And he taught us to stay alive,” Harry retorted. “Incidentally, we’ll need to step up your training, too.”

“What?” Hermione stared at him.

“Selwyn’s murderer could go after you next. You need to be ready to defend yourself,” Harry said.

“I am.” Hermione pursed her lips and glared at him. “You trained me, remember?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t finish your training, so Sirius took over. I didn’t push the matter after Voldemort and most of his followers were dead, but now?” Harry shook his head. “You only received an Acceptable in your Defence N.E.W.T.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Ron added, with a grin.

Harry glared at him. This wasn’t a joking matter. He looked at Hermione. “Come on! We can do some training before dinner. You’ll need to change into more closely fitting clothes, too. Those robes are far too loose.”

At least she had the right attitude, he thought, when he noticed how she clenched her teeth and glared at him.

*****

If she ever got the drop on that murderer, she would kill him herself, Hermione Granger swore as she found herself once again sprawled on the stone floor of Grimmauld Place’s duelling chamber - which, she noted, should be renamed the ‘torture chamber’. It was all that unknown killer’s fault that she was currently being tortured. His, and her well-meaning, but mistaken, best friend’s. Who was in danger of losing that title if he continued hitting her with his uncannily accurate Stinging Hexes! She knew that even if she hadn’t been sandbagging, she would have been hit far too often for her comfort. Far too often for her pride, too.

“That was better, but not good enough,” Harry said. “Let’s try that again.”

She closed her eyes and groaned. “I’ll be too sore to eat dinner.” She wasn’t whining. She was just expressing her pain and misery. Who would be so callous as to keep torturing her like this?

Harry, apparently. “You’ll be fine,” he said, and when she raised her head to look at him, he was smiling at her and offering her his hand.

She smiled back and reached up, but then froze before she actually touched him. “This isn’t one of those ‘never trust your opponent’ lessons, is it?” she asked with narrowed eyes. The dog had done that and had said Moody was training Harry like that. If Harry were copying him...

He shook his head. “No, no. Not even Moody went that far. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“You already did,” she mumbled, but she took his hand and let him help her up.

He had a surprisingly gentle grip, she noticed, for someone who had spent the last ten minutes hexing her in various ways. It seemed not even a paranoid old Auror like Moody could change him too much. The duelling robes he was wearing suited him well, too. Much better than the Auror robes he’d soon be wearing, she was certain.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, his smile slipping a little at her words. “I just want you to be safe.”

She felt guilty - he just wanted the best for her. “I know, and I understand,” she said, squeezing his hand to reassure him before she released it. “I’m just griping. It’s all Sirius’s fault anyway.”

He tilted his head slightly, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

She tried to sound as honest as she could. “If he had trained me properly, you wouldn’t have to do this now.”

That would teach the dog to lie to her about Moody’s training methods!

*****

“And I’ll have words with him about that, trust me,” Harry Potter said to his best female friend. “But you aren’t blameless, are you?”

“It’s the teacher’s responsibility to ensure their students learn what they need.” She pouted at him, which was a surprisingly cute expression on her.

He was used to that look, though, if not from her. Parvati had pouted too. And Romilda. He forced the memories of his ex-girlfriends away. “So, when you helped us study back in our first year, it was your fault when we didn’t do better on the tests?”

Now she was frowning at him, and he chuckled. “Technically, I wasn’t your _teacher_.”

“Tutor, teacher…” Harry shrugged. He quickly grew serious again, though. “It doesn’t really matter whose fault it was, though. What matters is that we do it properly this time.” He wouldn’t leave her unable to defend herself with a murderer on the loose.

“We?”

“You and me,” he answered. Ron was busy talking to Luna through the mirror Sirius had given them and Harry had a feeling that his friend would be doing that in his spare time quite often. But that was OK - Harry didn’t really need help training Hermione anyway.

She nodded. “It’s a good thing we’re doing this in private,” she said. “If people heard that we were spending our evenings together like this, there would be even more rumours about us having an affair.” And with a surprisingly saucy grin, she pointed at her clothes, which had been slightly torn up during their last bout, and added: “Especially if you keep wrecking my clothes in training.”

Harry managed to swallow the first response that he thought of - if he used one of Sirius’s lines on Hermione… Instead, he shook his head. “Technically, you damaged them while you were attempting to dodge my hexes.” On a whim, he drew his wand and mended her robes. “But they’re fixed now.”

He was slightly annoyed to discover that she didn’t seem to trust his skill with the Mending Charm and proceeded to pat herself down to check if he had missed a rip or tear. Annoyed, but also distracted - Hermione really looked far more attractive in tighter robes.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 8th, 1998**

“...do hereby swear to faithfully serve and defend Wizarding Britain and uphold and maintain the laws of our country as an Auror, with magic as my witness.”

Harry Potter lowered his wand from where he had held it in front of him in a salute.

Bones gave him a hard stare as she nodded at him. “Rejoin the formation, _Auror_ Potter!” she ordered, and Harry took a step back into the line formed by the other new Aurors.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!” Bones called the next - and last - new Auror.

Harry glanced to his right as Ron took a step forward, saluted their new superior with his wand and held his pose.

“Mr Weasley, do you swear to faithfully serve and defend Wizarding Britain and uphold and maintain the laws of our country as an Auror?”

“I, Ronald Bilius Weasley, do hereby swear to faithfully serve and defend Wizarding Britain and uphold and maintain the laws of our country as an Auror, with magic as my witness.”

Having heard it nine times now from Bones, and eight times from his fellow Aurors, the oath didn’t sound as impressive any more or, at least, Harry thought so. He didn’t show even a hint of that, of course. Not when Bones was paying such close attention.

“Rejoin the formation, _Auror_ Weasley!”

Bones let them wait for a few seconds, looking them over, before she spoke. Harry thought that she was probably trying to make them nervous. But she was no Moody.

“You are now Aurors, sworn to uphold and maintain our laws. You will do your duty no matter the cost. Faithfully, diligently and honestly. You will neither favour nor discriminate against anyone, but conduct yourself in the impeccable manner expected from every member of the Auror Corps. As long as you are wearing those red robes, it doesn’t matter who your parents are, nor does it matter which house you were in at Hogwarts. You’re Aurors first and foremost - and you will not let your comrades-in-arms down. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Harry answered, together with everyone else - not that he was looking at them; he was keeping his attention on Bones.

“Very well.” She gave them another brief nod. “Head Auror Scrimgeour will give your first assignments. Dismissed.”

As soon as Bones and the Ministry clerks who had served as witnesses had left the room, one of the other new Aurors - Elton Smith, who was not part of the main branch of that family, as far as Harry knew - spoke up. “Wow, talk about a warm welcome. I thought she would curse us all if we didn’t agree as loudly as we could.”

“She’s uptight, but not that bad, or so I heard,” Nott said. “Something, or someone, must have provoked her.” He made a point of looking at Harry.

Harry smiled at him, showing his teeth. “Unlike some others, she probably hasn’t forgotten just how many Death Eaters were found amongst the Ministry’s ranks last year.”

“I thought she was downright friendly,” Ron added with a grin. “Compared to Moody, at least. He would have sent a few curses at us just to test our reflexes.”

Nott rolled his eyes in a rather theatrical fashion. “Couldn’t go for five minutes without mentioning how you defeated the Dark Lord, could you? Or how you were trained by Mad-Eye Moody himself?” He scoffed.

Harry raised his eyebrows at the former Slytherin. “Really, Nott? You’re the one who keeps trying to make this all about me.” He shook his head. “This is exactly what Bones was telling us: Stop acting as if we were still at Hogwarts. You’re an Auror now, not a Slytherin trying to impress his friends by taunting the Gryffindors.”

“And we’ve got far more important things to worry about than your fragile ego. We’re dealing with murderers and dark wizards,” Ron chimed in. “You think Bones was angry?” He snorted. “Did Snape coddle you lot that much? We’re not at school any more. If you can’t deal with Bones not inviting you to tea and pumpkin juice, then you might not be cut out for this job.” He scoffed. “And you can bet that she won’t tolerate that kind of attitude.”

“Bones also won’t tolerate you trying to take the law into your own hands,” Nott shot back. “Don’t think being the Boy-Who-Lived will protect you.”

“I’m not going to take the law into my own hands,” Harry replied, staring at Nott, “but I’ll be doing what we all just swore to do: Enforce the law no matter who is involved.”

Nott clenched his teeth - Harry could see his jaw muscles twitch - but he couldn’t say anything against that.

Bathilda Meringworth, one of the new Aurors who had been a year above Harry at Hogwarts, cleared her throat. “So, how about we don’t keep the Head Auror waiting?”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Otherwise we risk getting even worse duties than new Aurors usually do.”

“Oh?” Nott didn’t quite sneer like Malfoy, but he came close. “Afraid that you won’t get special treatment?”

“Shouldn’t that be your line?” Ron shook his head. “Let’s go before Nott makes us all late.”

“Yeah.” Harry followed his friend while Nott protested that it wasn’t his fault but theirs. But Harry didn’t think many were listening.

A few minutes later, Bathilda knocked on the door to the Head Auror’s office.

“Enter!” Harry heard Scrimgeour briskly call through the door.

Bathilda hesitated for just a moment, then opened the door.

“Ah, there you are!” The Head Auror was smiling at them, but in a polite, not a friendly, way. He stood as they lined up in front of his desk - a little like gathering in the Headmaster’s office, Harry thought. Although he’d never been there with so many others. “Welcome to the Corps!” Scrimgeour said and came around his desk to shake their hands. He had a firm grip, but his smile never really grew warm. “I’m glad to see so many promising young wizards and witches joining us.”

“We’re glad to be here,” Harry said.

“I’ve no doubt about that.” Scrimgeour nodded at him, then at Ron. “You two, more than anyone else, are aware of what becoming an Auror ultimately means - the willingness to risk your lives fighting dark wizards.” His smile vanished. “We do a lot more than hunting dark wizards. We patrol the streets, we help when disaster strikes, we investigate thefts and other petty crimes and we intervene when things in a pub or at a Quidditch Match get out of hand. But the odds are that all of you will be facing another wizard trying to kill you at some point in your career. As the last conflict proved, you can’t even count on being safe inside the Ministry.” He nodded again. “That means every Auror is expected to train regularly to keep sharp. I don’t care if you end up in supply or the archives - as long as you wear these red robes, you will live up to what they stand for.”

“Yes, sir!” Harry and Ron said in unison, followed a fraction of a second later by the slower rookies.

Scrimgeour didn’t comment on their ragged performance. “The Corps has regular training sessions you can attend during your working hours. And you’ll be regularly evaluated.”

“What happens if we fail the evaluation?” Smith asked.

Scrimgeour’s smile turned rather sardonic. “Then you’ll receive special training until you meet our standards again - in your free time. And it’ll affect your promotion prospects.”

“Ah.” Smith nodded as if that hadn’t been obvious.

“Now, before we go over your first assignments, there’s something else you’ll need to know and take to heart: I’m the Head Auror, which means that you’ll be following my orders. Even the Minister and Bones herself have to go through me to order you around. Unless I’m telling you to follow their orders, you don’t. We’re the Auror Corps, not the Wizengamot’s helpers. Understood?” He glared at them.

“Yes, sir!” This time, everyone answered more or less together.

“Good. Now, about your first assignments. You’ve passed the entrance exam, but you still need to learn how the Corps works. For your first week, you’ll follow around an experienced Auror who’ll show you the ropes. After that, you’ll get your first assignment.”

“Knockturn Alley night shift,” Harry heard Smith mutter. The man really wasn’t the brightest of their group.

Scrimgeour fixed Smith with a glare. “Who told you that?” Before Smith could answer, the Head Auror went on: “It’s wrong. Dead wrong. We don’t send rookies into Knockturn Alley - that’d be a recipe for disaster.” He shook his head. “You’ll be assigned posts according to your qualifications. There won’t be any special treatment, either - I don’t care who your relatives are.” With a grin, he added: “But as rookies, you’ll get the graveyard shifts - ten in the evening to six in the morning - more often than not.”

Harry frowned when he heard several of his colleagues groan at that. What did they expect? That they’d only have to hunt criminals during office hours? He glanced at Ron, who seemed to share his sentiments.

Scrimgeour chuckled. “Every one of us went through this. In a year or two, you’ll be smiling at the next bunch of rookies.” He tapped a piece of paper on his desk with his wand. It folded itself into a paper aeroplane and flew out of the office. “I’ve sent a message to Auror Dawlish that he can now take over your introduction to the Corps. He’ll also be answering any questions you might have.”

Harry wanted to groan. Of all the Aurors available, it had to be Dawlish!

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 8th, 1998**

“And here’s the break room. Regulations state that you can take a break for a quarter of an hour per half-day.” Dawlish grinned. “Of course, no one’s going to time you, unless you  overdo it and start living in the break room.”

Harry Potter smiled politely as most of the group laughed at Dawlish’s feeble joke. He wasn’t feeling too kindly towards the man after Dawlish had started their introduction to the Auror offices by pointing out where the bathrooms were and telling them a story about a rookie Auror who couldn’t find them and was consistently given the wrong directions by anyone he asked for help.

“Did anyone actually try that?” Smith asked, triggering another bout of laughter and a derisive sneer from Nott.

To Harry’s surprise, Dawlish only chuckled once and then nodded. “Well, back in the war - the first war against the Dark Lord, back in the seventies - so many were murdered in their homes, a number of us started to live in the Ministry.” For a moment, he seemed to look at something no one else could see. “Of course, with so many spies inside the Ministry, it wasn’t that much safer. But it helped.”

No one was smiling any more. Nor saying anything. Dawlish cleared his throat. “Anyway - no one’s going to time you, but no one will let you slack off either. As far as the Corps is concerned, you’re all fresh meat, and you’ll have to earn our respect. Every one of you.” He was looking straight at Harry as he said that part.

Harry didn’t show any reaction. He had expected that. Especially from people like Dawlish. The Auror might have fought in the last war, and he might not be as much of a moron as Hermione’s description had made him out to be, but he hadn’t really impressed Harry either.

Nor Ron, if his friend’s careful lack of expression was any indication. Nott, on the other hand…

“Of course, sir,” Nott said with an - in Harry’s opinion - obviously fake smile. “We’d be fools to assume that we’d know better than an experienced Auror.”

“Exactly.” Dawlish nodded. “It takes more than the ability to fight to be a good Auror.”

Once more he looked straight at Harry.

And this time, Harry narrowed his eyes when he stared back.

*****

“Alright, it’s time for lunch,” Dawlish announced two hours later. “The Ministry has a mess hall and, today, we’ll eat there - so you’ll understand why we usually eat in Diagon Alley.”

Harry Potter snorted. That was actually - if only slightly - funny. Unlike most of Dawlish’s jokes.

“If the food is so bad, why does the Ministry keep the mess hall?” Smith asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to close it?”

“It’s mostly for the Hit-Wizards,” Dawlish said. “They can eat there for free.”

“And we need to pay?” Nott asked with a frown.

“We get paid more than them,” Dawlish said with a grin. “Even as rookie Aurors.” He tapped his temple. “Aurors need to be smart. Hit-Wizards just need to fight.” He shrugged. “And they pretty much can’t do anything but fight, so they’re not too useful.”

Harry clenched his teeth together. That was another barb aimed at Ron and him. But he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of seeing Harry lose his temper. He had suffered through five years of Snape - and Dawlish wasn’t nearly as bad as the Potions Master had been.

And when he saw who was approaching them from behind Dawlish’s back, he couldn’t help smiling.

“You would think that, Dawlish, wouldn’t you?” Moody growled, and Harry had to struggle not to laugh out loud when Dawlish let out a gasp and whirled around, obviously startled. The old Auror scoffed. “When you barely know one end of your wand from the other when it comes to fighting, you shouldn’t talk about Hit-Wizards like that.”

As Dawlish gasped again - out of anger this time - Moody stepped past him and looked the group over. “You’re the new lot, huh.” His artificial eye was spinning madly, and his scarred face twisted into a familiar grin. “I’m Mad-Eye Moody. You might’ve heard of me.”

A number of their group had grown pale, Harry noticed with a frown. Moody was impressive, but not that scary. Or, perhaps, he and Ron had just grown used to the man.

“Yes, sir,” Bathilda said.

“Potter and Weasley been telling stories?” Moody asked, his good eye glancing at them while the other kept spinning.

“No, sir,” Bathilda said.

The old Auror snorted.

“What do you want, Moody?” Dawlish spat.

“Just keeping an eye on the fresh meat,” Moody answered. “Constant Vigilance!” he suddenly yelled, causing more gasping among the new Aurors. He scoffed again. “And I’ll be borrowing Potter and Weasley for lunch.”

“What?” Dawlish said. “You…”

“It’s a private matter,” Moody cut him off, then turned to Ron and Harry. “Come on, you two.”

“Alright!” Harry said with a smile. That kind of special treatment wouldn’t do him any good with Dawlish, or with Nott and the others, he knew, but, right then, he didn’t care.

*****

**London, Soho, September 8th, 1998**

“A muggle fish and chips shop?” Harry Potter didn’t bother trying to hide his surprise. Of all the possible places Moody could have taken him and Ron for lunch, he had picked this shop in muggle London?

Moody snorted. “Did you expect me to eat in the Leaky Cauldron? Didn’t you use your glasses to check the kitchen there? I wouldn’t touch anything their cook has gotten their hands on.”

Harry grimaced and vowed never to eat there again. And to get back at Tonks for meeting him there.

“Did you randomly pick a muggle fish and chips shop from the phone book?” Ron asked while Harry tried to find his appetite again.

“Good thinking, Weasley!” Moody twisted his scarred face into a smile. “No, I picked it at random from a list of the best fish and chips shops in London. Certainly beats the mess hall in the Ministry.”

Harry couldn’t tell if the old Auror was serious or not - it sounded a little too predictable to be true. Or it could be misinformation. So he simply nodded as he took a seat. “Thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to eating while Dawlish prattled about how experienced Aurors knew best how to use the silverware and how every rookie should pay attention.”

Moody guffawed. “Sounds like him.”

“But now Nott’ll be running his mouth about us getting special treatment on account of Harry’s fame,” Ron said once they had ordered their meals. “And the other rookies will probably be jealous. That’ll make working with them more difficult.”

Moody scoffed. “I’ve kept an eye on that lot. You won’t be working with them anyway.”

“Bones was quite clear about cooperation,” Harry remarked.

“Of course she was. She has to be, or the idiots filling the bottom ranks would make an even greater mess. But at the end of the day, results matter. And you two won’t get any results trying to fit in with a bunch of morons who couldn’t fight or find their way out of a paper bag.”

“They’re not all like that,” Harry said. Smith, probably. And Nott. Maybe Anderson too. Tuckleton hadn’t exactly asked smart questions either.

“Most are. And the rest don’t seem smart enough to realise that Dawlish’s full of hot air.” Moody took a deep gulp from his water. “Mind you, he usually is a good fit for our new recruits - most of them need to be told that there won’t be any special treatment for them, no matter whose child they are. But he doesn’t understand that there are people who deserve special treatment.”

“We’ll be stepping on many toes, though,” Harry pointed out.

“You’d do that no matter how much you tried to act as if you were ‘normal’. You two fought the Dark Lord. Few have done that and lived. Just don’t behave arrogantly, don’t make enemies out of them - they can do you some harm - but don’t try to fit in with them. It won’t work. People will be jealous anyway. Malfoy’s got his helpers in the Corps, and I just know that the Dark Lord has a few moles left we missed in the purge. They’re unlikely to expose themselves, but they’ll try to sabotage you and spread rumours about you.”

“Great,” Harry muttered. “It’s like Potions with Snape and the Slytherins again.”

“Be glad if it doesn’t get worse than that,” Moody said. “Anyway, I’ve already talked to Scrimgeour about your next assignment. Don’t worry about getting bored.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he should be happy or afraid, seeing the man grin. “You didn’t drag us out of the Ministry just for that, though,” he said.

“No, I didn’t.” Moody nodded. He looked around, then continued: “I’ve heard back from some old friends in Prussia. Nothing official, mind you. But generally solid information. They’ve told me about a few suspicious deaths in Hanover. Rituals, but no blood magic - or so they claim. Failed rituals.”

“Failed rituals?” Ron asked.

“The sacrifice was done, but the ritual didn’t work - of course, that presumes that whoever’s acting as the expert in that country did their work thoroughly and wasn’t too inept to spot the traces of a successful ritual.”

“The sacrifice?” Ron asked, munching on a chip.

“Human sacrifice.” Moody lowered his voice. “And judging by what my friends heard, what the Hanoverians could reconstruct from the sites matches what the Unspeakables think the Dark Lord’s first rituals were like. The ones that granted him a body.”

“Someone’s trying to bring him back?” Harry said.

“It’s hard to tell since they tried to erase their tracks. But it seems they tried several times but failed every time. No surprise, of course - the anchors are gone.” Moody showed his teeth. “Now, what do you think a Death Eater loyal enough to attempt to resurrect the Dark Lord several times will do once he has to admit that his master’s dead?”

That was an easy question. “He’s going to avenge him,” Harry said.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 9th, 1998**

“Hermione? Are you decent?”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at Sirius’s question as she pivoted in her swivel chair to face the door before unlocking it with a wave of her wand. “Come in.”

Sirius entered, followed by Jeanne. Hermione checked her watch. Harry wouldn’t be back for another two hours. She cast a privacy charm anyway.

“I’ve just heard from Tonks that Malfoy’s asking for a protection detail,” Sirius said as soon as the slight humming of the spell filled the air.

Hermione nodded. She had expected that as soon as the information about the rituals and blood magic got out. “You didn’t ask for guards as well, did you?” If he had, she’d hex the dog.

“No.” He shook his head. “That would interfere with our life and our plans. Although I’d like to improve our security.”

“We should hunt the murderer down and kill him,” Jeanne said. “That would improve our security considerably.”

And it would let the witch avenge her father, Hermione thought. For all her problems with him, Jeanne had taken his loss more seriously than anyone, probably including herself, had expected. “Tempting,” Hermione said, “But even if we call up the Order - and I don’t know if that would work - what can we do that the DMLE can’t? A number of the Order members are Aurors, after all.”

“We can break the law to get the murderer,” Jeanne said. “We don’t have to wait for sufficient suspicion or even proof.”

“For that, we’d need to find the murderer first, which is kind of difficult,” Hermione retorted. “I think the DMLE has the better chance of succeeding at that than we do.”

“And Bones would not be pleased if we acted like vigilantes,” Sirius added. “Harry told me she warned him off again yesterday.”

“So if we try to hunt the murderer ourselves, we’ll probably end up distracting or even hindering the DMLE,” Hermione added. And she didn’t want Bones to start investigating them. She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment, then decided to make the suggestion - she had been a Gryffindor. “There is one thing we could do that the DMLE can’t do, but I would strongly advise against it.”

Jeanne’s eyes widened for a moment. “You mean using ourselves as bait for a trap?”

Hermione nodded.

“Out of the question,” Sirius barked.

“I agree,” Hermione said. “We don’t know anything about the murderer or what he’s capable of. It would be too dangerous.”

“But I want to do something!” Jeanne protested, baring her teeth.

“Mr Fletcher’s acquaintances are looking into the matter. It’s not like we’re doing nothing,” Hermione pointed out. “On the other hand, Malfoy pushing the DMLE to hunt the murderer down at all costs also creates an opportunity for revenge.”

“Malfoy will be protected far better than before,” Sirius said. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’ve been holed up in your room for the last few days, barely spending time with any of us. What are you planning?”

Hermione felt a stab of guilt for neglecting her friends - and especially Harry, whose first week at work was turning out a little more difficult than he had expected - and brushed back behind her ear a lock that had fallen into her face. “With the DMLE focusing on hunting the murderer and protecting a panicking Malfoy, there is a great opportunity to strike at those targets who aren’t going to be protected.”

Sirius started to grin. “Umbridge or Skeeter?”

Hermione grinned back. “Neither. Borgin.”

That rat would pay for what he had done to her. With interest.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 11th, 1998**

Hermione Granger resisted the urge to summon the newspaper when she heard Sirius curse after picking up the Daily Prophet. Instead, she asked: “What’s wrong?”

Sirius held up the front page. Half of it was taken up by a large headline:

IS THE DARK LORD BACK?

“Skeeter couldn’t resist, then,” she said, pursing her lips.

Sirius shook his head as he skimmed the article. “No, she couldn’t. Full of speculation and fear-mongering - she mentions that it could be a Death Eater in hiding, but cites the fact that the Unspeakables haven’t found any proof of Voldemort’s return as proof that his return can’t be disproven and is therefore possible.”

“I hope Malfoy buries her for this,” Harry said. “Most of his friends will drop him like a cursed wand if they think Voldemort is back and coming for him.”

“Oh, yes. Lucius won’t be happy at all - Skeeter mentions that ‘his insistence on being guarded by Aurors now has an explanation’.” Sirius grinned in a rather feral manner, then read on. “Merlin’s buttocks! She even speculates that the murderer might be one of the Death Eaters incarcerated in Azkaban who escaped after the Dementors were removed and that the Ministry is keeping it a secret so the people don’t lose faith in them!” He snorted. “I don’t know if I should be offended that she’s trying to undermine my fame as the only one ever to escape Azkaban.”

“How exactly did you manage that?” Harry asked. “You never told us how you did it.”

“With good reason,” Sirius said. “If the secret were out, others could do it as well.”

“What if someone did?” Harry asked.

Sirius shook his head. “The new changes after they removed the Dementors would have prevented that. Besides, all of my former fellow inmates are accounted for - trust me, not even the guards there are so inept as to lose a prisoner without noticing, no matter what you’ve heard about Hit-Wizards from the other Aurors.”

“Still, how did you escape?” Harry pressed.

Sirius shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it, Harry. I’m trying to forget my time there.”

Hermione saw Harry’s eyes widen at hearing that, and she pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t scold the dog for making her friend feel guilty like that. She took a deep breath to calm down. “We should focus on the consequences of this article. This will scare a lot of people. And if they think the Ministry is at fault...”

Harry groaned. “Great. I hope they’re too scared to start a riot.”

“If they aren’t, it’s all Skeeter’s fault,” Ron muttered. “Luna loathes her, you know. And it takes a lot to make her feel that way about anyone.”

“If we were in France, we could have duelled her long before this,” Jeanne said, frowning. “But you had to go and outlaw them.”

“They’re illegal in France as well,” Hermione pointed out.

“But nobody enforces that,” Jeanne replied.

“Well, I’m glad that in Britain, people can’t pay a killer to duel a rival,” Hermione said. Malfoy would have abused that terribly.

“They can’t do that in France either!” Jeanne protested. “That would ruin their reputation.”

“Malfoy wouldn’t care,” Harry said. “Or he’d deny his involvement.”

“Of course, he could be duelled as well,” Ron said, grinning.

“It’s not that easy,” Jeanne explained. “There are rules about duels. You can’t just insult someone until they challenge you. Although if the British abuse duels like that, no wonder they have been outlawed.”

“Oh, yes,” Sirius chimed in, “my family removed a number of their rivals through duels. Of course, we usually didn’t have to pay anyone to fight for us - if you couldn’t fight, you wouldn’t last long as a Black anyway.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt this fascinating discussion about the merits of duelling, but Ron and I need to go, or we’ll be late for our shift.”

“I really hope people will be too scared to riot,” Ron added as he stood, grabbing another croissant - presumably to eat on the way.

Hermione bit her lower lip, then stood. “Wait!”

Both boys turned. “Yes?” Harry asked.

She didn’t say anything, just hugged him. “Stay safe,” she whispered into his ear.

“You too,” she added, hugging Ron.

If anything happened to them because of that article… She clenched her teeth until they hurt.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 11th, 1998**

You could almost feel the fear, Harry Potter thought as he walked through the Atrium to the lifts. Fewer people, and those he saw were all acting as if they expected a Death Eater to attack them at any moment. Even the Hit-Wizard guards were nervous - so nervous that Harry surreptitiously drew his wand, just in case they started casting at shadows and he needed a quick Shield Charm. Fortunately, they reached the lifts without incident.

“Merlin’s beard!” Ron cursed. “I think they were less scared when Voldemort had invaded the Ministry.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, he died then. This is new.”

“Bloody Skeeter,” Ron mumbled. “And people call The Quibbler untrustworthy!”

Harry didn’t comment on that. “So, we’re doing filing and archiving today. Can’t wait.”

Ron scoffed. “I’d rather do a night patrol through Knockturn Alley than that. Dawlish must have selected it just to torment us.”

“I don’t think so - for all his needling remarks, he hasn’t actually tried to treat us differently,” Harry said.

Ron shook his head. “He behaves towards Nott as if he were Snape and Nott Malfoy. I don’t trust him.”

“Well, according to Moody, we won’t have to trust Dawlish,” Harry said as they reached their floor.

And were greeted by a yelling Dawlish. “Potter! Weasley! Get over here! Right now!”

The Auror was at the back of the entrance, surrounded by most of the other rookie Aurors. Other Aurors were rushing out, some still adjusting their robes as they passed Harry and Ron on the way to the lifts.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked as soon as they reached Dawlish.

“There’s a riot in Diagon Alley. And they fear that it’ll spill over into Gringotts, or muggle London.”

Harry hissed. Either would be a catastrophe.

Dawlish nodded with a grim expression. “Exactly. We’re going to stop it.”

“Us?” Smith asked, looking both confused and frightened at the same time. The others didn’t look any better, Harry noted - even Nott had lost his sneer.

“Not us alone!” Dawlish snapped. “We’re going to support the other Aurors. We’ll be behind them, dealing with anyone who manages to get past the first line.” He took a deep breath. “Keep a Shield Charm up at all times. Don’t use any lethal spells - Stunners only. I don’t care what you think the rioters are doing, don’t kill them. Understood? If you see anyone behind our lines who isn’t an Auror, stun them. Otherwise, follow my lead. We’re travelling by Floo to the Leaky Cauldron. Follow me!”

A minute later, they were in the Atrium again, rushing towards the Floo connections. Once Dawlish stepped into one and vanished, Ron leaned towards Harry. “Stunners only?” he whispered.

“As long as it works,” Harry whispered back. He wasn’t about to die because of such orders. “You know what Moody said.”

Ron nodded - the Auror had said it often enough: ‘Kill them before they kill you, if that’s what it takes.’

Then it was their turn.

*****

The Leaky Cauldron was packed with red robes and a few civilians. Scrimgeour was there, directing a mixed group of Aurors and Hit-Wizards. “Go out, get in the air, and reinforce the Aurors holding the line in front of Gringotts. Hold the line no matter the cost! Go!”

As the group rushed out, nearly trampling another civilian who fled inside, Harry heard Nott curse. “Why protect the goblins? They’ve got guards of their own!”

“Because their guards are just waiting for an excuse to kill wizards!” Dawlish snarled at Nott. “If a rioter tries to break into the bank, they’ll consider it an attack and massacre everyone nearby.”

Which would lead to war.

“Dawlish!” Scrimgeour had spotted their group. “Take the rookies and form a line outside the Cauldron.”

“Yes, sir!” Dawlish bellowed. “Follow me, everyone!”

“Wait!” Scrimgeour held up his hand. “Potter! Weasley! You’ve got your brooms?”

Harry refrained from yelling that he always had his broom with him. “Yes, sir!”

“Fly to Gringotts and help the Aurors there!”

“Yes, sir!”

He and Ron rushed out of the Cauldron and unshrank their brooms. Moments later, they were in the air.

Diagon Alley looked terrible, Harry thought as he sped towards the bank. Smoke rose from several locations, obscuring the fires beneath and parts of the street. He heard screams and explosions and spells passed him from below as he flew in a weaving pattern.

“What is wrong with those people?” He heard Ron yell as they closed in on Gringotts. “Do they think Voldemort’s hiding among the goblins?”

Harry didn’t get to answer - the roof below him suddenly blew up, and he saw rocks and splinters hit his Shield Charm. Someone was moving there, too - but they were already past. And they had their orders.

The situation at the bank looked grim, Harry thought as he dived down to minimise his exposure while landing. The goblins were ready - he saw them standing in formation, blades and shields gleaming in the sunlight. Just waiting for an excuse, indeed.

And in front of them, with their backs to the goblins, stood about two dozen Aurors, their shields flaring under the impact of hexes and curses as they tried to keep the mob at bay. A mob that outnumbered them significantly.

There was no time or need to ask for orders. Harry simply touched down and rushed forward, shrinking his broom as he ran towards a gap in the line where an Auror had fallen to the ground. “Check him!” Harry yelled to Ron as he took the man’s spot.

The rioters were standing about twenty yards away - far enough that aiming was a challenge for most of them, Harry noted - and had taken cover behind rubble, upturned carts and conjured walls. He was tempted to blow up their cover - but they weren’t Death Eaters; he couldn’t just kill them.

But he could conjure some cover for himself, as a few other Aurors had already done. Too few, in his opinion.

A few waves of his wand later, he was crouching behind a thick steel wall as spells flew past or hit the wall. He sent a few Stunners of his own back, but with the exception of one wizard who had exposed himself too much, he didn’t hit anyone. It would be far easier if he were allowed to kill them, he thought. Or at least risk their deaths.

Ron joined him, wand drawn. “I’ve stabilised the guy,” he yelled. “But he’ll need to get to St Mungo’s. Soon.”

More spells hit the wall, the ground in front and, presumably, Gringotts behind them. Harry glanced over his shoulder. The goblins were still there. They hadn’t taken cover. Hadn’t even closed the doors. They really were that eager for an excuse to start a war, he realised.

And for a moment, he was tempted to give them their war.

But then the yelling from the rioters grew in volume, and, moments later, he heard screams from the Aurors. “Here they come!”

Once more Harry had to keep himself from using a Blasting Curse to lay waste to the attackers. Instead, he started to cast Stunners as fast as he could. One fell, followed by another. Ron took out a third but missed the fourth when the wizard stumbled over the others and fell to the ground. Harry caught him with another Stunner. And, all along the line, others met with the same fate - dozens of wizards and witches collapsing.

The Aurors didn’t escape unscathed, though - he saw one collapse near him, and another rolled on the ground, screaming and burning, until someone doused him with water. And then the remaining mob hit the line at one point, then at another, crashing into the Aurors there.

Harry cursed and conjured walls to block their way to Gringotts while Ron started stunning them as they bunched up. It wasn’t that difficult - few of them had cast Shield Charms. And, so far, no one seemed to have thought of reviving the stunned ones.

But the mob changed direction - and rushed straight towards them, rolling up the Auror line between them and Harry and Ron. Harry met them with a Water-Making Spell that swept the first ranks off their feet from the sheer force of the jet of water. Ron used the opportunity to stun the struggling attackers as fast as he could.

A group of them had cast Shield Charms, though - and Harry’s spells splashed harmlessly against them. He grit his teeth and hit the first with a Bludgeoning Curse that shattered his shield and bowled him over. Ron took out the next with a quick Piercing Curse and Stunner, but the third jumped over their cover and crashed into Harry.

Both his and the attacker’s shield shattered under the impact, and Harry was slammed into the ground, his breath knocked out of him. Reflexes took over, and he hit the man with a Bludgeoning Curse that threw him back a few yards.

Harry rolled over his aching shoulder, suppressing a scream at the pain that caused, and came up in a crouch, wand ready.

But there were no attackers left.

“Are you OK?” Ron asked, breathing heavily.

Harry nodded. “But that other one isn’t,” he said, pointing at his last attacker.

Ron scoffed, but nodded and went to stabilise the guy. Harry ran his wand over his shoulder until the pain lessened, then looked around. The ground was covered with people, both Aurors and rioters, with the dozen Aurors still standing doing their best to heal the wounded.

And the goblins were sneering at them from the bank’s entrance.

*****

 


	36. Fast Track

**London, Diagon Alley, September 11th, 1998**

“Out of the way, we need a Healer!”

Bathilda Meringworth wasn’t quick enough, and the older Hit-Wizard pushed her to the side in his rush to get into the Leaky Cauldron. Another Hit-Wizard was leaning on the man, her grey robes stained red - blood, Bathilda realised as she stumbled and barely caught herself before she fell. The entire sleeve of the witch’s robes was ripped to pieces. And the arm underneath...

She gritted her teeth and drew a shaky breath. This wasn’t how she had envisioned her first week as an Auror going. She was supposed to learn how to catch criminals and make Britain safer for everyone, not… not… not this!

Next to her, Elton was retching - he had lost his breakfast already, she realised, and the bitter stench almost made her vomit, too, but she managed to cast a Bubble-Head Charm in time. Just like Cedric had taught her. She shook her head. She had to focus! Others depended on her!

“Get a grip, Elton!” she whispered as she vanished the vomit.

Elton coughed. “Merlin’s beard!” he mumbled, wiping his mouth and leaving traces of vomit on his sleeve. “Did you see that witch?”

“Yes,” Bathilda replied, bending over to help him up.

“Meringworth! Smith! Get moving!” Dawlish’s yell startled her and she almost lost her balance when Elton grabbed her hand.

“Yes, sir!” she yelled back automatically. After a moment, she added. “Where to?”

“To the front!” he yelled, pointing at the opening in the brick wall of the Cauldron. “We’re pushing the mob back to get at the wounded, and they need backup there, not here!”

Bathilda swallowed dryly. Go into the Alley. Where people got their arms cut up. Or worse. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to go home. To her parents. Where she was safe. She blinked, noticing that her eyes were wet. And that she was trembling. She swallowed again. She couldn’t do this.

Elton was moving, though. And he was still holding her hand. Dragging her with him. She didn’t know if he even noticed. And then they were past the brick wall and in the Alley proper. Where smoke covered the sky and half the street and the wounded were screaming for help.

“Come on! We need to push them back as far as Gringotts!” Dawlish yelled. “Keep together! Don’t split up! Stunners only!”

And Bathilda was obeying. Moving with Elton and Nott. Into the smoke and fire, or so it felt. Past bodies on the ground, some moving, some not. Stunned, she told herself. They’re stunned. Until she saw a body missing most of its head and so severely burned that she couldn’t tell if it had been a witch or a wizard.

And she retched and vomited until she was spewing bile. When she got up, on still wobbly legs, she realised that Elton was retching too and Nott was shaking. And that they were alone.

They must have gotten lost in the smoke, she realised. Accidentally went down the wrong side alley when moving around that fire. She looked around. She didn’t know where exactly they were, but they couldn’t be too far from the main street. But they had to move!

“Elton! Theo! We need to move!”

Elton blinked, startled, but he was nodding. Theo, though, was still staring at the body. Bathilda reached over and shook him, and he jerked, panting.

“We need to move back to the Alley!” she said through clenched teeth. “Now!”

“Yes… yes.”

“But where?” Elton asked.

“Back to where we came from,” she snapped. Didn’t he know the way? He didn’t, she realised when he looked at her with a desperate expression. “Follow me!” she ordered. “And keep your wands ready!”

Bathilda hoped that she had remembered the way correctly. All those side alleys looked alike, with the cursed smoke turning them even darker than they normally were. And some of those crazed rioters - why would they even attack the Aurors, anyway? - could be hiding in each nook and behind every corner.

She clenched her teeth and took point, as the instructor had called it - she couldn’t trust either of the boys, anyway. Leading with her wand, as she had been trained, she turned the corner. Empty. On to the next. She took a deep breath, then turned that corner. Empty too. But for a few bodies. And ahead of her was the main alley. She almost cried with relief. They had made it!

Or… she glanced over her shoulder. Yes, Theo and Elton were behind her.

Her relief was short-lived, though - they were still in the middle of the Alley. And she couldn’t see the rest of their group. Only a few unknown Aurors and Hit-Wizards. And Healers. They must have gone on to Gringotts, she realised. “Follow me!” she yelled. They had to find the others.

They caught up with Dawlish and the others just as they reached Gringotts. It looked like a battlefield, Bathilda thought, shocked. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Red-robed, gray-robed and civilians. About a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards were standing, most of them wounded.

And Potter and Weasley. They didn’t look shocked. Or wounded.

Bathilda shivered.

They looked ready for more. Even eager.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 11th, 1998**

Mr Fletcher had taught Hermione Granger to maintain her cover. To play a role and mask her emotions. Working as Sirius’s secretary had taught her to keep her composure and hide her thoughts behind a mask of polite manners, even in the face of bigots trying to provoke her. And keeping her training and true skill in Defence a secret from Harry had taught her to act. She had spent years mastering her skills.

But now, listening to the reports from Diagon Alley, watching the wounded - the walking wounded, those who were not sent straight to St Mungo’s - stagger into the Atrium to be treated by the Healers on duty, she had to struggle not to blow her cover and rush to the Alley herself. Harry and Ron were out there, facing a mob!

They were risking their lives, and all she was doing was standing next to Sirius and taking notes. This was worse than in the Battle of the Ministry!

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Sirius said in a low voice.

“What?” She barely kept from snarling at the dog. What did he know?

Sirius didn’t react to her almost-outburst. He pointed at the Healers. “They don’t seem to be having any trouble - no dark curses, then.”

“Those would have been sent directly to St Mungo’s,” she retorted.

“Yes. But we didn’t hear anything about dark wizards either - and trust me, such news would spread quickly among my esteemed colleagues,” he added with a sneer. He shook his head. “No, I think most of the wounded will be quickly healed. It’s not as if the average wizard is very skilled at fighting, after all.”

“The sheer number of wounded would seem to refute that statement,” she pointed out.

He nodded. “It seems standards for Aurors and Hit-Wizards have slipped more than I thought. A bunch of scared wizards who haven’t duelled since Hogwarts shouldn’t have posed a problem for our Aurors.”

“Unless a few dark wizards took the opportunity to hurt the Ministry,” Hermione said.

Sirius nodded again. “That is a possibility, but I think things would be worse in that case.”

“Worse?” She stared pointedly at the over half a dozen wounded still waiting for treatment.

“Worse. The last war was worse. Much worse.”

“And yet they sent the new Aurors in - Harry and Ron!” Hermione said, trying not to grind her teeth - that would damage them.

“Judging by how this lot is faring, Harry and Ron were needed.” He chuckled, but it sounded more than a little forced, so Hermione didn’t push him, even though his words seemed to contradict his earlier claims.

“I still worry about them,” she said quietly.

“So do I,” he answered. Then his eyes widened. “There’s Nott.”

What did that git have to… he was in Harry’s group, Hermione realised - Harry and Ron had complained about him often. Which meant that the bedraggled-looking Aurors there would be the other rookies. But she couldn’t see Harry or Ron. “Why aren’t they with them?”

“I don’t know,” Sirius answered, not bothering to appear confident any more. “Let’s go ask them.”

People parted in front of them, despite the situation - due to Sirius’s expression and his reputation, Hermione thought. She didn’t mind as she followed him.

But before they reached the group, movement at the fireplaces caught her attention. Dawlish had arrived. Hermione clenched her teeth. That was the man who had ordered her friends into this mess. She should… there was Harry! And Ron!

She rushed towards them, dodging around some idiot Hit-Wizard who tried to stop her and ignoring whatever Dawlish was saying. Harry’s eye widened when he recognised her and then she was hugging him. And trying not to cry with relief.

*****

Harry Potter had barely stepped out of the fireplace when he saw Hermione charging him. He managed to brace himself so she didn’t bowl him over when she jumped into his arms, but it was a near thing.

It felt good to hold her and have her hug him, though. Especially after the riot. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Hermione, as expected, was talking fast. “What happened? Why weren’t you with the others? I feared the worst!” Then she hugged him a little tighter, and he winced and tensed when her arm pressed down on his bruised shoulder.

She must have noticed since she pulled back. “Are you hurt?” She stared at his robes.

He was tempted to answer with ‘It’s not my blood’, but that wouldn’t be received well. “I’m fine,” he said instead.

Which wasn’t received well, either, as he should have known. Hermione glared at him. “You always say that, no matter how hurt you are!” She turned to Ron.

“I’m OK,” Ron quickly told her before she could ask. “Harry’s the one who got slammed to the ground when the rioters charged us.”

Harry glared at his friend, but Hermione was already fussing over him, her wand out.

Sirius came to the rescue. “He looks fine to me,” he said. “A little banged up, though.”

Hermione huffed but nodded.

“Why do you believe Ron and not me?” Harry asked.

“Because he never claimed to be fine when he had broken bones;” Hermione answered.

“That was in our second year,” Harry blurted out, then winced - that incident had, ultimately, led to Hermione getting expelled. He hadn’t wanted to remind her of that.

She sniffed. “And you haven’t changed since.” She turned to Ron. “He hasn’t, has he?”

Ron looked from her to Harry and back, then shook his head. “We need to report to Dawlish.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. We’ll talk later about this.” Much later, he added to himself. He hugged her again, smiled at Sirius and went over to where Dawlish was waiting.

Nott was sneering at him as they approached. Apparently, he had recovered from his shock at seeing a real fight - he had been staring blankly with his mouth hanging open most of the time he and the other rookies had spent in front of Gringotts.

Harry ignored him and saluted Dawlish. “Aurors Potter and Weasley reporting back,” he snapped. “We were relieved by the Hit-Wizards.”

To his surprise, Dawlish didn’t comment on the scene with Hermione but simply nodded at them. “Good.”

Nott, though, scoffed. “Finally managed to tear yourself away from your girlfriend, Potter? Can’t wait until we’ve finished our shift?”

Harry was about to tell the git where he could stick his attitude, but Dawlish cut in before he could say anything. “Shut up, Nott!” he snapped. “If your girlfriend worked in the Ministry, you wouldn’t have walked past her either.”

After such a rebuke for the git, Harry didn’t bother to correct Dawlish’s assumption that Hermione was his girlfriend. But he grinned at Nott as soon as Dawlish turned away.

“Nott has a girlfriend?” Ron whispered to Harry as they joined the rest of the group in a semi-circle around Dawlish. “Must be a conjured one.”

Harry had no trouble refraining from laughing out loud. It wasn’t that funny - he didn’t have a girlfriend either, after all.

“Alright,” Dawlish started. “Overall, you did decent enough - for rookies.” He looked at Bathilda. “Meringworth, you managed to get lost with your group in Diagon Alley. That’s not impressive.” The witch’s lips started to tremble, as if she wanted to refute that accusation but didn’t dare to speak. Dawlish went on: “However, you led your group back out again, and then to where we were supposed to be. You kept your nerve, too. Well done there.” He nodded at Bathilda with a smile.

The witch didn’t return it - she seemed to barely be able to hold back tears, or so Harry thought.

Dawlish was already talking to the others, though. “The rest of you, well… you didn’t break. You followed orders. But you could have done better. You’ll have to work on that.” He glanced at Harry and Ron and snorted. “Don’t give me that glare, Potter. I’m not talking about you two.” He shook his head. “Looks like Mad-Eye was right about you. Stood your ground like veterans. Someone’s going to have fun figuring out what to do with you. Fortunately, it won’t be me.” He grinned. “Scrimgeour will be handling your debrief.”

*****

Scrimgeour, unsurprisingly, didn’t have the time to debrief two rookie Aurors while Diagon Alley was still in danger of burning down and the wounded and stunned filled St Mungo’s wards and the Ministry’s holding cells, respectively. Which was why Harry Potter had been ordered to help guard the holding cells together with Ron ‘until further orders’.

“Do you think they’ve forgotten about us?” Ron asked. “You’d think they’d send some relief so we can go to lunch, at least.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said.

“When I was little, Dad used to tell me stories about employees getting assigned to some obscure task,” Ron said, leaning against the wall next to Harry, “and working for years without anyone checking up on them.” He chuckled. “After I started Hogwarts, I thought he was just taking the mickey. But now?” He shook his head. “In all the chaos up top…”

“I think if anyone’s forgotten about us, they’ll remember quickly when Scrimgeour starts asking where we are,” Harry said. Though he couldn’t help wondering if someone might have chosen to ‘forget’ them at their posts.

Ron nodded. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“You guess?” Harry frowned at him.

“After today I’m not sure everything has to make sense. Why would you attack Gringotts when you’re angry at the Ministry? Hell, why would you attack the Ministry if you’re scared of Voldemort? That would just help him.” Ron scoffed and shook his head. “And why would you charge a line of Aurors and Hit-Wizards if you can’t even cast a Shield Charm?” He looked at Harry. “Do you think someone caused this riot? I mean, not like Skeeter, but with Compulsion Charms or the Imperius Curse.”

Harry frowned. “It’s possible, I guess. On the other hand, you know what Moody said about crowds and mobs.”

“‘If a crowd turns into a mob, people lose all reason and are as likely to attack as flee if you show any weakness’,” Ron quoted the old Auror. “They certainly did, today. But I bet that a lot of them in there will claim they had been put under a spell,” he added with a nod towards the holding cells.

Harry snorted. “That’s a sucker’s bet.” One wizard who had woken up while two Hit-Wizards were levitating him into a cell had claimed exactly that. Loudly and repeatedly. The man was probably still screaming that he was innocent, Harry thought, but the cells were spelled to block sound.

Ron grinned, then pulled out his enchanted mirror again. “Luna should now be on her lunch break as well,” he said. “I need to let her know that we’re OK.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll do a round,” he said, nodding towards the hallway lined with cell doors. He didn’t need to, but it would give Ron some privacy.

When he returned a few minutes later, Ron was still talking to Luna. Harry cleared his throat, loudly - he had no intention of catching any intimate talk.

“Alright, Harry’s back. I’ll call you in the evening,” Ron said. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. Yes. Love you too.” He stowed the mirror and gave Harry a nod.

Harry nodded back and took up his old spot at the wall. “No sign of lunch or our relief?” he asked after a moment.

“No. Guess Moody’s been proven right about one more thing,” Ron answered, pulling out a sandwich from his enchanted pocket. “Carrying food really is a good idea.” A quick duplication charm later, he stowed the original again.

Harry sighed but followed Ron’s example. If someone had purposely ‘forgotten’ about them, then leaving their post to get some food would be a bad idea, even if only one of them left to fetch a meal. That was the kind of mistake upon which Umbridge and her ilk would gleefully jump.

And Harry wasn’t about to let that happen.

*****

Hours of boring guard duty later, they were finally called to Scrimgeour’s office.

“Ah, Potter and Weasley. Take a seat!” The Head Auror greeted them as soon as the door opened. He didn’t look particularly stressed, Harry Potter noted. Probably a few Cosmetic Charms - his robes looked freshly cleaned, too.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry answered, sitting down.

“I heard they had you guarding the cells,” Scrimgeour said as he shuffled some parchment on his desk.

“Yes, sir. The holding cells,” Ron confirmed.

“Probably meant to free up some more experienced Aurors, I guess.” Scrimgeour leaned back in his seat. “Short-sighted, if well-meaning.” He waited a moment, but neither Harry nor Ron said anything. With a faint smile, he went on: “I’ve checked with a few of my Aurors. According to everyone, you handled that sticky situation at Gringotts very well. Even better than most Aurors, if we’re honest.”

Harry nodded.

“Which is a problem - and an opportunity,” the Head Auror said.

“A problem?” Ron asked.

“Yes.” Scrimgeour interlaced his fingers. “You are the most capable new Aurors we’ve had in decades. Not surprisingly, given Moody trained you two for years. But, as you may have noticed, the Corps has certain customs regarding rookies. You might even call them traditions.”

“Graveyard shifts,” Harry said.

Scrimgeour nodded. “That’s just one aspect. Basically, rookie Aurors are expected to learn from the more experienced Aurors. That’s why we pair rookies with veteran Aurors for their first year.” He sighed. “But we won’t be doing that with you.”

Harry was surprised. “Why not, sir?”

The Head Auror grinned. “Well, after talking to Moody, I was left with the impression that you’ve learned more than fighting from him.”

“He did tell us about Auror work as well,” Harry said, “But we studied the Auror handbook extensively on our own time.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant your attitude.” Scrimgeour lightly shook his head. “The way you move. The way you seem ready to fight at the drop of a hat. But most importantly, the way you react to others.”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

“You don’t suffer fools lightly, do you?”

Harry frowned. “That would be a bad idea when our life depends on them doing their job well.”

“That is correct. But I fear that your idea of who’s a fool is closer to Moody’s than to any other Auror’s. Much closer.” Scrimgeour leaned forward. “And I don’t think either of you would work well with most veteran Aurors. I don’t doubt that sooner or later, you’d question their orders.” He chuckled. “There’s a reason Moody’s had very few partners in the last decade. He’d be a good partner for either of you, but like the others who might be able to handle the Boy-Who-Lived, he can’t be spared to teach the ropes to rookies. Even though,” he added with a cynical grin, “he obviously managed to train you in his spare time. And before you ask - I can’t assign you to his section.”

“Investigations,” Harry said.

“Exactly. Assigning two rookies to Investigations would see a number of promising Aurors waiting for their transfer to Investigations quit in protest. And the Corps can’t afford that. But what I can do, especially after today’s performance, is to pair you up with each other as a regular Auror team.”

That was unexpected. Harry glanced at Ron, who was frowning, then looked at Scrimgeour. “That will ruffle some feathers as well.”

“It certainly will. But not as many. And not important ones. Consider it an opportunity to prove yourselves.”

A test then. Or even a trap - Harry was aware that, for all their training, they didn’t know everything they needed to be actually working as Aurors. But he had faced Voldemort and won; he wouldn’t let a bunch of jealous idiots defeat him, either. On the other hand, Moody had hinted at something like this, hadn’t he?

So he smiled at Scrimgeour. “Thank you, sir. We won’t disappoint you.”

And they would talk to Moody at the first opportunity.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 11th, 1998**

“You’ll be working as normal Aurors? After a week?”

Hermione could sound a little more impressed and happy about this, and less shocked, Harry Potter thought as he cut another piece off his roast beef - Kreacher had done a marvellous job with the meal. It seemed Jeanne threatening to take over the cooking had worked out well. He nodded. “Yes. Apparently, we impressed everyone with our handling of the riot, and so we get to skip the usual training period.”

“It’s more like Scrimgeour thinks the other Aurors won’t be able to handle us,” Ron cut in, “so this was his compromise.” Harry glared at his friend, but Ron blithely ignored him. “It’s an opportunity - or a trap. Probably both, as Percy would say.”

“I see,” Hermione said, pursing her lips.

“He’s setting you up to fail?” Sirius was frowning.

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry quickly said. Having Sirius intervene on their behalf would ruin everything. “It’s just the best option for us, given our special training from Moody.”

“And the safest way for him,” Ron added. “Whether we prove ourselves or not, it won’t be his fault. He can claim any successes, and blame any failures on us.” He shrugged. “Office politics.”

Ron had been talking with his brother and father about the Ministry a lot, Harry knew. He nodded. “Yes. But we can handle it.” Hermione still looked dubious, so he added: “We’ll be talking with Moody and Tonks so that we won’t get blindsided by jealous people. Trust me: we can do this.”

She nodded, although a little reluctantly. She should have more confidence in him. “I’ve heard a rumour that you used excessive force to deal with the rioters.”

“Probably Nott,” Ron muttered.

Harry scoffed. “I did nothing worse than what we do and suffer when training with Moody.” Nothing a Healer or experienced Auror couldn’t fix in a minute or two. “The worst was a Bludgeoning Curse to the chest, but that guy was trying to strangle me with his bare hands.” Or probably would have tried, if Harry hadn’t dealt with him. He noticed that Hermione was gaping at him. “Ron fixed him up.”

She waved that away. “I don’t care about that - he was strangling you? He managed to break your Shield Charm?”

Harry shrugged. “He charged me. Literally jumped at me.” She was still gaping, so he added: “It really wasn’t any worse than training with Moody. Probably less, actually.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “Does that mean that I should call ahead to St Mungo’s before our next Defence lesson and reserve a bed?”

He frowned at her. As a teacher, he wasn’t nearly as tough as Moody! “It won’t be that bad! And you need the training!”

She huffed but didn’t try to continue their argument. He took another bite of his beef.

“Besides, our orders were clear: We had to use any means to protect Gringotts,” Ron added. “And if those idiots had managed to break through our line, they would have been massacred by the goblins. The buggers were waiting for them.”

Harry nodded. “The goblins looked eager, even though they should know that if they murder wizards like that, it would mean war.”

“That’s probably because they want a war,” Sirius said.

“What?” Jeanne looked aghast. “After the last one? Are they mad?”

Sirius shrugged. “It’s been over two hundred years since the last Goblin Rebellion - that’s a longer time for goblins than for wizards. Memories fade. And goblins are a bloodthirsty bunch. They probably think Britain’s weak, too, after Grindelwald and Voldemort, and with Dumbledore dead.”

Jeanne said something in French that Harry didn’t catch. Judging by Hermione’s reaction, it must have been a nasty curse, though. “Why didn’t they attack us, then?” They had wanted to, he was certain of that. The sight of them, ready and waiting, their weapons out, and their eager smiles...

“They can’t afford to break the peace treaty,” Sirius explained. “Other countries would get involved in that case - no one likes the little buggers, after all. But if the British Ministry can’t protect them from the wizards and the goblins can claim self-defence? With Dumbledore gone, and given Britain’s current situation in the ICW, that might just be enough for the other countries to leave us to deal with this alone.” He shrugged again. “It’s still insane, but the goblins don’t think like we do.”

“And yet the wizards let them guard their gold,” Hermione said. “They granted them a monopoly, even.”

Harry’s godfather chuckled. “That was a bone thrown to the goblins to get them to stop rebelling. And it wasn’t as if the Old Families were using Gringotts to store their gold anyway - they had their warded manors, after all. It was the rest of the wizards who were forced to either use Gringotts or risk a thief breaking into their poorly defended homes.” He took a sip from his glass of French wine. “Things changed a little since then. All Old Families now have vaults in Gringotts, since it makes moving large sums easier - and probably safer, too - when dealing with others. But I don’t think that any Old Family would keep all, or even most, of their valuables in Gringotts.”

“Wards have improved too, though,” Ron pointed out. “The ones on The Burrow are nasty.”

“But Curse-Breaking has advanced as well,” Hermione retorted. “Most families still can’t afford reliable wards. They have to rely on Gringotts.”

“Your wards don’t need to be able to stop a thief - they just need to delay them long enough for the Aurors to arrive,” Harry explained.

“I guess so,” Hermione said. She didn’t sound as if she were convinced, though.

She really should have more confidence in the Auror Corps, Harry thought with a frown. Or at least in Ron and himself.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 11th, 1998**

Hermione Granger peered around the corner, then flicked her wand to check for spells in the hallway. There shouldn’t be any - this was Grimmauld Place, after all, and it should be safe. But Harry and Ron had become a little paranoid lately, and she wouldn’t put it past them to cast a few Alarm Charms into the hallway to alert them should anyone pass. Moody would approve of such antics, she thought with a frown.

She couldn’t make out any spells. That didn’t mean that there were no other alerts. Another spell didn’t detect any, though. Once more she was tempted to use her mask - it would be far more convenient to activate the spells with a touch rather than to cast them with her wand each time - but if Harry or Ron stumbled upon her while she was wearing it… She winced as she imagined their reaction to an intruder in Grimmauld Place. And even if they recognised her, it would lead to very awkward questions - at best.

There were means to ensure that they wouldn’t catch her, of course. But first, she needed to cast an alarm charm of her own, to alert her should her friends wander the house. Then she changed.

Hermione didn’t make any sound as she sneaked past the door to Harry’s room - the thick carpet and her soft paws ensured that. She didn’t let her guard down, of course - Harry was a wily one. She hadn’t forgotten how he had thrown her out of the house after ruthlessly interrupting her nap! And now she was forced to sneak around in her own home as if she were a mouse!

She turned the corner and padded past a secret entrance to the servants’ passages. If she used those, she wouldn’t have to bother with checking for spells and traps in her home. But there were spells on the passages to prevent anyone but the house-elves from using them, and Kreacher couldn’t be trusted to adjust them so cats could pass as well. Even if he really should.

She reached the stairs and made her way to the basement’s secret entrance. That one, at least, was properly enchanted to allow her in no matter what form she wore. A few quick swipes of her paw hit the bricks in rapid succession and the wall flowed away, forming a door to let her enter the lair.

“Ah, there’s our kitty. I was worried that Harry had caught you again and thrown you out.”

She glared at the grinning dog - that had only been one time! And Harry had cheated! - and contemplated pouncing on him. His nose could do with a good whack to remind him to treat a cat with the respect she was due.

But that would likely cause him to hold up their planning session in favour of trying to get back at her. And with two paranoid Aurors in the house, they didn’t have the time for such antics.

She changed and scoffed at him. “I was merely cautious. Moody is a very bad influence on Harry and Ron.”

Sirius grinned. “You could always claim that you were trying to sneak into his room to seduce him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the trite joke. If she wanted to seduce Harry, she certainly wouldn’t sneak into his room. And if she did sneak into his room at night, she’d be wearing something far more risqué than her house robes. Not that she would do that. It would be far better to let him make the first move - men liked that - and simply lead him on a little, maybe during a Defence lesson that got a little physical. It wouldn’t take that much to ensure that her clothes ripped just the right way… She clenched her teeth as she forced the stupid thoughts away.

She nodded at Jeanne and Mr Fletcher, who had arrived through one of the escape tunnels. “Let’s get this started while Ron and Harry are asleep.” She summoned the map she had prepared earlier and spread it over the table with a flick of her wand, then tapped a building. “Borgin and Burkes. A shop in Knockturn Alley well known for trading in ‘unusual and ancient artefacts’.” Jeanne looked puzzled, so Hermione explained: “Dark artefacts. They have a certain reputation among the Old Families for discreetly dealing with such merchandise.”

Mr Fletcher snorted. “They also work as fences. They’re willing to take the kind of loot other fences won’t touch, but they won’t pay much.”

“Upstanding members of society, in other words,” Sirius said, “fleecing the poor and helping the Old Families circumvent some of those pesky laws about dark magic.”

“And helping Death Eaters frame muggleborns for crimes they didn’t commit,” Hermione added.

“Ah.” Jeanne nodded in understanding. “So this shop will be our next target?”

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“Is that wise?” Jeanne asked. “Right after the riot?”

“The Aurors will be busy in Diagon Alley,” Hermione said, “and the residents of Knockturn Alley will be keeping their heads down to avoid attracting attention.” She looked at her tutor.

“Aye.” He nodded. “Although some of the more daring scum might be thinking along these lines as well, so don’t count on the Alley being deserted and safe.”

She nodded. “I’m not.” And he should know that. “We’ll be casing the joint carefully before deciding how to do this.”

Jeanne cocked her head as she looked at the map. “And what is our goal once we’ve broken into the shop?”

Hermione grinned. “Loot it to the bedrock, of course!”

“Even the dark artefacts?” Sirius asked.

“We can destroy those. Or leave them for the Aurors to find,” Hermione said.

With the exception of any books, of course. Those would find a new home in her growing secret library!

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 12th, 1998**

“Come in!”

Harry Potter had just been about to knock on the door to Moody’s office when the old Auror’s yell startled him. He exchanged a wry smile with Ron - he should have expected that, even though the walls and doors were protected against the enchantments on his glasses - and opened the door.

Moody was sitting behind his desk, wand aimed at them. Harry stood still while the Auror closed the door with a flick of his wand and then cast several spells on them.

“Alright,” Moody said. “What do you want?”

Harry cleared his throat. “You’ve heard that Ron and I have been partnered.”

Moody nodded. “Rufus is a smart man. Sometimes a little too smart for his own good.”

“We figured that out,” Ron said. “But that still leaves us with half the Department hoping that we make a mistake and get humiliated.”

“Half?” Moody snorted. “You’re an optimist!”

Ron scoffed. “Not enough of an optimist to trust anyone but you and Tonks to help us. And Dad and Percy - but they don’t know enough about how the Aurors work.”

“And Tonks is currently on an assignment,” Harry said. It was unlikely that she had been sent away just so she couldn’t help them, but he wouldn’t dismiss the possibility.

“So you came to me.” Moody nodded. “Smart.  All the idiots who think too highly of themselves will be watching for an opportunity to curse you in the back - and the Corps is full of them.” He scoffed. “Useless idiots, the lot of them. After their piss-poor showing yesterday, I should bust all of them back to rookie Auror and train them properly.”

Ron laughed. “That would be a sight to see.”

“Oh, yes.” Harry nodded. “Speaking of the riot: When we were guarding the cells, several suspects claimed to have been compelled to attack us.”

Moody sneered. “Of course they would!” He shook his head. “People are pack animals. Or herd animals, in most cases. The Ministry allegedly covering up the Dark Lord’s return certainly was enough for many to go out on the street to protest - especially the muggleborns. Black’s frequent speeches in the Wizengamot about bigotry in the Ministry didn’t help, of course. And once you have an angry, scared crowd, all you need for a riot is to give them an example or two.”

“So there weren’t any traces of Compulsion Charms or the Imperius Curse?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t say that, did I?” Moody shook his head with a twisted grin. “There were some. Not nearly as many as people claiming they were compelled. But someone definitely helped the riot along.”

“Who would do that?” Ron asked with a frown. “And why?”

“Too many possible suspects,” Moody answered. “Some scum might have done it because they’re twisted. Or because they hate the Aurors, the good citizens or both. Could’ve been Malfoy, trying to show that we need even more Aurors and funding. And maybe get rid of Bones and Scrimgeour by painting them as incompetent at the same time. Could’ve been an Auror wanting to look good in their report.” He grinned at them. “Or perhaps the goblins, trying to find a pretext for a war.”

None of those possibilities struck Harry as particularly likely. But he didn’t have any better ideas either.

“Do you already know what you’ll be doing?” Moody asked.

“No. But we expect to do patrolling,” Harry answered. After all, Aurors were always patrolling, so it would be easy to put them to work.

“Unless they find an unsolvable case for us.” Ron grinned cynically.

“Giving up already?” Moody’s grin would have curdled milk.

“Of course not,” Harry said. “But we have a few questions about filing reports.”

“And other paperwork,” Ron added.

Moody’s face twisted into a grimace. Harry carefully refrained from smiling.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, September 12th, 1998**

“What was it that Scrimgeour said? ‘We don’t send rookies into Knockturn Alley - that’d be a recipe for disaster.’?” Ron scoffed.

“Well, he also said he wouldn’t treat us like rookies,” Harry Potter pointed out as he tapped his glasses to check the corner ahead of them. And the roofs. And the sewers - Moody had shared a lot of stories about ambushes in Knockturn Alley. “Clear,” he said.

Ron nodded and moved a little ahead, covering the closest shadows with his wand. “I’d believe that if we hadn’t gotten the graveyard shift - on a Saturday!”

“So?” Harry shrugged as he kept an eye on the low roof ahead of them. That would be an ideal spot to catch them in a crossfire if someone attacked them from the side alley ahead. “With all the wounded, they must be short on Aurors. And it’s not as if you are missing out on anything important. Even if today were a Hogsmeade weekend, Luna would’ve been back at Hogwarts long before our shift started.”

His friend snorted. “There’s more to the weekend than going out with your girlfriend, you know. Or should know.” He took a step forward and aimed his wand down the side alley. “Clear.”

Was that a dig at Harry currently being single? “Such as?” Harry asked.

“We could have gone to a pub.” Ron moved up to the next side alley.

“We did go to a pub until our shift started,” Harry pointed out as he glanced behind them, checking if anyone was sneaking up on them. His Human-presence-revealing Spell didn’t show any markers, but its range was limited.

“We didn’t drink much, though,” Ron said.

“Would you have gotten drunk if we didn’t have the graveyard shift?” That would have been an interesting talk with Luna over their mirror, Harry thought.

“Well, no, but it’s the principle of the thing. Besides, if we don’t get upset at these shifts, they’ll think we’re OK with them. And that would be a major annoyance in nine months and one week.” Ron said.

“Are you actually counting the days until Luna finishes her year?” Harry asked.

“No,” Ron said, then held up his hand.

“Trouble?” Harry asked as he came up to Ron’s spot.

“Possibly.” Ron pointed ahead. There were several people standing in front of the entrance to the ‘Drunk Pixie’, a notorious dive popular among thugs and other criminals. “The other pubs we passed didn’t have so many people outside.” None, actually, who weren’t leaving.

“Those were closer to Diagon Alley,” Harry said. “They might feel safer here.” And wasn’t that ironic?

“Optimist,” Ron replied, snorting.

“I don’t spot anyone lying in wait,” Harry said, using his glasses. “But they might just be incompetent.”

“Used to other Aurors.” Ron grinned. “Let’s see what they’ll do?” He cast a Shield Charm.

“Yes.” Harry nodded and followed Ron’s example before he started to walk towards the group. Ron fell in a step behind and to his right. As they got closer, Harry once more used his glasses to check for hidden threats. There were none - but the group, six in total, had spotted them, and they were now fanning out with wands drawn but kept at their sides, pointed down.

And that wasn’t normal behaviour, even for Knockturn Alley. Unless they were looking for a fight.

“No one on our flanks,” he whispered.

“Idiots,” Ron answered. “I’ll take right.”

As they walked closer, Harry studied the six thugs facing them. Four men, two women. Shabby-looking robes in various styles, but sturdy boots and gloves. And they all had enchanted wand holsters. Experienced and moderately successful thugs, then.

But not smart ones, he thought.

As if on cue, the apparent leader of the thugs spoke up. “What do we have here, gents? A pair of rookie Aurors on their first patrol, huh?”

Harry’s eyes widened. They knew this was their first patrol. And they knew that they didn’t have an experienced Auror with them. This was a set-up, not some random trouble.

“They look more like students dressed up in transfigured Auror robes,” the woman next to the leader spoke, “I wonder if they…”

Harry cut her off with a Bludgeoning Curse to the stomach.

*****

For such a shabby-looking shop, Borgin and Burkes had very strong wards, Hermione Granger thought as she studied the house from the roof across the Alley, hidden in the shadow cast by a particularly large chimney. That had been expected, of course - no shop specialising in dark artefacts would have weak protections. Especially not in Knockturn Alley, where Aurors feared to tread.

Feared to tread so much that they sent rookie Aurors to patrol it at midnight instead of experienced ones, she thought, clenching her teeth at how rotten the Auror Corps had to be to allow this.

She shook her head and focused on the shop again. There was a covered side alley on one side. If she dealt with the wards, she could go through the wall there. Vanish or transfigure the bricks to create a hole. But that would leave traces, even if she fixed it afterwards. And they were likely to have put spells on the walls, just in case their neighbours had designs on them. Still, it might serve well as a distraction - for Borgin, and maybe the DMLE.

Because she would be going in through the windows of the second floor. The first floor’s windows had a convenient ledge at their bottom. A little too convenient, in her opinion, to risk using it. And the roof lacked an attic window.

But she’d have to deal with the wards first. And they were nasty wards. Older than a century and probably containing a number of spells that were now illegal. But she would have to be closer to the building to analyse its wards. And she didn’t like the roofs of the neighbouring houses. And the Alley… She shook her head. Even with most of its regular denizens keeping a low profile while the DMLE was sorting out Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley wasn’t a safe place for dealing with lethal wards.

She sighed. She would have to use a floating platform. She could enchant an invisible platform easily, but she’d need a lookout while she analysed the wards. Which meant she would need help. From Sirius, since Mr Fletcher didn’t want to slow her down, as he put it, and Jeanne didn’t have enough experience with that kind of work yet.

She hoped her tutor get over his… depression, she thought. Losing his foot didn’t mean that he was useless. If only he’d see that as well!

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. She tapped her mask and took a closer look at the protruding windows of the shop’s ground floor. Not quite display windows, and reinforced with spells, she was certain. And probably enchanted to show nothing but a cluttered shop no matter what was going on inside - she didn’t think distinguished members of Old Families wanted to be seen frequenting this shop. She’d have to check that up close as well; it would make it easier to avoid detection by passers-by once she was inside.

Not that the passers-by in this area would be likely to alert the DMLE, should they spot a thief. They were more likely to try and exploit the opportunity to loot the shop themselves. Which would be a problem as well, of course.

At least the neighbouring shops didn’t look like they would attract clients at this time of the night, she noted as she looked them over. No pubs or brothels, just more shady shops and cramped flats. She didn’t spot any hags or other creatures nearby, but that didn’t mean anything; they would be the first to hide in the current situation - if someone was willing to attack the goblins, they might be willing to attack a hag as well. Or a vampire, she added, shivering slightly as she recalled her encounter with Tripe.

She sighed again. This heist would require a longer period of time spent casing the joint than she had hoped. At least Harry and Ron had pulled the graveyard shift for the week, so she wouldn’t have to go to great lengths to cover up her own absence during the night.

Hermione was about to climb down in the side alley next to her perch when a flash followed by an explosion drew her attention. She whipped around. More flashes - various spells, she realised - and more explosions, and not too far away.

She blinked, then gasped. Harry and Ron were on patrol in the area!

A moment later, she was jumping to the next roof as she made her way towards the battle.

*****

Harry Potter’s curse doubled the witch over and threw her back almost a yard. She collapsed, clutching her stomach, as Harry dropped into a crouch and cast another Bludgeoning Curse at the wizard next to her while the thug was still staring at her. The curse caught the man on his shoulder and whirled him around. A Stunner finished him off before he hit the ground.

Ron had dropped the apparent leader with a Stunner to his face and followed up with a Bludgeoning Curse to the man’s wand hand that broke both wand and bones.

The three remaining thugs, though, overcame their shock and a yellow curse splattered against Harry’s shield. He almost returned fire with a Piercing Curse to the head, but lowered his aim and hit the man in the leg instead. The thug fell and started screaming as Blasting Curse flew past Harry and blew up part of the front of the house behind him.

Harry dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, moving his wand to curse the witch who had just tried to kill him, but Ron was quicker and the witch’s screams joined the thug’s as Harry’s friend smashed her legs with a curse.

Harry kept rolling - another spell missed him and covered the ground with some liquid - and came up with his wand aimed at the last thug standing. A second later, Harry’s next Bludgeoning Curse hit the man in the head, knocking him back and out.

“You alright?” Harry heard Ron ask as he looked for more threats.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes. They weren’t fooling around,” Ron said and stunned the thugs who were still conscious.

Harry kept an eye on the Drunk Pixie. The pub was still open, and they had to have heard the battle. He didn’t see anyone coming to check what had happened, though. Anyone frequenting that dive would have good reasons not to get involved no matter who won the fight, of course, but still… it looked very suspicious to Harry.

“Someone cast an Anti-Portkey Jinx,” Ron said, holding up the Portkey that should have transported the thugs back to the Ministry.

Harry muttered a curse under his breath. The thugs could have done that - or it could be the work of someone else. Someone still around. “Get them bound and stuck together,” he told Ron, “I’ll cover us.” That would let them float the six suspects out of the Alley with one spell.

“Alright.” Ron started to cast and Harry kept his wand trained on the pub’s front as he looked around for more enemies.

*****

The fighting had stopped before Hermione Granger reached the scene of the battle - she couldn’t see any more spells flashing, nor did she hear any further explosions - and so she didn’t keep rushing forward, but stopped two houses away and changed.

A moment later, she was moving again, on four paws. It didn’t take her more than a few seconds to reach the last roof, and, even slowing down to avoid drawing attention, she was at the roof’s edge, peering down at the Alley, before more than twenty seconds had passed - she was familiar with the area, after all.

There was Harry! And Ron! And half a dozen unconscious thugs! She stared. Her friends seemed unhurt. Unlike their enemies, who were unconscious, paralysed, and apparently about to be stuck to one another by Ron.

Clever, she thought, once Ron finished and levitated the entire group. She’d have conjured a plank, though, in his place. She looked around. Harry was covering the pub with his wand while Ron floated the captured thugs away. Smart, she thought, remembering her own visit to the Drunk Pixie.

And then Harry turned in her direction and she recoiled, ducking down. Had he spotted her? She held her breath, pushing herself against the cold roof - her fur must be getting all filthy - so she wouldn’t be visible from below, not at that angle.

Seconds passed. Nothing happened. She started breathing again. After about a minute, she slowly raised her head and peered down at the Alley again.

Her friends were gone. She sighed in relief.

*****

Movement! On the roof? Harry Potter whirled around, wand rising, then stopped. There was nothing there. His Human-presence-revealing Spell didn’t show any markers either - and the roof was in range. No Invisibility Cloak, then, nor a Disillusionment Charm.

He activated his glasses, then grinned. It was just a cat. The battle must have scared it - it was hiding in the rain gutters.

Shaking his head, he followed Ron out of the Alley. They had half a dozen thugs to process.

And find out who had ordered the scum to ambush them.

*****

 


	37. First Steps

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 13th, 1998**

Raphael Markdotter had been arrested before. Not quite as brutally as last night - Merlin’s arse, they had broken his hand and his wand! After he was already stunned! - but he’d had worse than this. In his line of work, one got used to getting hurt.

He’d been in a holding cell before, and he was pretty sure he’d be in one again after this. So, when two young-looking Aurors took him out of his cell and brought him to an interrogation room, he was rather surprised. As a rule, the Aurors didn’t work on Sundays when they could help it, so if you got arrested on a Saturday, you could cool your heels until Monday morning, at the earliest, before a red robe would bother to deal with you.

This was a surprise, and Raphael didn’t like surprises. Even less after last night’s ‘surprise’.

At least he knew the Auror that was waiting for him in the room. “Auror Dawlish! Working on a Sunday? Who did you annoy to earn that punishment? Bones? The Minister himself?”

Dawlish, as usual, didn’t rise to the bait. “Markdotter. Sit down. How’s your hand?”

Raphael raised his right hand and wriggled his fingers. “Better than my wand. The Healer on duty took her sweet time before dealing with me, though.”

“She was busy with your ‘comrades’,” Dawlish replied. “You were lucky - a number of them needed Skele-Gro.”

“What?” Raphael grimaced. That was… considerably more brutal than he had expected. “Who the hell were those Aurors?” They hadn’t been rookies, not by a long shot. Hell, Raphael didn’t think they were Aurors. The Red Robes were arrogant pricks - Raphael had learned that during his year with the Hit-Wizards, back in the war, when the Ministry hired anyone, even wizards like him who had quit Hogwarts after their O.W.L.s - but they weren’t that quick to curse people.

“So, you didn’t know who you were hired to murder?” Dawlish shook his head.

“Murder?” Raphael felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “We weren’t going to murder them, Dawlish! You know that we don’t don’t do that!” The bloody git should know better - Raphael had been arrested numerous times, but never for anything that serious.

“What were you planning to do, then?”

Raphael narrowed his eyes at the Auror, pondering what to tell him. He didn’t think that any of his gang had escaped. Not from those two wizards. And they hadn’t prepared a cover story beforehand, which meant any attempt at lying wouldn’t hold up for long. He wasn’t naive enough to expect everyone to stay silent, either. So... the truth. He sighed. “Heard there was a pair of rookie Aurors who were promoted to full-fledged Aurors straight away thanks to their parents’ gold. So I was told to take them down a peg. Just rough them up a little. Show them that they’re not as hot as they think. Nothing serious.” Nothing unusual either for him and his friends, though, usually, they didn't hit Aurors. Not even unpopular ones. The pay had been too high to turn this down, though.

“Who ‘told’ you that?” Dawlish narrowed his eyes at him.

Raphael shrugged. “Dunno. Looked like Polyjuice - the way they moved was a little off.” People who spent the kind of sum he had received were unlikely to show their real face when dealing with him.

Dawlish shook his head, but it wasn’t as if he had expected anything else. Both of them knew how the game was played, after all.

“So, who were those two wizards?” Raphael asked again. “They sure as hell weren’t bloody rookies!”

Dawlish chuckled. “You didn’t recognise them?”

He glared at the Auror. “I was busy getting stunned before they were close enough.” He blinked. “Why should I have recognised them, anyway? Apart from Mad-Eye, none of you lot are famous.” And Moody was infamous in Knockturn Alley, rather than famous.

Dawlish grinned. “You didn’t hear? The Boy-Who-Lived and his best friend just joined the Corps.”

Raphael drew a hissing breath. They had attacked Harry Bloody Potter? He hadn’t believed all that he had heard about the boy - mowing down a dozen Death Eaters before defeating the Dark Lord in single combat? Yeah, right. Raphael had fought Death Eaters before, and they would have eaten a Hogwarts student alive. But Potter had wiped the floor with his gang… “Someone set us up!” he spat.

“Maybe,” Dawlish said, inclining his head. “Or someone didn’t know just how good Potter and Weasley are.” His smile turned into a sneer. “I somehow doubt that anyone would use Potter to take you and your friends down a peg.”

The git was right, Raphael thought. No, he and his friends had been used against Potter. He leaned back. “Bloody Hell.”

*****

“That was quite an eventful first patrol, Aurors Potter and Weasley.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry Potter couldn’t tell what Scrimgeour was thinking; neither the man’s bland tone nor his expression gave any hint about his emotions as he sat behind his desk.

“It wasn’t our fault, though,” Ron said. “Someone set up those thugs to ambush us.”

Harry glanced at Dawlish. The Auror hadn’t shared the results of his interrogation of the thugs’ leader with them before going to Scrimgeour. But now he nodded and spoke up. “That’s correct. The group was hired to ‘rough up’ Potter and Weasley.”

“By whom?” Harry asked, then pressed his lips together as Scrimgeour frowned at him for speaking out of turn.

“He doesn’t know,” Dawlish answered, after a nod from the Head Auror, “since, as usual for such deals, Polyjuice was used to disguise who did the hiring.”

Dawlish didn’t hide his emotions as well as Scrimgeour - or didn’t bother. Slight condescension clearly coloured his tone as he addressed Ron and Harry.

“A picture of the ‘client’ might still be useful,” Harry retorted. “They might have used the same disguise on other occasions.”

“And how do you suppose we acquire such a picture? The thugs you arrested aren’t likely to remember enough for our sketch artist to work, and I doubt very much that they would be willing to help in the first place.” Dawlish sniffed. “Their kind don’t think highly of snitches.”

That made sense, although Harry didn’t like admitting it.

“I assume they wouldn’t be willing to donate a memory, then,” Ron said, frowning.

“A memory? What for?” Dawlish said.

Scrimgeour was quicker on the uptake. “Do you have access to a Pensieve?” He sounded a little too eager, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry considered lying but dismissed it as a bad idea. It would be pointless and would antagonise the Head Auror for no gain. “Possibly,” he said. “My godfather inherited one, but I don’t know if he’s used it yet.”

“Figures the Blacks would have one,” Dawlish muttered.

“I see.” Scrimgeour nodded slowly. “I’ll have to talk to Mr Black, then. Such a device would be of immense utility to the Department.”

It certainly would, Harry thought. But it would also be used by everyone with a little influence in the Ministry for their own purposes.

He didn’t think that would be a good thing. And, as a glance at Ron, who was clenching his teeth, probably annoyed at his slip, showed, neither did his friend.

“But back to the issue at hand,” Scrimgeour said. “This, a planned assault on a patrol, far exceeds what could be considered ‘hazing’, and is considerably worse than what was expected.”

So Scrimgeour had expected the backlash, Harry noted. He had been almost certain of that before, but it was good to have it confirmed. “They underestimated us, though,” he pointed out, “which would suggest that whoever is behind this wasn’t familiar with our test results.” Wasn’t a member of the Corps, in other words - Harry knew, both from Tonks and Moody as well as from personal experience, how quickly gossip spread among the Aurors.

“Perhaps,” Dawlish said. “Or it was a set-up to let you shine.”

“What?” blurted Ron.

“You were very quick on the draw,” Dawlish pointed out. “Almost as if you knew their plans.”

“They knew too much about us, so it was clear that it was an ambush,” Harry said, trying not to sound irritated. “Do you really think that we hired them just so we could arrest them?”

“I don’t,” Scrimgeour cut in, with a glance at Dawlish. “But it wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened.” At Harry’s look, he added: “It was handled discreetly since the Auror in question wasn’t aware of it.”

“Sirius wouldn’t do such a thing either,” Harry said. His godfather worried too much about him to organise an attack like this. But neither Dawlish nor Scrimgeour looked as if they shared his opinion.

“In any case, we cannot dismiss the possibility that someone is trying to hurt you - or worse,” Scrimgeour went on. “Someone who might have contacts inside the Ministry.”

“And perhaps inside the Corps,” Harry added.

“Could be a Death Eater spy who escaped the investigation,” Dawlish said.

“Would have been pretty tame for a Death Eater attack,” Ron pointed out. “They weren’t that inept.”

“A spy might be less skilled at fighting,” Dawlish retorted. “That would explain why they weren’t in the Atrium, fighting for the Dark Lord.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so.” This smelled like some Ministry plot. Or perhaps Malfoy - but mentioning that wouldn’t be a good idea at all. “So, what are we doing about this?”

“We’ll investigate this incident while you keep doing your assignments,” Scrimgeour said. “I would caution you to be cautious, but seeing as Moody trained you, that would be redundant.” He smiled slightly.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Dawlish said.

“That’s settled,” Scrimgeour said. “Go home and skip today’s shift. You’ve already put in enough overtime.”

Harry nodded.

After he and Ron had left the Head Auror’s office, he turned to Ron. “We’re not going to leave this investigation to Dawlish, are we?”

“Certainly not,” Ron answered with a grin.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 13th, 1998**

When Hermione Granger heard Harry and Ron return, she instantly put down her pen - the draft for Sirius’s speech could wait - and rushed to the kitchen, where, as expected, she found her friends raiding the ice box for the sandwiches Kreacher must have prepared. “What happened?” she immediately asked. “You should have been home hours ago!”

“We got delayed,” Harry replied.

Ron, who had already started to eat, swallowed, then added: “Hi, Hermione. And good morning.”

“Morning,” she answered reflexively, ignoring his sarcastic tone. She knew that they had been fine after their fight, but they didn’t know that she knew. They should have called - if only to tell her that they were going to be late. “Delayed?” She frowned at Harry.

“We arrested some suspects during our patrol and processing them took longer than expected,” he explained.

“Hours longer?” Hermione had studied the procedures with both of them; they shouldn’t have taken that long.

“Well, they needed the attention of the Healer on duty before they could be interrogated,” Harry said. He held a sandwich in his left hand, a little awkwardly, she noted.

“I still think at least two of them would have been fine without any healing,” Ron added. “We didn’t hit them that hard. Just a little harder than in training.”

Harry glared at him, Hermione noted. “I see,” she said. “And did you interrogate them?”

“No.”

“Why not? Isn’t it standard practice that the Aurors who make the arrest interrogate the suspects?” She had studied the handbook as well, of course. A thief never knew when such knowledge might turn out to be useful.

“Yes, it is,” Harry admitted. “Unless the Aurors are personally involved in the case.”

“What?” That didn’t make any sense, she thought. Unless… “Why did you arrest them?”

“Well, they knew we were on patrol and were waiting to ambush us,” Ron said.

“What?” “What?” Hermione barely kept from screaming. Sirius, who had just arrived, didn’t bother.

Harry held up his free hand. “They weren’t a real threat. We took them down without trouble.”

“And they were only hired to ‘rough us up’, or so they claimed,” Ron said, before taking another bite.

Hermione exchanged a glance with Sirius. He looked as annoyed at the boys as she felt. She glared at them. “Tell us exactly what happened. From the start of your patrol,” she added.

*****

“...and then we were dismissed.” Harry finished his story ten minutes and several questions from Hermione Granger and Sirius - which, in hindsight, would have been answered in due course - later.

Ron grimaced. “I also accidentally let slip that you have a Pensieve,” he said. “Sorry about that; I didn’t think.”

She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t scold them for letting that secret out.

“We told them that Sirius inherited it so they think it’s a Black family treasure.” Harry grinned.

“Clever,” Sirius said. “They won’t dare bother me about it.” He bared his teeth. “That’s just not done to an Old Family. Imagine the precedent it would set!”

And, Hermione added silently, the DMLE wouldn’t dare bother a man who had spent over a decade wrongly imprisoned without a trial.  “They might put some pressure on Harry, though,” she added.

Ron nodded. “Scrimgeour will. I’m sure of that. He’s a wily one. Probably was a Slytherin.”

“Gryffindor, actually,” Sirius said.

“You went to school with him?” Harry asked.

“Briefly; he was a seventh-year prefect when I was a first-year,” Sirius explained. “Anyway, if Scrimgeour is being subtle, he might assign you some cases where the use of a Pensieve would be useful.”

“And let us choose between failing or getting you to let us use the Pensieve.” Harry frowned.

“Just because I let you use the Pensieve doesn’t mean anyone else gets to use it,” Sirius said.

“But they’ll claim we only solved the case thanks to that,” Harry said.

“Well…” Ron shrugged. “It would be true, wouldn’t it?”

“But the evidence gained might not be admissible in court,” Hermione pointed out. “They wouldn’t be able to ensure it hadn’t been tampered with.”

“The Wizengamot would only care about that if they wanted to acquit someone no matter what and needed an excuse.” Sirius chuckled, but he was sneering. “Otherwise, they’ll simply have you swear that you didn’t tamper with it and treat it the same as your other testimony as a witness.”

Hermione clenched her teeth in annoyance - both at this casual dismissal of proper legal procedure and at her failure to anticipate it.

“As long as the Ministry can’t get their greedy hands on the Pensieve,” Ron said.

If they did, it would be his fault, Hermione thought. But she nodded. The DMLE having access to the Pensieve would complicate her own plans, after all. “You should have called when you were delayed,” she told them.

“Well… we didn’t know it would take so long,” Harry said, “and we didn’t want to wake you.”

“Yeah,” Ron added. “You usually sleep in, don’t you?”

Hermione glared at him. She didn’t sleep in; she simply had a different schedule, being more active at night. “As you can see, I was awake already. And have been so for some time.”

“Well, I wasn’t asleep,” Sirius said, “but I was still in bed until you returned.” He grinned widely.

Hermione turned to glare at the dog. He wasn’t helping.

Harry yawned. “Anyway, we need sleep now. We can talk some more in the afternoon. Before training.”

“Training?” Hermione asked.

He nodded. “Last night showed, again, how important it is to be able to defend yourself.”

“I thought you had no trouble defeating the thugs,” Hermione said. She had better things to do than play the hopeless witch with Harry! She had a heist to plan!

“That’s right.” He nodded. “But they wouldn’t have had any trouble dealing with you.” He shook his head. “You need to get better at Defence. And you will. I promise.”

Hermione was tempted to demonstrate right then just how good she was at Defence. But she couldn’t do that, so she nodded.

Besides, she suspected that even tired and surprised as Harry would be, he might still beat her. And the dog would never let her forget it.

*****

Harry Potter flicked his wand and sent a series of Stinging Hexes at Hermione. She had dropped to the floor when he had started to cast and rolled to the side, his hexes passing over her and hitting the wall at the back. His next two hexes would have hit her - she wasn’t moving that quickly while rolling, although she presented a smaller target from his position - but the Shield Charm she had managed to cast while dodging deflected them.

She was improving, he noticed, pleased, when his next spells were stopped by a conjured wall - which he quickly vanished with a flick of his wand. She had kept moving, though he caught her with a volley of Paint-Splash Hexes that were, once again, stopped by her shield. But the colourful explosions obscured her vision long enough for Harry to cast a Disillusionment Charm himself and change position, allowing him to flank her.

His manoeuvre caught her by surprise, and he saw her freeze for a moment when she couldn’t spot him. That was more than long enough for him to shatter her shield with a Piercing Curse. Two Paint-Splash Hexes hit her right afterwards - one of them in the face, he noticed.

She spat some paint out and glared at him. “You used a Piercing Curse!”

“It was the easiest way to take down your shield,” he answered.

“It would also be the easiest way to kill me by accident!” she retorted, baring her teeth at him as she cast various cleaning charms.

“Your shield could take it. And I knew that,” he defended himself. It wasn’t as if she’d be so dumb as to drop her shield in the middle of a fight, training session or not. “Besides, I didn’t aim at anything vital.”

She huffed and kept casting cleaning charms - at her face, hair and the robes she wore.

He cleared his throat. “You’re clean already.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t feel clean yet,” she all but hissed at him.

He frowned. “You shouldn’t keep cleaning, you know.”

“What?”

“You’ll get into the habit of doing so, and might even do it in a real fight - and that could cost you your life.”

“Leaving unknown liquids and substances on me could also cost me my life!” she shot back.

“Yes, but one good charm should take care of those. You don’t need to cast it seven times.”

She sniffed. “You didn’t need to cover me with paint!”

“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d dodge,” he retorted. “You froze again. That’s a fatal mistake in a fight.”

She huffed and redid her ponytail, which had come undone during the fight - or during her frantic cleaning afterwards. “Alright, let’s do it again,” she said.

She looked as if she had just finished dressing - her tight robes, split in the front and back to allow her unhindered movement were spotless, again, as was her face.

Harry shook his head, smiling. “As you wish.” He bowed as if he were in a formal duelling event, but flicked his wand as he straightened, casting a full Body-Bind Curse at her.

She hadn’t fallen for it, though, and her hastily cast Shield Charm stopped his curse. The hexes with which he followed up missed when she executed a perfect roll over her shoulder that carried her behind the next pillar before he could adjust his aim. Harry didn’t even bother reacting to the Stinging Hexes she cast at him from behind that pillar - the one that wasn’t going wide was stopped by his own Shield Charm.

“Dodging alone won’t be enough,” he said, stepping to the side so the pillar was blocking her line of sight. Once more, he disillusioned himself, then moved to flank her again.

She wasn’t fooled this time, though - she must have cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell since she kept the pillar between them. “You can’t keep that up forever,” he told her.

“I don’t have to. I just have to last longer than you!” she retorted.

But she knew as well as he did that he could simply vanish the pillar. So, she probably thought she had that covered. He tapped his glasses. Yes, she kept her wand aimed straight at the pillar. So she would be ready for him as soon as he removed the obstacle.

Or so she thought. Harry grinned and charged straight at the pillar. Instead of vanishing it, he blew it up - and then jumped through the cloud of fragments and dust. His glasses let him know exactly where Hermione was. He saw her eyes widen in surprise and probably shock, right before he crashed into her and their Shield Charms broke each other.

He slammed her to the ground, trying to pin her, but she managed to twist out of his grip - she was quicker than he had expected. She almost escaped, but he caught one of her legs with his own and kept her down. He moved to stun her, but she kicked him in his right arm with her free leg, and his spell went wide. He did manage to grab her wand hand, though. “It’s ov…” he started to say when she slugged him in the face with her free hand.

He grabbed her left hand with his right hand without thinking - he was still holding his wand! - and then had to deflect her knee with his thigh before she hit him in the groin. Hermione didn’t give up, though, and kept struggling with surprising strength, wriggling and bumping against him as she tried to escape his hold and he used his entire weight to keep her pinned down.

Finally, she stopped fighting him and he felt her body relax under his own. He knew better than to assume she had given up. “Surrender?” he asked, panting as he tried to recover his breath.

He saw her clench her teeth - she, too, was panting heavily, and he could feel her chest pushing into his with each breath she drew. Could feel her breasts pushing into his chest, he realised. Could feel her toned body tensing under him as she once more tried to break his grip, before relaxing again.

And he could feel his own body starting to react. He pushed himself off her at once, before she realised what was happening, and threw himself into a backward roll, ending in a crouch and facing her. “I think that’s enough for today,” he managed to say between heavy breaths.

She blinked, then sat up. “Yes.” She nodded, brushing her hair out of her face - her ponytail had come undone again. And her chest was heaving under her tight robes.

Harry tried to think of something to say. Something to distract himself... and her. Something professional - this was a training session, after all. He had to focus on that. And not on how attractive she was. Just focus on the lesson. On Defence. Alright.

“I think we need to spend more time grappling.”

*****

Hermione Granger stared at Harry as she tried to slow down her breathing. More grappling? More time spent in such close contact with Harry, rolling over the floor as their bodies were pressed against each other and their faces were close enough to touch? She felt herself blush at the thought, and her chest was still heaving. And other parts were not cooperating either. She swallowed dryly. And Harry wanted to spend more time doing that?

He blinked and she saw he was blushing as well. “I mean, it’s an obvious weakness of yours.”

Ah. She nodded. “Yes.” She hadn’t done well - not at all. Much worse than she should have, given what she could do - but clawing her friend’s eyes out would have been going too far, she supposed - even for Harry’s rather extreme views of what was considered ‘training’. And changing into a cat would have been hard to explain. And wouldn’t have been as much fun as wrestling with Harry in her human form. He was in very good shape, she could now tell. Not like a bodybuilder - but he had hard muscles. And probably… She cleared her throat and tried to push the rather distracting thoughts away. “So, ah… how about we take a break? This was, ah, intense.”

“Yes. Good idea” He nodded and turned away - rather brusquely. But he had been staring at her and blushing, Hermione noted.

She bit down on her lower lip until it hurt before saying: “Is there any mineral water?” She knew there was; she had checked earlier.

“Yes.” He spent a little more time than usual looking through the small bar they had installed in the duelling chamber before straightening and handing her a bottle.

“Thank you.” She took a few sips, wondering what she should say. The fight had been… exciting. Very much so. But if he didn’t want to talk about it, she certainly wouldn’t either. Not until she had figured out how she felt about this. Apart from the obvious physical attraction and reaction she had felt, of course. She had noticed those clearly. She cleared her throat. “Are you happy at the Ministry?”

“What?” He blinked again. Had he been as distracted as she had been?

She repeated her question.

He frowned. “Why are you asking?”

She didn’t tell him the truth - that she had no idea what she wanted to ask or say about what had just happened and that the silence was making the whole thing even more awkward. “I just wonder whether you’re happy. You said most of the Aurors resent you and want to sabotage you. And now someone - maybe an Auror - has even hired people to attack you.” She shook her head, then had to brush her hair out of her face again. While she quickly restyled her mane and cast a few cleaning charms on her robes for good measure, she said: “It doesn’t sound like a friendly working environment.” It sounded like an assassination attempt waiting to happen.

He snorted. “It isn’t. But someone has to straighten out the DMLE.”

“The Auror’s performance in the riot was rather lacking,” she agreed. Sirius had worded it more succinctly. More vulgarly as well.

“I’m not talking about that. That’s simply lack of skill and, apparently, experience.” He shook his head. “Ron and I could have done better, too. A conjured wall to block them, instead of providing cover for ourselves. Maybe more water, earlier…” He shrugged. “We had some trouble thinking of non-lethal responses.”

“Figures,” she said with a fake smile, “seeing how you train.”

He chuckled. “Sorry. Anyway, that’s not the most important problem. The real issue is that the laws aren’t enforced equally - too many have too much influence on the DMLE. What’s the point of Sirius - and you - reforming the laws of Wizarding Britain if they aren’t enforced?”

She frowned. “But even if you manage to straighten out the DMLE, the cases still end up in front of the Wizengamot.” Where politics had at least as much weight on the court’s ruling as evidence and the law.

“I know.” He grinned. “But that’s Sirius’s and your job.”

“You’re the Boy-Who-Lived. You could help there too.”

“And I will. If you need me to, I’ll nod and read my lines.” He shook his head. “But I can do more as an Auror than as a mouthpiece in the Wizengamot.”

She bit her lower lip again - perhaps she had pushed her speeches on him a little too strongly. “Sorry.”

He waved her apology away. “No need to be sorry. I know you mean well.”

She nodded. He also meant well. It was just a shame that he was stuck on being an Auror. And, it seemed, one of the better ones in the Corps. Ultimately, an Auror was the enemy of any self-respecting thief.

Even, she added as she watched his back when he grabbed a snack from the bar, if he looked very attractive in their red robes.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 14th, 1998**

As Harry Potter watched - without being obvious, of course - Hermione drinking tea at breakfast, he thought that she was a weird mix of contradictions. Not that she was likely to notice him observing her; it was very early for her, after all, even if she didn’t look that tired.

She was wearing plain robes. They weren’t as tight as he’d like - for entirely Defence-related reasons, of course - but they were impeccable. He couldn’t spot a speck of dust. Or a loose thread. And her hairstyle, too, was simple - a ponytail - but no strand looked out of place. It was obvious, now that he was paying attention and remembered what Parvati used to tell him, that Hermione spent a lot of effort to care for her hair and appearance.

He glanced over at Jeanne, who was sipping her coffee - Kreacher still considered it inappropriate but had grudgingly chosen to brew it rather than see Jeanne encroach on his kitchen. The French witch seemed to be the opposite of Hermione. The way she was dressed looked quite haphazard - loose, dark red, silken house robes which showed quite a bit of skin - though her hairstyle looked elegant, despite being the result of a single charm. And yet, she looked more attractive than Hermione.

If Hermione dressed like Jeanne, but made the same effort as she was doing already… Harry took a deep breath as he imagined her in that slightly loose silk robe that threatened to slide down a shoulder. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t dress more elegantly. She was all but living at Grimmauld Place nowadays, and with Jeanne as an example, and willing to help, she could easily spruce up her wardrobe.

Perhaps she thought that if she dressed less plainly, there would be more rumours about her having an affair with Sirius? It certainly wasn’t as if there was a dress code at the Wizengamot that prohibited more elegant robes.

“Why do we have the early shift on a Monday morning?”

Harry looked at the doorway, where Ron had appeared and was apparently stifling a yawn.

“Good morning, Ron,” Hermione said pointedly as she nodded at him with a thin smile.

“Good morning, everybody,” Ron said promptly.

“Good morning.” “Bonjour.” “Morning.”

Ron sat down and started to fill his plate. “Seriously, though, I know we’re getting the rookie shifts, but graveyard shift on Saturday and morning shift on Monday?”

“It’s the normal shift, actually,” Harry said. “We start work at the same time as everyone else at the Ministry.”

“Exactly!” Ron nodded. “Just as we’re getting used to spending our nights in Knockturn Alley and sleeping in the mornings, suddenly we’re supposed to be at work so early?” He shook his head. “Smells fishy to me.”

“We were supposed to have the graveyard shift yesterday, too, but since we had so much overtime following our patrol, it was changed,” Harry pointed out. “I guess we got shifted around.”

Ron groaned and Harry scowled - his pun wasn’t that bad.

“Can you drop it?” Hermione narrowed her eyes at them. “I also had to get up far too early, but do you hear me complaining?”

“She actually was complaining, before Harry arrived,” Sirius cut in.

That earned Harry’s godfather a glare from Hermione as Harry and Ron chuckled. She looked very cute, too, Harry noticed, as she half-frowned and half-pouted.

“Do I have something on my face?” she suddenly asked, staring straight at him.

Apparently, he hadn’t been as subtle as he had thought. He shook his head. “No. I’m just evaluating your robes.”

“They’re perfectly fine,” she said.

“They’re also a little plain,” he retorted.

“I didn’t know you were a fashion critic,” she shot back.

“All men are,” Jeanne remarked, “when it concerns attractive women.”

Harry glanced at her; the witch looked a little too smug for his taste. And so did Sirius, too, he noticed.

“Oh?” Hermione tilted her head slightly as she addressed him. “I thought you judged my robes exclusively with regards to how well I could fight in them.”

“I did. I do,” he corrected himself. “I just thought that your robes looked a little plain.” He glanced at Jeanne and Sirius again. They were smirking.

“Jeanne is wearing house robes,” Hermione said. “You don’t expect me to wear such robes to work?”

“Of course not!” He shook his head and held up a hand, even though she didn’t sound as if she were angry. “I’m not criticising your choice in robes.” Though he certainly wouldn’t mind if she started wearing such robes at home.

“It sounded to me as if you just did exactly that.”

“I didn’t mean that your robes looked ugly. They look good. I just think they could look better.” He knew that Hermione could look better, too - even, no, especially, when she was all worked up like yesterday. That prim and proper secretary look wasn’t working for her, in his opinion.

“And what do you think I should be wearing instead?” Hermione asked with a toothy smile. “Hm?”

Fortunately, Kreacher entered and saved Harry from having to answer that. The elf brought the Daily Prophet and the headline served as the perfect distraction.

“They arrested Skeeter?” Hermione stood and went round the table to read over Sirius’s shoulder. Jeanne simply leaned over. “Suspected instigator of the riot in Diagon Alley?”

Harry frowned. “They got it wrong. She’s a person of interest, not a suspect.”

“Yet,” Ron added.

“You knew about this?” Hermione sounded far more offended than when he had criticised her robes, Harry noted.

He nodded. “We heard about it yesterday.”

“You could have told us,” Sirius said.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “We weren’t allowed to tell anyone.”

“Oh.”

Sirius didn’t have to look so surprised, Harry thought - he wasn’t about to start his career as an Auror by breaking the law.

*****

“Have a nice shift,” Hermione Granger said as Harry and Ron stepped up to the fireplace in Grimmauld Place’s entrance hall.

“Aren’t you coming too?” Harry asked.

She sighed. “Sirius is taking his time. Fortunately, the session won’t begin until nine o’clock.”

“That’s an hour away,” Ron remarked.

Hermione simply nodded with a long-suffering expression and watched as her friends left. When she heard steps behind her, she knew what was waiting for her. And she was correct - Sirius and Jeanne were there, looking insufferably smug.

“He likes you,” Jeanne said.

“And you like him,” Sirius added. “If I had said anything like that about your robes, you’d have hexed me! Or tried to, at least.”

Just for that quip she should hex the dog. She scoffed instead. “Our Defence training got a little physical and we ended up wrestling. He obviously noticed my body. That’s all.”

“That’s rubbish!” Sirius frowned. “I know him and I know you. It’s more than that. About time, too,” he added with a rather lecherous grin.

Hermione glared at the dog, tempted to change and claw his leg or nose or something. That would teach him to make such remarks. And it would also stop the conversation.

Unfortunately, Jeanne must have anticipated her plan and took a step forward, interposing herself between Hermione and the dog. “Please.” She smiled, gently now, rather than smugly. “Sirius is right - we know you well enough to tell that you like each other. There’s no reason to deny it.”

Hermione sighed and drew a long breath through her clenched teeth before answering. “Yes, I’m attracted to him,” she admitted. Harry was a great boy, wizard, man. Handsome, kind, if overly protective. “But we can’t have a relationship, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep pestering me about it. Or him.”

“Why couldn’t you have a relationship?” Jeanne asked, looking honestly puzzled. “You like each other. You are fond of each other. You love each other.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She really didn’t want to talk about this. But she had to, to nip this in the bud before the dog tried to ‘help things along’. “Harry’s an Auror. I’m a thief.” So were Sirius and Jeanne, technically. “It wouldn’t work out.” Love didn’t conquer all, after all.

“He doesn’t have to find out,” Sirius said. “You’ve been living with us for years, and he doesn’t suspect a thing.”

“That’s because we’re not sleeping with each other. How do you think I would explain any injuries I suffered on a heist? I can’t pass them off as training accidents to Harry, can I?” Harry wouldn’t be fooled by whatever excuse she made up. Certainly not by a headache - he’d probably drag her to a Healer if she had recurring headaches. She went on before they could say anything. “And even if I could manage to avoid any injuries, or heal them without leaving any traces, how do you think I’d be able to do a heist if I’m sleeping with him?”

“Schedule the heists on nights he’s working. We’ll have to do something like that anyway,” Sirius said, “with Harry and Ron living here.”

“That won’t always be an option,” Hermione retorted. “As things are, we have an easier time finding excuses to be absent at night. You can be on a date, and I can be at my parents. Or grandparents.” Maybe she could fake a boyfriend, or a friend to go clubbing with. “Or I might get a flat of my own.” She could claim she wanted to be independent, and have her own space.

Sirius frowned. “You already have sports as an excuse for injuries. Start that muggle ‘martial arts’ thing? It’s pretty brutal, isn’t it?” At her stare, he shrugged. “I read that in a magazine.”

Hermione knew what kind of muggle magazines Sirius read. And ‘Bike’ wouldn’t feature such articles. “I think your sources are a little outdated. Did the article mention Bruce Lee?”

“Yes, indeed. Brutal, as I said.” Sirius nodded gravely. “It would cover up any kind of injury, I think.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely accurate,” Hermione said. “But learning martial arts might be a good idea.” Even if it came from the dog. At least it would let her show Harry a thing or two in training. “But that doesn’t mean that having a relationship with Harry is a good thing. It won’t work.” Having a major secret would ruin a relationship. Her break-up with Paul had taught her that.

Jeanne tried another tack. “But denying your feelings won’t work well, either. It’s not healthy. Pushing Harry away will just leave both of you unhappy.”

She wasn’t wrong. Hermione knew that. But Harry wouldn’t be as hurt as he’d be if he found out about her real career while sleeping with her. “He’ll get over it.”

“You could tell him the truth, though?” Jeanne suggested.

Hermione stared at Sirius as she answered. “Not any more. He’s just told us that he wouldn’t break the law for us - not even for something as minor as telling us about Skeeter’s arrest.”

“That doesn’t mean that he’d arrest us,” Sirius said. “All of us? For getting back at Malfoy and the other Death Eaters?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not Harry.”

“He would be hurt, though,” Hermione said.

He didn’t deny that.

“I don’t want to force him to choose between his goals and us,” Hermione continued. “We can keep our secret as long as I don’t start anything with him. Long enough to ruin Malfoy, at least.”

After that… well, things would be different. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 14th, 1998**

“Merlin’s beard, why is doing paperwork more exhausting than patrolling?” Ron asked as he dropped into a seat in the break room. “We should have a special anti-parchment section.”

Harry Potter chuckled, but his friend was only slightly exaggerating - they certainly had earned their break, even if they were taking it rather early. He reached into his enchanted pocket and pulled out the tea Kreacher had prepared for them. Ron conjured two cups.

Just as he was pouring the tea, another Auror in the room spoke up. “Is something wrong with the teapot here?”

Harry put his pot down and looked at the man. He shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. But I don’t know who made it. Or if anyone tampered with it.”

The Auror blinked. “Do you really think that someone’s trying to poison you? In the middle of Auror Headquarters?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Ron answered.

The Auror shook his head in apparent disbelief. “In your place, I’d be more concerned about sitting in Shacklebolt’s spot. He usually takes a break a little later, but he has been known to take his break early some days.”

Harry blinked. “And he always picks the same spot?” Granted, it was a good spot - in the corner, which meant neither Harry nor Ron had anyone behind them, and with a good view of the door. That was why they had chosen it, after all.

“Well, yes.”

Harry shook his head. “Moody would curse our buttocks off if we did that.”

“Not just our buttocks,” Ron added. “Constant vigilance!”

“Did Mad-Eye really train you?” A witch from the only other occupied table, near the centre of the room, asked.

Harry snorted. “What do you think Moody would do to someone lying about him training them?”

“Oh.”

This Auror didn’t seem to be one of the smarter ones. Harry decided to use the opportunity. “Has anyone heard anything about the Skeeter investigation?”

The Auror who had asked about the tea answered. “She’s still in the interrogation room - with Scrimgeour himself.”

“I heard Bones is going to talk to her, too,” the female Auror added. “Looks like she’s cutting a deal.”

That would mean that she was guilty. Harry frowned. “Or Bones has to deal with the politics,” he said. Skeeter had to have friends among the Wizengamot to get away with what she did.

“At least she wasn’t under a spell,” the first Auror said. “The Unspeakables checked. And she’s claiming that she had no idea that her article might cause a riot.”

Harry nodded. “Did she claim that someone cast the Imperius Curse on her?”

“No. But they’re covering everything. Don’t want to make it too easy for the Wizengamot to acquit her, I guess.” The Auror grinned cynically.

“I don’t think they’ll acquit her. I bet there are a lot of members who have a bone to pick with her,” the witch said.

“Like Black, right?” The male Auror grinned.

Harry knew better than to reveal anything. He shrugged. “He has bigger things to worry about than Skeeter.”

“Ah.” The other wizard sounded as if Harry had just said something important.

“Say, how long did Mad-Eye train you?” an Auror who hadn’t said anything yet suddenly asked.

Harry looked at Ron. “Two and a half years, right?”

Ron nodded. “We started in February 1996, after that attack on you and Ginny. Feels like we’ve been doing this forever, doesn’t it?”

Harry nodded, chuckling.

“Wait…” The female Auror - Harry should really ask their names - said in a hesitant tone. “Do you mean that he’s still training you?”

“Not as often any more,” Harry replied. “Once a week.”

Judging by the way the rest of the room was staring at him, the other Aurors mustn’t train as regularly. That would certainly explain their performance during the riot.

*****

“Say…” Harry Potter started once they were back in their new - and thoroughly searched and protected - office.

“Yes?” Ron looked up at once, probably glad for any distraction from doing paperwork. How many bloody forms did they have to fill out for a simple arrest, anyway?

Harry took a deep breath. “I’m wondering about Hermione.”

“Wondering? Is that what you call it?”

Was Ron grinning? Harry narrowed his eyes at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“You were undressing her with your eyes at breakfast,” Ron said, smirking.

“I wasn’t!” At Ron’s expression, Harry added: “Not literally.” He sighed. “The Defence lesson yesterday was a little intense.”

“Intense?”

“We ended up wrestling on the floor.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Literally wrestling, not what you think.”

Ron chuckled. “But you would have liked that?”

“That’s what I’m wondering about.” Harry grimaced.

“Do you like her?”

“Yes.” What wasn’t to like? Hermione was pretty - beautiful if she would make an effort - smart and athletic, she liked Quidditch and she was his best female friend.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Harry sighed. “All my relationships have ended in nasty break-ups.” Daria didn’t count - they hadn’t had a real relationship. “I don’t want to lose her friendship.”

“And she’s living with us,” Ron pointed out.

“Yes.” If things went sour, that would be incredibly awkward.

“So, you don’t want to risk your friendship for love.”

“A chance at love,” Harry corrected him.

“Tough.” Ron rubbed his chin. “Does she like you?”

“I think she does.” She certainly had acted rather flustered yesterday. “But she hasn’t said anything.” Neither had he, but that wasn’t the point.

“Well, I’d let her make the first move. You know her - she doesn’t really hold back with her opinions.” Ron grinned.

“Perhaps.” She might not be as direct when it concerned her relationships, Harry thought. Hadn’t Paul The Ex-Boyfriend asked her out? “But I still don’t know if I should start anything.”

“Hm.” Ron looked at him. “Luna would say that you should follow your heart, not your head.”

Of course she would, Harry thought as he nodded.

“And if she does like you and asks you out, and you turn her down - wouldn’t that hurt her, and pretty much cause exactly what you’re afraid of?” Ron asked.

He had a very good point, Harry thought. That didn’t make him fear losing her friendship over this any less, though. But he would let her make the first move.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, September 20th, 1998**

Hermione Granger tapped her mask to activate her latest enchantments when she saw the figure approaching Borgin and Burkes. A week after the Diagon Alley riot, things had gone back to what was normal in Knockturn Alley. In this part of it, at least. That meant that the kind of clients that didn’t want to come during the normal opening hours - or couldn’t, she added, thinking of vampires - were once again frequenting the shop at night. None had visited after midnight, however, and this one wasn’t an exception either.

Her Supersensory Charm let her easily observe as the cloaked customer - a wizard, according to the voice - knocked at the back door of the shop and Borgin answered the door. As with the others she had observed during the week, Borgin, safely behind his wards, took a look at the man before letting him enter the shop. He didn’t ask for a password, though, so theoretically, Polyjuice Potion would give her access to the shop. But she would need hair from one of Borgin’s known customers for that, and she would have to subdue Borgin, which meant dealing with whatever protections he had set up for such deals - she was certain that he didn’t trust his obviously criminal customers not to betray or even attack him.

All in all, it wasn’t worth the effort. Not when, after several days of analysing them, she was certain that she could deal with the wards.

Several days, she couldn’t help thinking, during which Harry hadn’t said anything about what had happened. Or almost happened. He kept staring at her, though. It wasn’t a bad thing - it spared her from turning him down - but it irked her. And distracted her when she should be focusing on observing her target.

Not that there was much to see from her vantage spot, anyway - nothing new, at least. She knew all that she needed about the area and the shop’s wards already.

But while Mr Fletcher had visited the shop in the past, they didn’t know enough about its current interior layout. Something she planned to rectify, of course.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, September 22nd, 1998**

“That’s a fine-looking necklace, Miss. A fine looking necklace indeed.”

Hermione Granger, disguised as a young witch down on her luck, forced herself to smile at Borgin. “Really? Is it worth a lot then?”

The wizard sighed in an overdone and utterly unconvincing manner. “It isn’t worth much, I’m afraid. The spells on it are old but utterly trivial. And there isn’t anything special about its make either.” He dropped the necklace on the counter with a far too casual gesture. “But seeing as you are in need of gold, I would be willing to pay you ten Galleons for it.”

“Ten Galleons?” Hermione had no trouble sounding aghast at the offer - even without any enchantments, the necklace was worth ten times that sum in materials alone. “But my mother told me that it was a family treasure! The only thing, other than myself, that she got from my father before he left her.”

“I’m afraid that he must have lied to her, Miss. Not uncommon in a man who would leave his pregnant lover to marry a rich witch.”

She had seen more sincere smiles from pureblood bigots talking to her at the Ministry. “But…” She shook her head. “I was hoping to…” She swallowed and rubbed her eyes, triggering a simple spell that made tears appear. And another, far more complicated spell, that switched the spells on her fake glasses to let her take a look at the shop’s backroom - and basement.

“Please don’t cry, Miss. I can raise my offer to fifteen Galleons, even though that will rob me of any profit.”

“I’m not sure…” She took a deep breath, knowing it would draw attention to her chest, as she quickly looked through the wall and the floor. She could analyse it later for as long as she wanted thanks to Sirius’s Pensieve. “Mum wouldn’t want me to part with it,” she said, looking at the ceiling, then through the ceiling, “and if she’s watching me now…” She shook her head. “I need to think about this.”

“I completely understand,” Borgin said, smiling. “It must be hard to part with a memento.”

He probably thought that she would end up selling it to him anyway - many who approached his shop lacked other options, after all. Especially if they wanted to sell a necklace that might be proof that a wizard from an Old Family had had an affair. She nodded, sniffling. “Thank you. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’m happy to help - within my meagre means, of course.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t stop the spell making her cry until she was safely in a side-alley and disillusioned. Mission accomplished.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, September 23rd, 1998**

“This is too easy,” the dog complained. Again.

“It’s not too easy,” Hermione Granger whispered, despite the privacy spell preventing her voice from carrying further than the disillusioned floating platform on which she was working. “It’s the result of more than a week’s hard work.” Her hard work.

“Knockturn Alley shops are supposed to be protected better than this!” he insisted. “They have to be, or the residents would rob them blind. Have you seen how they live? They have nothing to lose!”

“Anyone with the skills to go through these wards would have much easier ways to make money - legal and illegal ones,” she retorted. Highly qualified Curse-Breakers wouldn’t be living in Knockturn Alley unless they wanted to. And those who lacked such skills would die to these wards. Which the residents would know. “Now shut up and let me work - you don’t want us to get killed, do you?”

To her surprise, he actually stopped talking. She was tempted to ask why he was so nervous, but she had a mission. And wards to crack. But she really wished Mr Fletcher were with her, instead of playing lookout with Jeanne. He, just like any self-respecting cat, knew that patience was a virtue. Something dogs never seemed to understand.

A task that, even as prepared as she was, took all her concentration. It wasn’t as if Borgin and Burkes’ wards were actually weak, after all.

They simply weren’t strong enough to stop her.

Two hours later, she sighed and smiled. “Done.”

“About time,” Sirius muttered. “Harry’s shift ends in three hours.” Fortunately, he and Ron weren’t assigned to patrol Knockturn Alley tonight.

“Plenty of time,” Hermione said, grinning widely as she reached for her lockpicks.

Mr Fletcher had told her that many purebloods simply bought the best muggle locks they could find. Borgin wasn’t among them - she had the window open and the crude alarm on it disabled in less than a minute.

After a final check for spells and traps - she had scanned the building, but you never knew - she stepped off the platform and on to the windowsill. A moment later, she stood inside Borgin’s office and ended her Disillusionment Charm - she didn’t want the dog to stumble into her. She grinned as she looked around. Borgin had curses protecting his files, but compared to his wards, they were nothing special. She had dealt with more difficult tasks in her ‘exams’ - although Mr Fletcher hadn’t used lethal curses, of course.

Sirius climbed in after her, becoming visible himself. “That’s the cabinet?”

She nodded. “But first we need to deal with Borgin.”

He flashed her a grin under his half-mask as he raised his wand.

*****

 


	38. First Strike

**London, Knockturn Alley, September 24th, 1998**

Allan Borgin was a man of habit. Every day, he ate lunch in his shop and had dinner in the same pub. And every night, he went to bed at half past midnight and slept for six hours until his alarm clock woke him up at half past six in the morning.

So when he wasn’t woken by the ringing sound of his alarm clock, but by the sunlight shining through the gaps in his shutters, his first thought was that he must have forgotten to set and wind it up. When he muttered a curse under his breath and couldn’t hear his own voice, though, he knew that something was wrong.

He grasped for his wand - but his fingers didn’t find it under his pillow. He felt his breath speed up as he threw the pillow away - his wand wasn’t there. Someone had silenced him and stolen his wand from under his pillow while he slept!

Had Shipley betrayed him? No, his partner would have simply killed him. He wasn’t the type to play such games. Allan shook his head, silently cursing up a storm, and got out of his bed. He had a spare wand in his armoire. It wasn’t the best fit, but it would let him remove whatever curse had been cast on him. And defend himself.

He flung open his armoire and gasped - it was empty. All his robes, all his clothes, even his socks - gone. And his spare wand. He knelt down and pulled at the loose board in the bottom of the armoire. They couldn’t have… They had. He closed his eyes for a moment, tears of anger and frustration appearing in his eyes. His emergency bag, carefully hidden and protected, was gone.

Trying to calm down, he stood and looked around. Everything was gone. His alarm clock. His nightstand - an antique from Prussia! His chair, another antique - gone. Someone had stolen everything but his bed, his pillow and his blanket while he slept! Even his slippers were gone!

It was impossible! His wards… He closed his eyes and concentrated. They were intact. Undisturbed, even. That was impossible. It must have been Shipley then. But why would he do such a thing?

His eyes widened. His shop! He rushed to the door, then froze. What if this was a trap? What if they were waiting for him in the hallway? He glanced at the window. He could climb down to the Alley. But wearing only his nightshirt? And without a wand? Given his neighbours, he might as well face the ambush inside.

He wiped his tears away - he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry - and clenched his teeth, then opened the door. The hallway was empty. Not just of intruders, but of all the furniture. Even the old, worn carpet was gone! Who would be as insane as to steal an utterly worthless carpet? What demented mind was behind all of this?

But if they did this… He rushed to the door to his office and froze. His books! His papers! All gone! He stared at the bare room, barely noticing the brighter spots on the walls where his furniture had once stood. And at the hole where his strongbox had been hidden. They had stolen his books - the real books! While he slept! Shipley would murder him for this!

If his partner hadn’t done this. Shaking his head and screaming silently with rage and fear, he stumbled through the hallway, pushing open doors left and right. Kitchen - empty. Even the ice box was gone. Living room - empty. His Chocolate Frog Card collection! The Snitch signed by Wronski! His library - empty! Even the old Daily Prophet issues had vanished together with their basket near the fireplace.

Or had been vanished. Of course! No one would steal worthless things - but to vanish them? This was personal. Someone wanted to take everything from him!

He went downstairs, almost losing his balance on the rickety stairs when he managed to catch a splinter in his bare foot, and entered his shop. As he had expected, and dreaded, it was empty as well. Only dust was left on the floor. Everything he had managed to acquire, even antiques left to him by his father - gone. The fruits of countless days spent haggling and fleecing the desperate and stupid, gone. Even the counter was gone!

He sat down on the floor and wept.

*****

When the shadows on the floor changed, Allan Borgin looked up. There was an Auror standing in front of the entrance. Probably knocking on it, too. And he was looking straight at Allan. That should not be happening - he had spells preventing anyone from looking into the shop. Or rather, he had had such spells.

He chuckled and got up. He might as well let the Auror inside. What did he have to lose any more? It wasn’t as if there was anything left in his home that the Aurors could charge him for!

He opened the door. The Auror was talking, but Allan couldn’t hear a word. “I can’t hear you, someone cursed me,” he said, carefully.

The Auror nodded and flicked his wand. “Can you hear me now, Mr Borgin?”

Allan sighed with relief. “Yes. Thank you.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse, too, he noticed - he must have screamed more than he thought.

“I’m Auror Dawlish.” The wizard waved at his partner, a rather young witch. “This is Auror Meringworth. We heard that there was an incident involving a dangerous dark artefact here.”

“What?” Allan stared at them. “There was no incident! I was robbed! Look for yourself! They emptied out the entire house! While I slept!” He all but screamed the last words.

“Please calm down, Mr Borgin,” Dawlish said. “Bathilda, keep an eye on him. I’ll check the shop.”

Aurors - as useless as ever. Allan stared at the witch, who had her wand aimed at him. He scoffed. “They even stole my wand. Are you afraid that I’ll attack you with my bare hands?” Like a filthy muggle?

She didn’t answer him. He shook his head. “I’ve been robbed. I’m the victim here! Everything vanished!” He had to vanish, too, he realised. Even if Shipley didn’t murder him for this, others would, once they realised that Allan couldn’t fulfil several of the deals he’d made. But he needed a wand for that.

“Merlin’s beard! We need the Unspeakables for this, I think - I’ve never seen so many dark artefacts in one pile!”

What? Allan blinked and slowly turned around, then felt as if his blood had frozen in his veins as he stared through the open door into the backroom that he hadn’t bothered to check. The thieves hadn’t emptied out his stock of dark artefacts, as he had thought - they had gathered them all in one spot on the floor! And were those his books?

He was still staring, shaking his head, when Dawlish arrested him.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 24th, 1998**

Hermione Granger was smiling widely as she looked at the loot from Borgin and Burkes, all neatly sorted in front of her. Antiques. Jewellery. Various old weapons and enchanted housekeeping items. And books! Three shelves full of books! Old, valuable, interesting books! She couldn’t wait to start reading them all!

“You look as if you’ll start drooling at any moment. Better cast an Impervious Charm on the books.”

She turned to glare at the dog and the giggling Jeanne. Dogs drooled, not cats. “I’m merely showing proper appreciation for the results of our heist.”

“The loot you mean,” Mr Fletcher commented.

“Yes.” She grinned. They had taken everything including the kitchen sink. Most of the furniture and all the clothes they had vanished, of course - they had only kept the valuable antiques.

“Yes, it’s very impressive,” Sirius said. “But let’s hide it now. Harry and Ron will be home soon.”

Hermione eyed the books. That 1715 edition of Hogwarts: A History was calling out to her.

“Leave it!”

She turned to look at her tutor. “What?”

“I know it’s tempting, but this is loot. Freshly stolen. You can’t take it to your room to read it.” He snorted. “You pulled off the heist without any mistakes; don’t spoil your record now with a foolish one.”

She pressed her lips together. He was correct, of course. If Harry or Ron saw the book and connected it to the break-in at Borgin and Burkes, there would be trouble. There was no pressing need to study the books, anyway - they weren’t looking for crucial information to fight the Dark Lord any more. But she didn’t have to like it. She sighed and nodded.

Mr Fletcher smiled. “Cheer up. You did very well. Even kept Black in line.” She smiled at hearing that - she had done well. Her plan had worked perfectly.

“Hey!” the dog protested. “I’ll have you know that I was the very picture of professionalism!”

Hermione coughed, then smirked at his expression. Jeanne patted his arm with a smile. And Mr Fletcher rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, we’ll have to sit on the loot for quite some time,” Mr Fletcher said. “The DMLE won’t treat this as a common burglary.” Meaning, it wouldn’t be filed under ‘Knockturn Alley business as usual’ and forgotten.

“It wasn’t meant to be seen as a common burglary,” Hermione said, grinning. “It’s a statement.” And the first step of her revenge.

“And a very devious one,” Sirius chimed in. “Although I still think you should have trapped the armoire. Nothing lethal, or dark,” he added at her glare, “just something to hex him when he’s down. Maybe a Bowel-loosening Jinx.”

Hermione scoffed. Only a dog could come up with such a plan. She wouldn’t stoop that low. “No. This wasn’t a prank. This was a heist.” A perfectly planned and executed one, too. “I only left the armoire to make a point because it wasn’t an antique.”

“You could have duplicated it,” Jeanne pointed out.

Hermione shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been worth the hassle.” She turned back to her loot and aimed her wand. “Now let’s see if Sirius needs to extend our lair a little more!”

She grinned at his frown.

*****

It hadn’t taken long move the loot into the secret chamber. Actually, most of the time was taken up with sorting out the mess made by Sirius’s over-enthusiastic Summoning Charm. But Hermione Granger was used to sorting out such messes, and it didn’t take her overly long to set up everything in its proper place.

“Here.”

She looked at the vial Mr Fletcher was holding out to her. “Pepper-Up?” The colour was the same.

“Special recipe,” he confirmed. “It’ll make you look more awake, but not too awake. It’ll last half a day, too.” He snorted, presumably at her expression. “Your friends are Aurors. Best not let them notice that you’re tired the morning after a heist.”

“I could claim I was reading until very late at night,” Hermione said. She had done that often enough, too.

“You could. But you’d have to be careful to avoid forming a pattern.” He handed her the vial. “This will also keep them from thinking that you were up worrying about them. And it’ll keep Potter from deciding that you need more sleep than you’re getting.” He grinned.

She frowned as she took the vial. Harry had a protective streak. A rather strong one, too. And painful at times, she added, remembering the training sessions. Then she remembered their last training session and quickly downed the vial to distract herself.

Just because she knew what she had to do didn’t mean she had to like it.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 25th, 1998**

“...and then we arrested him.” Bathilda shook her head. “I’d heard so much about Knockturn Alley, how dangerous its residents were and how ruthless, but Borgin wasn’t doing anything - he didn’t resist at all. Didn’t even protest.” She refilled her teacup from the pot in the break room.

“But there wasn’t much he could have done to resist without his wand, was there?” Smith asked.

Harry Potter almost sighed at the naive wizard. “He could have tried to get Bathilda’s wand. If you’re close enough, you can make a grab for the wand arm. It doesn’t take much to keep someone from casting - or, at least, from aiming their wand at you.” Bathilda looked surprised, he noted - hadn’t Dawlish taught her anything?

“Really? Fighting like a muggle?” Nott, unsurprisingly, sneered. “You’d have to be a poor excuse for a wizard to let anyone grab you.”

“You’d be surprised how often that works,” Harry said.

“You would know, wouldn’t you? Didn’t you get attacked like that in the riot?” Nott snorted.

“I did, yes,” Harry said. He grinned, showing his teeth. “And I dealt with the man. I wonder what you would have done in my place.”

“Not much,” Ron said before Nott could answer. “Didn’t you pretty much spent the entire riot standing around doing nothing?”

Nott glared at him but didn’t have a comeback.

Bathilda spoke up. “Please. Borgin didn’t attack me. And if he had attacked me, John, I mean, Auror Dawlish would have stunned him.”

Harry had his doubts about that but held his tongue. Bathilda was obviously very impressed by the older Auror and he didn’t want to start a row.

“Anyway, Dawlish said that it was the work of someone with a grudge.”

“Of course it was!” Ron chuckled. “You said that they took everything from Borgin but for his nightshirt, his bed and his armoire. And his pile of dark artefacts. You wouldn’t do that if you just wanted gold.”

“Isn’t he claiming that someone planted the dark artefacts there to frame him?” Harry asked. It would be hard to prove that they belonged to him, wouldn’t it?

Bathilda shook her head. “No, he’s not, actually.” She grinned. “At the bottom of the pile, we found his books - his real books. He didn’t actually write up the sales, but he made enough notes to nail him, John said.”

“Provided his good friends in the Wizengamot don’t acquit him,” Ron said. “Dad told me all about Borgin and Burkes’ dealings with the Old Families.”

Nott scoffed at that. “Rumours and slander, nothing more.”

“Oh? Already defending your family?” Ron sneered.

“Hardly,” Nott snarled. “No wonder you and Lovegood are a couple - you both spread your parents’ delusions.”

Harry grabbed Ron’s arm. “He wants you to lose your temper,” he whispered - Ron was very protective of his family and Luna. Harry felt him tense, but after a moment, Ron nodded.

“We’ll see who’s delusional, won’t we?” Ron told Nott.

“Merlin’s beard! Can’t you get along?” Bathilda exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” Nott said - or lied, Harry thought. “I was just defending my family’s reputation.”

Ron snorted but didn’t say anything in response. It seemed that that was enough for Bathilda - or she really wanted to tell her tale - since she continued: “So, Dawlish said that Borgin is offering to sell out his partner and his customers, in return for leniency and protection.”

“His customers?” Nott looked apprehensive, Harry thought.

“Don’t worry, Nott,” Harry said in the most patronising tone he could manage, “I don’t think Borgin is stupid enough to sell out his customers among the Old Families.” Not when they would judge him in the Wizengamot. He’d probably sell out the rest of his Knockturn Alley friends, though.

Bathilda tried once again to finish her story. “Well, anyway, John said that Borgin wasn’t as important as the burglar who broke into his shop. His wards were untouched - they somehow got past them without disturbing them.”

“Probably an inside job,” Harry said. “His partner would have known how to get past the wards, wouldn’t he?”

Nott scoffed. “And why would he leave the dark artefacts for us to find? It’s obvious that you’ve been listening a little too much to Mad-Eye.”

“I didn’t say that his partner willingly shared the information, did I?” Harry showed his teeth. “Just because some people lied about being put under the Imperius Curse doesn’t mean that no one actually uses that spell.”

“More lies and slander!” Nott all but hissed through his clenched teeth.

“Can’t you go five minutes without accusing each other? Didn’t you tell us that we’re not at Hogwarts anymore?” Bathilda slapped her hands on the table. “Merlin’s beard, I’m sick of listening to the lot of you!” She pressed her lips together and Harry thought that she looked a little shocked at her own outburst. She still glared at him, though.

“Sorry,” Harry said. He managed not to add ‘He started it!’. But despite her using his own words, Bathilda was wrong. This wasn’t about Hogwarts houses - this was about the rot in Britain’s ruling class.

“So we have either a master thief or a dark wizard running around, with a personal grudge against Borgin and Burkes?” Smith asked.

“Or both,” Bathilda said. “You have to be a disturbed person to steal everything, even the clothes, from someone.”

“Sounds like a prank,” Ron said. “For a thief, I mean. Steal all his stuff, and leave the dark artefacts for us to find?”

“We don’t know if they left all the dark artefacts,” Harry pointed out. “It could just be a cover-up to hide what they stole. Make it look like a personal grudge to throw us off.”

“You’ve spent too much time with Mad-Eye,” Nott muttered.

“John said that Borgin had ripped off so many people that the list of suspects would encompass half of Knockturn Alley’s residents,” Bathilda said.

“And half of the Wizengamot,” Ron added.

That set Nott off again, of course. Fortunately, their break was over anyway.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 25th, 1998**

“Did you finally decided to leave your bed?”

Hermione Granger ignored the dog’s comment as she entered the kitchen. How long she napped was no one’s business but her own. She sat down at the table and summoned the teapot and her teacup.

“Harry and Ron have already left for work. They’ve got the regular shift today.”

Did he think she didn’t already know that from a glance at the clock? She closed her eyes and took a sip of her tea - an excellent variety, and kept hot by Kreacher, as usual. Maybe she should cast a Silencing Charm on the dog so he’d learn not to bother her before she had had her morning tea.

“Harry asked me how to ask you out.”

“What?” She didn’t spit out nor spill her tea, but she came close as she whirled to face him.

“Ah! You were listening. I wasn’t sure if you were already awake or just sleepwalking.” The dog laughed, shaking his head at her in a distinctively patronising manner that was just begging for a claw to be raked across his nose.

So she indulged him.

Ten minutes and a wild chase later, the natural superiority of cats had been proven once again. The collateral damage caused by her justified reaction and the fruitless attempts of the dog to retaliate needed half a dozen Mending Charms to fix, but that didn’t matter.

“Isn’t answering a verbal comment with violence a sign of intellectual inferiority?” The dog asked afterwards as he was checking if his nose had healed.

“I would gladly respond verbally if I thought it would do any good,” she responded as she checked her hair for any traces of dog drool.

“Really? I’m wondering if I should hex both of you,” Jeanne said. She was looking slightly peeved as she twirled her wand between her fingers in a flashy move Hermione had once seen a French duellist do in a magazine.

“We were just…” The dog shrugged. “Fooling around?”

“Making a fool out of yourself, I’d say.”

Hermione nodded - Jeanne had the right of it.

“I mean you as well,” her friend added.

Hermione frowned. “I was merely defending myself.” Or her right to a peaceful, uninterrupted breakfast. Close enough, in any case.

Jeanne sighed. “I guess as animagi, you can’t help acting like this from time to time.”

Hermione pursed her lips. She was in complete control of her spirit animal’s instincts. It wasn’t a real animal, anyway. That some of her habits were shared by cats was merely a coincidence - it wasn’t as if she had ever eaten a mouse!

“Love, we’re just horsing around,” Sirius said, hugging Jeanne. “That’s part of why you love me!”

“A small part,” Jeanne said, but she was smiling in that sentimental way couples often did.

Hermione wasn’t jealous. With her revenge finally starting, she had no time for a boyfriend anyway. “As long as he behaves on a heist and in the Wizengamot, we’re fine,” she said. “Of course, there’s still room for improvement in both cases,” she added - she hadn’t forgotten how annoying he had been while she had dealt with Borgin’s wards.

“The effort would be wasted on the Wizengamot,” Sirius said, scoffing. “Malfoy has his allies locked down and the Minister paid off. We’ve stopped his proposals, so far, but his position remains unassailable - as long as he has gold to spend.”

She knew where that was heading. “His manor also has the strongest wards,” she said. “Not to mention any other defences he may have.” Unlike his son, Lucius Malfoy was arrogant, but no fool. He would have done what he could to protect himself while spying on Voldemort, and she doubted that he had significantly scaled back his defences since the Dark Lord’s defeat.

“That’s why we should hit him next. Before he can reinforce his manor even more,” Sirius said. “Without him, his faction will collapse while his so-called friends fight each other.”

“I don’t think there’s much he can do that he hasn’t done already,” Hermione said. “And tackling the other families first will net us more resources as well as more experience. Experience we all need,” she added. Especially with Mr Fletcher unable and unwilling to take the lead in their heists.

Sirius, still with his arms wrapped around Jeanne, nodded, if slightly reluctantly. “I’m just impatient.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. “But revenge is a dish best served cold, too.”

“My family certainly would agree,” he said, chuckling. “They might even be proud that I’m following their example in that, at least.”

Hermione nodded. The Blacks had more than earned their reputation, but they had known how to take revenge. And so did she.

She wanted to save Malfoy for last. She wanted him to see his friends get ruined and spend his days and nights anxiously wondering when it would be his turn to get robbed, until she finally broke into Malfoy Manor and ruined him.

She had spent years waiting for her revenge and had no intention of cutting it short. Malfoy would pay for what he had done to her. With compound interest.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 28th, 1998**

“...and in light of his full confession and his cooperation with the prosecution, which led to the arrest of his accomplices, it is my opinion that this body should be lenient when choosing Mr Borgin’s sentence,” Dawlish said in his pompous way, addressing the Wizengamot. “Therefore, I ask for him to be incarcerated for two years in Azkaban.”

“Two years?” Harry Potter muttered under his breath, sitting in the audience section of the chamber. “For a pile of dark artefacts that filled half a room?”

“It wasn’t exactly half a room,” Bathilda, who sat on his right side, whispered. “And John wanted to ask for six years, but…”

“But all the honourable members of the Wizengamot who dealt with him and don’t want him to rat them out put pressure on Dawlish,” Ron, sitting on Harry’s left side, finished her sentence.

She frowned at him. “If they wanted to pass a light sentence they could just do that,” she said. “There’s no need to meddle with the Corps!”

“It would look bad if the prosecution asked for six years and then the Wizengamot sentenced him to two years,” Harry said. “Especially if there’s no doubt about his guilt. People might get the idea that the rumours about his dealings with Old Families weren’t quite baseless. Didn’t Dawlish say anything about that?”

Bathilda pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”

Harry felt a little bad for destroying her illusions - this was her first case, after all, and she was rather proud of her part in it. So he added: “It’s not your fault. And not Dawlish’s either, I suppose. It’s how the system works.” So far, he added to himself.

“But it’s not right!”

“No, it isn’t,” Harry agreed.

Below them, Alfons Runcorn, the heir to the late, disgraced Philius Runcorn, rose to speak for Borgin. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The accused has made a full confession! Even the prosecution admits that - and that his cooperation led to the arrest of numerous accomplices. It is, therefore, obvious that he not only regrets his crimes but has also made every effort to remedy his mistakes. Two years seems far too severe a punishment for a confessed and repentant defendant. One also has to consider the fact that Mr Borgin was simply continuing his family’s tradition as he took over the shop from his father, and…”

Harry turned the man out - his words didn’t matter anyway; the sentence had already been agreed upon by the Wizengamot in advance. Informally, of course. Instead, he looked at Hermione, who was sitting behind Sirius. Borgin had been among those who had framed her and now he was getting off lightly. This travesty of justice had to hurt her.

He couldn’t tell from her expression, though - she certainly didn’t appear to be livid. She simply looked as serious as she usually did in the Wizengamot. In her place, he’d be clenching his teeth and fighting the urge to curse the accused.

Harry smiled as he thought to himself that she was a much more forgiving person than he was.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 28th, 1998**

Hermione Granger was seething. Borgin had spent decades dealing in dark artefacts, supplying criminals without a care in the world so long as he made money. He had preyed on the poor and desperate, conning them out of their last remaining valuables. And now he was getting off lightly thanks to his dealings with certain Old Families!

She was only able to keep her composure and avoid showing any of her feelings thanks to the fact that the man was thoroughly ruined. He had lost his shop’s entire stock and all the gold kept there, and the fines he would have to pay would empty out his vault at Gringotts. And he would have to flee Britain after his stint in Azkaban - the denizens of Knockturn Alley took a very dim view of those who snitched on their partners and contacts.

His finances and reputation ruined, followed by exile, was enough of a punishment to satisfy her. Barely. But to see the Old Families, especially Malfoy and his cronies, manipulate the system once again to protect themselves, angered her. A lot.

“...and the accused Allan Borgin is sentenced to one year imprisonment and a fine of…”

She refrained from sneering at Borgin’s expression when the man heard how much he’d have to pay. Had he really expected an even lighter sentence? She briefly contemplated whether or not the man might reveal his dealings with the Old Families out of spite. She dismissed the possibility, though - Borgin would know that if he did that, he wouldn’t survive his imprisonment. He probably wouldn’t even live to see Azkaban, Hermione thought.

She glanced up at the audience. At Harry. Seeing him glare at Borgin as the man was led away lifted her spirits. He cared for her. Ron, too, was frowning. As was the female Auror - Meringworth, Harry had introduced her earlier - sitting on Harry’s other side. She was pretty, although no great beauty. Hufflepuff, a year older than herself. She meant well, too, or so Harry had told her. And she was sitting a little too close to Harry for Hermione’s comfort.

It would simplify things, Hermione told herself, if Harry started a relationship with another witch. She wouldn’t have to watch him watch her with that peculiar expression any more whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. She wouldn’t be tempted to start something with him and risk their friendship, either. Yes, having Harry fall for another witch would be a good thing.

And yet she loathed the thought.

She tore her eyes away from the three rookie Aurors and glanced at Malfoy. The wizard was leaning to the side, whispering to his son. Probably trying to teach Draco how to behave in the Wizengamot. Judging by the younger Malfoy’s expression it was an uphill battle. Draco didn’t seem to have learned how to hide his emotions and present a polite facade to everyone. Or perhaps he did not understand why he should have to.

She smiled, slightly. Anything that caused trouble for Malfoy was a good thing. The more he was occupied trying to mould his son into a wizard who wouldn’t ruin the family’s position as soon as he took over, the less time he could spend on politics.

“The chair recognises Mr Runcorn.”

Hermione frowned as Runcorn stood once again.

“Honoured members of the Wizengamot! With the sentence passed on Mr Borgin, there remains the question of what should be done with the items confiscated from his shop. While the DMLE’s policy is to destroy such item, I think that would be hasty in this case.”

“What?” a wizard yelled. Amos Diggory, Hermione noted. “They’re dark artefacts! They need to be destroyed!”

Runcorn frowned at the interruption. “Similar items inherited by some families have been deemed acceptable to own, provided certain precautions are taken. To simply destroy all the confiscated artefacts would be short-sighted in the extreme. Not only would we risk the loss of irreplaceable relics - part of our country’s history - but we would also miss out on the chance to put some of those items to a more beneficial use for Britain.”

“Use the Dark Arts for Britain?” Diggory sneered at Runcorn. “Will you next ask for the Aurors to use the Unforgivables?”

“Such was done in the last war,” Runcorn retorted. “Which was almost lost, I remind you.”

“The Unforgivables didn’t bring us victory; the Boy-Who-Lived did!”

The sound of a bell ringing cut off Runcorn’s reply. “Mr Runcorn will finish his proposal without further interruptions and then it will be answered and debated in a civilised manner!” Elphias Doge finally stepped in. Dumbledore’s successor lacked the Headmaster’s authority, Hermione knew. Malfoy’s meddling hadn’t helped, of course.

But Diggory fell silent, and Runcorn continued talking about how it would be hasty to simply destroy all the artefacts.

Hermione agreed with some of the arguments - it wasn’t as if the definition of ‘dark artefact’ was particularly clear. Most often, politics influenced the classification of a spell, as much or even more than it influenced the Ministry’s classification of a magical species.

But in this case, Hermione had taken pains to leave only unquestionably dark artefacts for the DMLE to confiscate. She had saved most of the books, too, so there shouldn’t be any doubt that the items should be destroyed.

But this was the Wizengamot. She saw that Malfoy was raising his wand to signal his desire to speak and suppressed a sigh. He would be supporting Runcorn just to make Sirius spend more political capital.

She looked around the chamber and noticed that Michael Smith, Eleanor Smith’s heir, was present for a change. And paying rapt attention, it seemed. Certainly more than Draco Malfoy.

The Smiths hadn’t been among Borgin’s customers, at least as far as she could tell from his books. But seeing Michael there, she made a mental note to go over the books again, before she listened to Diggory’s vehement, if not overly eloquent, plea to destroy the entire lot of confiscated items.

Sirius leaned to her side. “It’s not going to be enough,” he whispered, despite the privacy charm protecting them.

“Why not?”

“Most of the families have similar items stashed in their vaults. They don’t want a ruling that might be used against them one day.”

“You can’t let them auction the items off!” she hissed.

“I won’t,” he said, grinning. “I’ll let the Unspeakables sort it out. Their vaults hold far more dangerous things - and they are unlikely to part with anything once they have it.”

That sounded like an acceptable compromise, Hermione thought. And it also sounded as if she should look into just how good the protections on those vaults were.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, September 30th, 1998**

If there was one thing Harry Potter hated about his work as an Auror, it was the way his shifts changed from day to day. Today wasn’t the first time he and Ron were returning to work eight hours after they had left, and he wouldn’t put it past his superiors to make them pull a double shift either. At least they weren’t scheduled to patrol straight away, though a few hours of paperwork until dinner wasn’t much better.

It certainly made trying to stay awake much harder, Harry thought as he reached into his enchanted pocket and pulled out a Pepper-Up Potion.

“Is that a good idea?” Ron, sitting across from him, behind his own desk, asked.

Harry knew what his friend meant - the potion’s effect would end during their patrol after dinner. He shrugged. “I’ll take another one if I have to.” Walking through Knockturn Alley tended to keep him awake anyway. Especially knowing that someone was willing to pay thugs to attack him. And that Selwyn’s murderer still hadn’t been found.

Ron shook his head. “Hermione won’t let you forget it if you can’t fall asleep until tomorrow morning.”

Harry snorted. “She won’t get up early enough to notice.”

“That’s true,” Ron agreed. “She wasn’t that bad in first year, was she?”

Harry blinked, then focused on his memories. “No, she wasn’t. She usually got up earlier than us. Unless she stayed up too late reading,” he added with a grin, remembering how she had looked on those mornings, trying to act as if nothing was wrong.

“Or explored the castle with us at night.” Ron grinned. “We were a terrible trio, weren’t we?”

Harry nodded. And now they weren’t any more. He and Ron were Aurors, and Hermione was Sirius’s secretary. He sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry sighed again. “Just wondering how things would have turned out if Malfoy hadn’t framed her.”

Ron shrugged. “Worrying about what might have been won’t do you any good.”

Harry scoffed. “I’m not worried. I’m just wondering.” Whether Hermione was interested in him as a boyfriend or not - she hadn’t said anything yet.

Ron nodded but didn’t push him. “Did you hear anything new about the Markdotter case?”

Harry snorted; Ron and himself were the only ones using the official name. Everyone else was calling it the ‘Potter case’. “No. But I’ve got an appointment with Scrimgeour before dinner; maybe he’s got news for us.” The investigating Aurors certainly hadn’t told them anything.

*****

“I’m sorry to say that according to Auror Macmillan’s latest report, she doesn’t see any way to find out whoever hired Markdotter and his gang.” Scrimgeour sounded honestly regretful as he spread his hands in apparent apology. “The use of Polyjuice Potion renders Markdotter’s cooperation pointless.”

Harry Potter nodded. Truth to be told, he hadn’t expected anything else.

“There’s a slight possibility that an extensive analysis of Markdotter’s memories of the encounter might provide us with more clues,” Scrimgeour went on, “but we lack the facilities for such an investigation.”

Harry nodded. He had expected this as well. He shook his head slowly. “I can ask my godfather if he would let the Department use his Pensieve, but he isn’t terribly fond of the DMLE.”

“Understandable after his experiences,” Scrimgeour said, “even though neither Bones nor myself were in a position of authority at the time of his arrest.”

But they had been in positions of authority during Sirius’s incarceration. Harry nodded anyway. “Can I talk to Marksdotter? A personal impression might help me convince my godfather.”

“I’m sorry, but as you are directly affected by the case, regulations forbid your involvement.” Scrimgeour’s regretful expression didn’t change. “It would threaten our case against him if you talked to him.”

“Too bad.” Harry looked at his watch. “Was there anything else?”

“No.” Scrimgeour shook his head, his long hair sliding over his shoulders. “I simply wanted to inform you of the results of Macmillan’s investigation. Unofficially, of course.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir.” Harry smiled as he stood.

Ron was waiting for him outside the Head Auror’s office. “So?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot and protected by a privacy charm.

“As expected - they consider the Markdotter case closed, but tried to use it to get us to give them the Pensieve,” Harry replied with a snort.

“Typical.” Ron shook his head. “And what about our plan?”

“We’ll have to wait until Markdotter’s been tried and in Azkaban.” There wasn’t any regulation prohibiting them from visiting a prisoner once the case was closed, after all. And they had a few questions for the thug. “Did you see Shacklebolt?”

Ron shook his head. “No. But I talked to Tonks. She said there wasn’t any news in that case either. Shacklebolt’s still putting together a possible timeline for the killer’s tour of Europe.”

Harry sighed. “Sirius and Jeanne won’t be impressed.” And neither would Hermione.

“I think that’s why Tonks told me - so she doesn’t have to tell Sirius,” Ron said. He was grinning, though.

Harry sighed. “I guess I’ll have to do it, then?”

“You’re Sirius’s heir. I’m just the house guest.” Ron chuckled. “Or we can send a letter, and have Hermione deliver the news.”

Harry snorted. “Sirius and Jeanne won’t be angry at us for the Corps’s lack of success. But Hermione would certainly be angry at us for saddling her with telling them.”

He was tempted to do it anyway - that might make her try harder again in the next Defence lesson.

“By the way, Bathilda wanted to know whether we wanted to eat dinner with the rest of the rookies on duty today,” Ron said.

“Oh?” Harry looked at him. “I’m OK with it unless they want to eat in the Cauldron.”

“No danger of that. They ate there last week.” Ron laughed, then lowered his voice. “They wrapped up Skeeter’s case. You’ll love it.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 30th, 1998**

Harry Potter wasn’t surprised that Sirius was still awake when he and Ron returned home. But he was surprised to hear from Kreacher that his godfather was still working in his study - he wasn’t aware of any current proposal in the Wizengamot that would require such effort.

But, as Harry found out for himself when he entered the study, Sirius was sitting behind his desk, which was covered with parchment and paper. “Harry! You’re back already?”

He nodded at the clock on the wall. “Shift ended as planned.”

“Ah, right.”

Harry looked around. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Visiting her parents. She’s staying over, too.” Sirius grinned. “Missing her?”

“Just wondering why you’re still working,” Harry said. Usually, Hermione had to force Sirius to work late.

“Jeanne’s in France. One of her friends called her for a surprise party.” Sirius pouted. “Witches only.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded and sat down on a conjured seat.

“How was work?” Sirius asked.

“Paperwork and patrolling,” he answered. “The only fight was with a particularly stupid form.”

Sirius chuckled. “That’s the Ministry for you, Harry.”

“Stupid and bloated?” Harry asked.

“And runs on paperwork.” Sirius gestured at his desk. “As does the Wizengamot.”

“Isn’t the Wizengamot part of the Ministry?”

“No. Technically, the Ministry is subordinate to the Wizengamot.” His godfather snorted. “In practice, both are run by the Old Families, so it doesn’t matter.” He leaned back in his seat. “So, no news is good news?”

“Been reading your magazines again?” Harry shrugged. “There’s no lead on whoever hired the thugs to ambush me and Ron.” He sighed. “And there’s no news about the murder of Jeanne’s dad.”

“Typical for the DMLE,” Sirius said, scowling. “Useless drones. Present people excluded, of course. And the Weasleys, too.”

Harry nodded. “Scrimgeour once again hinted that the Pensieve could help solve those cases.”

“And did he also hint at how that’s supposed to work?”

“By examining the thugs’ memories,” Harry said.

Sirius snorted again. “Really? And then have every suspect use Polyjuice Potion, too, and compare them?”

“He didn’t go into details,” Harry said.

“Of course not!” Sirius sneered. “Bloody idiot!”

Harry shrugged. “He’s been subtle so far. Not really pushy.”

“That’ll come soon enough,” Sirius retorted. “Mark my words! He won’t accept being denied this.”

Harry shrugged. “We’ll see.” He didn’t think Scrimgeour would want to antagonise Sirius too much. Or himself. He looked at Hermione’s desk. Of all the days this week for her to visit her parents, she had to pick today. Tomorrow he had the graveyard shift again and Hermione would be with Sirius in the Wizengamot during the day. Barely any time to talk to each other, and no time at all for a Defence lesson.

“You do miss her!” Sirius smiled widely.

Harry rolled his eyes at his godfather. That wasn’t helpful at all, even though it was true.

Sirius sighed, though he kept smiling. “She likes you too, Harry. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t really show it.” Well, she did show it, unless he had completely misread her. But she hadn’t said anything.

“She’s still affected by her break-up with Paul,” Sirius said. “Give her some time and she’ll come around.” He smiled.

“Alright.” Harry nodded. It figured that stupid Paul the Ex-Boyfriend was still messing up his relationship with Hermione. He was tempted to go and give the guy a piece of his mind, but Hermione wouldn’t like that. She would accuse him of poking into her private life.

He sighed. He just wanted to help her.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 2nd, 1998**

“She knowingly published rumours and hearsay, carefully crafted into a libellous article designed to scare the general population, without any consideration for the consequences of her actions so long as it sold newspapers. She claims that she couldn’t have known that her article would lead to a riot, but that’s a purely self-serving assertion. Miss Skeeter has been one of Britain’s pre-eminent journalists for decades; she covered the Ministry’s policies, the Wizengamot’s business, sports and society extensively.

“Further, she lived through the first Blood War and its aftermath, when she saw first-hand how British wizards and witches were so relieved that they even endangered the Statute of Secrecy with their celebrations. And, as we have proven, she was well aware of how her ‘dear readers’ often overreacted to her ‘mere speculation’ thanks to dozens of letters written to the editor in the wake of her past articles.

“No, honoured members of the Wizengamot, Miss Skeeter was aware of the danger she would create with her article, but she didn’t care. And this riot not only caused great damage and loss of life but also almost led to war between the goblins and Britain. For such callous disregard of wizarding lives, I ask for her to be incarcerated for two years in Azkaban!”

Scrimgeour tossed his head back, his long hair swinging as he pointed at the cowering defendant.

Hermione Granger scowled at Skeeter, though inwardly she was smiling. Skeeter was finally getting her just desserts. That witch had done so much harm to so many, always skirting the line between speculation and libel, but never crossing it. That now she would be sentenced to Azkaban because the public was crying for blood and the Ministry needed a scapegoat was, in Hermione’s opinion, delightfully ironic.

Alexander Avery rose to speak in the witch’s defence. Hermione wondered what hold Skeeter had over the man for him to go against the majority of the chamber. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The prosecution kept mentioning the riot - the damage done to the heart of Britain’s trade and artisanry, the lives lost, the many wounded. Even the spectre of another Goblin Rebellion was raised, all to better condemn Miss Skeeter as the sole reason for this tragic event. He paints a picture of her as a witch who knows Wizarding Britain better than anyone else, just so that he can lay the blame for the death and destruction caused by the riot at her feet.

“However, as we have also heard, several people caught in the riot were the victims of spells. Someone compelled them to incite their fellow wizards and witches to violence. And that was what, ultimately, caused a gathering of scared and concerned witches and wizards to turn into a riot. Miss Skeeter couldn’t have anticipated that, even were she such an expert as the prosecution wrongly claims. Therefore I ask the Wizengamot to acquit her.”

Hermione scoffed. If the Wizengamot were to acquit Skeeter, then the Ministry would have to explain why they couldn’t produce the real culprit. And they wouldn’t like that. They might sentence Skeeter to less than two years, but the odious woman would go to Azkaban. But more importantly, Skeeter was ruined as a journalist. The Prophet had already fired her and no other publication would hire her under these circumstances.

The only thing Hermione regretted was that she hadn’t played a part in Skeeter’s downfall. Though at least breaking into the witch’s home while she was in prison wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

*****

Harry wasn’t as pleased about Skeeter’s trial as she and Sirius were, Hermione Granger found out shortly after the witch had been sentenced to one year in Azkaban and to pay for part of the damage done to Diagon Alley. Her friend was scowling openly when they met outside the Wizengamot Chamber.

“What a farce!” Harry declared right away, shaking his head. “It’s pretty clear that someone helped the riot along, and yet they blame Skeeter for it.”

“Do you really think she’s innocent?” Hermione asked.

“No. But I don’t think that we had enough evidence.” Harry scoffed. “It was all politics. That’s why Scrimgeour took over the prosecution. I talked to the Auror in charge of the investigation. Nominally in charge, of course - there wasn’t much of an investigation.”

“Well, Scrimgeour made a pretty convincing case that Skeeter should have known that a riot was possible,” Hermione said.

“I’m not denying that,” Harry said, looking around before continuing, despite them being protected by a privacy charm. “But there was so much political pressure, no one even tried to look for any evidence of Skeeter being innocent. It was a done deal from the start. That’s not how an investigation is supposed to be done.” He shook his head. “Just another reason why the Ministry needs to be reformed. The law shouldn’t be bent like that.”

Hermione forced herself to nod and agree with him.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 5th, 1998**

Harry Potter was on top of Hermione. She was writhing underneath him. He could feel her body pressing into his, her legs sliding over his, her hips bucking as she grunted, her arm wrapped around his neck… he managed to tuck his chin against his chest and tense his neck muscles to keep her from strangling him. “Give up!” he grunted, panting. “I’ve got you.”

“Not a chance!” she spat. He felt her tense as her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing his body - but she wasn’t strong enough to do much harm with that move. And he had her wand arm in his grip and was wrestling her other arm down. It had taken him more effort than he had expected, but she was beaten.

But then she pushed up her head and bit him on his ear.

*****

“I still can’t believe that you actually bit me!” Harry Potter said twenty minutes later, as both of them were sitting on the mended bench that he had used as an improvised projectile earlier.

“Well, what did you expect?” she answered as she cast cleaning charms on herself. “You had a grip on both my arms and I couldn’t use my legs.”

“Still…you bit me. Like an animal.” He shook his head.

She glared at him. “Who said that I had to use all the means at my disposal? Wasn’t that you?”

“Well, I was more thinking about headbutts,” Harry admitted.

She sniffed and tossed her mane back before gathering it in her usual ponytail with a flick of her wand. “You broke my nose with a headbutt and you’re complaining about a little bite?”

“I think you drew blood, actually,” he said, touching his earlobe.

“No, I didn’t.” She bared her teeth at him. “I would have tasted that.”

“I think I’ll wear a cross next time,” he joked. “Just to check if you’re a vampire.”

To his surprise, she didn’t laugh but stiffened for a moment. “If I were a vampire, I would have gone for the jugular.”

“Good thing you aren’t, then,” he said. “But it was a surprising move, I’ll grant you that. Although you still lost.”

She pouted at him, which was a cuter expression on her than he had expected. “Maybe I should scratch you, too.” She flashed her teeth at him again.

He chuckled. “You’d try, you mean.”

That caused another pout. Which, in turn, caused him to shift his weight a little and cross his legs. Merlin’s beard, she was looking hot.

For a moment, she smiled rather slyly at him - had she noticed how he had to adjust how he was sitting? - but then she frowned and stood. “Well, I still lost. I guess we need to continue these lessons.”

“Definitely.” He nodded, smiling even though he felt frustrated. She still hadn’t said anything. But the way she looked at him… until she closed up like this.

If he ever had an excuse to curse Paul…

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 6th, 1998**

Hermione Granger lifted her left arm and smiled at the bracelet on her wrist. One more Knut, gold-plated and shrunk, dangled from the golden chain. This one was special, though - it was taken from Borgin. The first heist of her revenge.

“New jewellery?”

She looked to the door, where Sirius was standing, leaning against the frame in a pose she was sure he had copied from a Playboy ad.

“Just another trophy,” she said, flicking the miniature coin with her finger. “Borgin.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “One coin per heist?”

“Yes.” She shook her hand and let the coins jingle.

“You might run out of space.”

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “My list isn’t that long.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Greengrass, Parkinson, Davis, Bulstrode and, of course, Malfoy. Umbridge and Dawlish, too. And some unrelated Old Families, so there’s no obvious pattern.” She grinned at him. “Do you have anyone particular in mind who’d deserve losing their gold?”

He grinned back. “Oh, yes. Far too many.” He stepped inside and looked at the wall, where she had stuck the plans for the next target. “I’m relieved.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at the dog.

“I was half-afraid that you were planning to break into the Department of Mysteries.” He flashed his teeth at her.

She scowled. “I was merely making sure that their vaults are secure enough to store dark artefacts.” As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t ready to breach the Unspeakables’ defences. Not yet.

“So who’s our next target?” He pointed at the map. “I’m not familiar with this manor, and you didn’t label it.”

Of course she hadn’t! Mr Fletcher had taught her better than that!

“Bulstrode.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 4th, 1998**

“Sunday shift. Again,” Ron complained from behind his desk.

Harry Potter snorted. “Did you expect anything else? Be glad it isn’t the graveyard shift.”

Ron sighed. “That just means that we have the early Monday shift.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his friend. “What are you complaining about? Luna’s still stuck at Hogwarts, and by the time she’s taken her N.E.W.T.s, we’ll no longer be rookies.” He should be the one to complain - his and Hermione’s schedules were barely lining up with each other any more. Not that she had made any moves, anyway. He sighed.

“Well, at least some of the other rookies are on duty as well,” Ron said, “so we’re not suffering alone.”

“I think I’d prefer it if Nott had another shift,” Harry complained. “Stupid git is ruining our breaks.”

“You could ask Bathilda to stop inviting him along,” Ron suggested.

Harry chuckled. Their colleague seemed determined to make everyone get along with each other. It was endearing, but hopeless, of course. Not that that would stop her from trying her best. “She’s a Hufflepuff,” he said.

“Yeah.” Ron sighed. “So we’ll be facing another meal with Nott.”

“Unless we manage to convince Bathilda to give muggle fish and chips a try.”

“That’s an idea,” Ron said, grinning. “Nott would never come along. Do you think that we can pull that off without her suspecting our true motive?”

“Hm.” Harry mulled this over. Bathilda was more perceptive than one would think at first glance. On the other hand, she had a tendency to see the best in people - otherwise, she’d certainly have stopped bothering with Nott. “We’ll have to be subtle, I think. Probably plant the seeds today, but not push for it.”

“That means another meal with Nott. I swear the git could ruin Mum’s cooking with his mere presence!”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, he probably could.”

Ron started to expand the thought further when the Auror offices’ alert charms went off.

Then an amplified voice - Dawlish - filled the offices and Harry felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

“Everyone, prepare to deploy at once! Someone’s attacking Gringotts with Fiendfyre!”

*****

 


	39. Outmanoeuvred

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 4th, 1998**

Nye Rees had just arrived at work and was in the process of checking his mail when he heard the alarm charms in Hit-Wizard headquarters go off. He froze for a second. A general alert? The last time that had happened had been the riot. And the time before that had been the Dark Lord’s attack on the Ministry. He fought down the nausea that his memories of both events brought up and stood, joining his colleagues.

“What’s going on?” he heard Mulberry yell from behind him as Nye and the rest of the Hit-Wizards on duty rallied in the entrance area.

Selwyn, the Head Hit-Wizard, glared at Mulberry but answered his question anyway. “Someone’s attacking Gringotts with Fiendfyre. The Aurors can’t handle it and so we’re being called in.”

Nye snorted. Bloody Red Robes couldn’t handle anything more dangerous than a third-year student drunk on Firewhisky.

“So we have to save the pricks again?” Mulberry said what everyone in the room was thinking.

“Yeah,” Selwyn sneered. “While the Aurors will contain the fires and the goblins, our mission is to deal with the attacker. Or attackers. And help out where needed - Scrimgeour is in command. Again.”

“Stunners only?” Mulberry was on a roll today.

Selwyn scoffed. “With Fiendfyre involved? If you see anyone pointing a wand at you, kill ’em.”

Rye wasn’t the only one who nodded in agreement. That had been the worst part of the riot - seeing your comrades get cursed without being able to retaliate in kind. He hadn’t joined the Hit-Wizards to coddle his enemies! Poor Hubert had been savaged… He blinked. Rye couldn’t see him among the gathered Hit-Wizards.

“Has anyone seen Hubert?” he asked. “Today’s his first day back after the riot.”

“Lucky sod,” Mulberry said.

“Shut up, Mulberry.” Apparently, Selwyn had gotten fed up with the comments. The Head Hit-Wizard looked at Rye. “You two are assigned to Azkaban guard duty, right?”

Rye nodded. Relatively light duty after Hubert had spent two weeks in St Mungo’s and at home.

“Alright. Find him, then go to Azkaban and send the ready force back. We’ll need them.”

“I’m also assigned to Azkaban,” Mulberry cut in.

“Not any more,” Selwyn said. “We need everyone we can spare in Diagon Alley. Everyone, follow me! We’ll split into squads in the Cauldron.” He turned and strode towards the exit.

“We should just take over the damn pub and turn it into our mess hall,” Mulberry muttered as he passed Rye with the rest of the group.

Rye took a deep breath, relief flooding him as he watched the others file out. He wouldn’t have to face Fiendfyre. Or goblins. Or dark wizards. But his comrades would. He clenched his teeth. He hadn’t asked to be spared; Selwyn had ordered it. And only because Hubert couldn’t be trusted to keep his nerve in another battle so soon after getting cursed in the riot.

It wasn’t Rye’s fault.

He still felt ashamed. But also relieved.

But where was Hubert? He should have arrived already - their shift had started five minutes ago. Maybe he should call him… but the Floo Network would be strained already by the deployment and the evacuations. Rye clenched his teeth. If he didn’t get the reserves at Azkaban moving quickly, Selwyn would probably assign him to Azkaban for the whole of the next year. Or worse. The prison wasn’t as bad as it had been when the Dementors had guarded it - Rye shuddered at the memories of his first year as a Hit-Wizard - but it was still a cold, wet rock in the middle of the sea. Maybe he should go on alone…

“Where’s everyone?”

Rye whirled around. Hubert stood there, looking confused. “You’re late!” He shook his head. “Didn’t you hear? Fiendfyre attack on Gringotts. Everyone’s deploying.”

Hubert gasped, and Rye felt both satisfied as well as ashamed again. “Fiendfyre?” Was the man trembling?

Rye held up a hand. “Don’t worry - we’re still going to Azkaban. But we need to hurry; the others need everyone who can be spared from the prison.” Hubert looked so relieved, Rye knew that the man hadn’t fully recovered yet. “Let’s go!” Rye said, heading towards the closest Floo connection.

A minute later, they arrived at Azkaban, ducking their heads and using their cowls to keep their faces from getting splashed as they walked through the Thief’s Downfall installed there.

“You’re bloody late!” Smith, the Hit-Wizard in charge of the shift, snarled at them, causing Hubert to stumble and fall.

Rye met the angry Hit-Wizard’s glare with a scoff. “Haven’t you heard? Fiendfyre attack on Gringotts. Selwyn wants the ready force and everyone else you can spare at the Cauldron. Yesterday!”

Smith hissed. “Merlin’s balls!” He hesitated for a moment, then started to yell orders at the others present. It didn’t take long for the guards to leave - but that was normal for Azkaban; everyone wanted to leave as soon as possible. He shook his head and turned towards Hubert, who was still bent over, staring at the floor and clutching his stomach. He hadn’t even pulled his cowl back. “Are you alright?” The man shouldn’t be back at work, Rye thought. He wasn’t fit for duty yet.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Rye blinked. That wasn’t Hubert’s voice! The Thief’s Downfall! He started to draw his wand, but the other wizard was already casting.

“Avada Kedavra!”

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, October 4th, 1998**

“Bloody hell!” “Merlin’s balls!” “Shite!”

Harry Potter wasn’t the only one to curse when he and the other Aurors on their brooms rose above the roofs near the Cauldron and saw what was happening at Gringotts: Green cursed flames were approaching the massive building from two sides, the neighbouring buildings already half-consumed by the Fiendfyre. The few Aurors on duty in the Alley were trying to keep the fire at bay, but Harry could tell at a glance that they weren’t achieving much - two were trying to use the Water-Making Spell, even though that wouldn’t do anything against Fiendfyre! At least someone had started to conjure walls to contain the fire, but they hadn’t managed to match the height of the flames with their spells.

“Potter, Weasley - help Shacklebolt stop the fire on the south!” Dawlish barked. “Everyone else, with me!” The Auror was already diving on his broom as he shouted the last words.

Harry pulled off a Wronski Feint and was levelling his broom out - barely scraping the pavement with the tips of his boots - before Dawlish was past the roofs. Ron wasn’t far behind and caught up with Harry as he jumped off his broom next to two struggling Aurors who he didn’t know yet. “Where’s Shacklebolt?” he shouted over the roar of the fire.

“What?”

“He’s coming.” Ron pointed behind them. The older Auror was just landing. He should have known that Shacklebolt wouldn’t have been on duty in the Alley, Harry realised.

Shacklebolt shook his head as he dismounted next to them. “Be more careful,” he said - using a selective privacy charm that dimmed the noise outside, Harry noticed. “You can’t help anyone if you break your neck; this isn’t a Quidditch pitch.” Before Harry could protest that he hadn’t been in any danger, the other wizard started giving orders: “Simmons, Brocktuckle, focus on the left side. And create higher walls. Potter, Weasley - right and middle. We need walls as high as the rooftop, at least, and as thick as you can manage. I’ll start conjuring sand to smother it.”

It would take a lot of sand to smother Fiendfyre, Harry knew, but there was no time to discuss it - the wall in front of them was starting to crumble. He pointed his wand at it and conjured a thicker wall, barely finishing before the Fiendfyre burned completely through the previous wall. Even so, he felt the heat on his face and took a step back.

“Merlin’s balls,” he heard Ron curse next to him. “I didn’t think it’d be this bad.”

Harry could already see some spots on the wall he had just finished creating starting to grow dark - the heat must be even worse than he had imagined. “I just hope Moody’s found the dark wizard who cast this,” he yelled. He didn’t fancy trying to contain Fiendfyre while a dark wizard was trying to kill him. But they couldn’t stop, either - even if they escaped the flames, the Fiendfyre would hit Gringotts. And that would lead to war. The dark wizard probably wanted that, Harry thought. First the riot and, when that didn’t work, the Fiendfyre.

He cast another wall to reinforce his first, taking another step back. Ron did likewise. “Doesn’t look like the sand is working,” his friend yelled.

“It’ll take a little time,” Shacklebolt answered, sounding remarkably calm considering that they were caught between Fiendfyre and the goblins.

“We might not have the time,” Harry spat as he conjured his third wall. If the dark wizard eluded Moody… he blinked. Why hadn’t the Auror patrols who had first arrived on scene been attacked? If the dark wizard wanted the Fiendfyre to reach Gringotts, that would have been the logical tactic - ambush the Aurors as they arrive. Or cast the Fiendfyre directly at Gringotts, though their wards would likely make that more difficult than first feeding the cursed flames a few buildings to let them grow stronger.

But they had done neither. That made no sense, unless… “It’s a diversion!” he yelled. “It’s a bloody diversion!”

“Focus on containing the fire, Potter!” Shacklebolt yelled back, “Or we burn!”

The other Auror was right, Harry knew as he conjured yet another wall and resisted the urge to go above Shacklebolt’s head and use his enchanted badge to alert Scrimgeour.

But that didn’t mean Harry was wrong.

*****

Four more walls later, the Fiendfyre hadn’t grown weaker at all - quite the contrary, in fact -  and they were starting to run out of space to retreat. And each time a wall started to crumble, the heat got worse - Harry’s face felt as if he had taken a sunbath in the desert. Simmons’s hair had even caught fire.

“We can’t keep this up,” Ron said. He had taken over for Simmons and Brocktuckle - they hadn’t been able to keep up.

“We can’t let the fire reach Gringotts,” Shacklebolt snapped. “Keep casting!”

“I don’t think we can stop it. Your sand isn’t working,” Harry spat.

“We just need to hold until the Unspeakables arrive!” Shacklebolt yelled back. He didn’t sound as calm any more as he had been at the start.

Harry had to conjure another wall before he could answer. “They better hurry!” He glanced behind him - he had about two yards left.

“Here they come!” Shacklebolt shouted.

Harry looked up. High above them, a single Unspeakable, their face hidden by their cowl, was flying on a broom - and holding a box in their left hand. They flicked their wand, and suddenly, it was raining dozens of boxes. Maybe hundreds. When the first hit the cursed flames, it blew up and white foam burst forth, covering the fire.

A few minutes later, the Fiendfyre had been weakened enough to seal it up with conjured stone. Harry did his best to turn the area into a single massive, solid rock.

A weak cheer went up from the exhausted Aurors and Hit-Wizards. But Harry didn’t feel like cheering himself. He was certain that this had been a diversion. Where was Moody? He would understand.

The scarred Auror’s loud voice filling the entire Alley answered his question. “Everyone who can still hold a wand, rally at the Ministry! We’ve got a mass breakout in progress at Azkaban!”

*****

**North Sea, Azkaban, October 4th, 1998**

Azkaban was unplottable and covered with Muggle-Repelling Charms. In addition to that, it was also surrounded by a perpetual rainstorm, which would appear as a squall to muggle meteorologists, occasionally augmented by fog.

Harry Potter had learned that when studying for the Auror entrance exam. He had also seen pictures. But neither had prepared him to fly through said storm. A storm that also served to hide the new defences which had been added to the island to compensate for the loss of the Dementors. Wards which prevented any attempt to leave the island - and any unauthorised approach to the prison.

He reached up to his chest to check that he was still wearing the amulet that would - or so he had been told - allow him to pass through the defences. He and Ron had chosen theirs randomly from the stock of amulets, to prevent anyone from sabotaging them, but if a saboteur had tampered with all of them…

Ron floated closer to him, his broom easily countering the stiff breeze that was blowing into their faces. “Looks nasty,” he said.

“Yes.” Harry licked his lips. He didn’t like waiting. The longer they were delayed, the more time the inmates had to break out - or prepare ambushes. But they had to wait for the rest of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards - those who were forced to use the Department brooms. If this were on land they could have used a Portkey, but Harry didn’t think too many of his colleagues would fare well using a Portkey while on a broom.

“Nasty?” Harry looked up, ignoring the raindrops that hit his face. His glasses were charmed to keep themselves clean. Moody was floating above them, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. “That little cloud is nothing compared to facing the Dark Lord’s worst.” He pointed ahead. “They’re in there, preparing to break out. Rookwood’s a former Unspeakable; he’ll be working on the wards. But, so far, they’re holding.”

“Shouldn’t we rush in, then?” Ron asked. They had been sent to scout ahead, thanks to having the fastest brooms in the detachment.

Moody shook his head. “We need more wands. Remember: When we go in, I want both of you with me. We’ll have to take out the Death Eaters while the rest of the Corps deals with the regular prisoners.”

“Just the three of us, right?” Harry repeated the quick briefing they had received.

“I’d grab Shacklebolt and Tonks, if they weren’t needed to lead the curse-fodder.” Moody chuckled without any sign of humour. “Besides, I know how you two fight. I haven’t trained as much as I should’ve with them lately.”

That made sense. But it meant that they would be outnumbered as they faced the likes of the Lestranges and Rookwood. They would be weak and out of practice from spending over a decade in prison, Harry told himself. Even though he knew that it hadn’t taken Sirius that long to regain his skills in Defence. And who knew what kind of twisted magic Rookwood had learned as an Unspeakable.

“There’s the rest of the force,” Ron said, pointing behind them.

Harry glanced back over his shoulder. He could see red and grey figures growing in size as the rest of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards, those who had been still fit to fight after dealing with the Fiendfyre attack, approached on their brooms. Dawlish was in the lead, Harry saw as they closed in, with Bathilda right behind him. She looked tired and more than a little nervous, but determined at the same time. There was no sign of Smith or Nott, nor of the other rookies.

As soon as the Aurors and Hit-Wizards were in range, Moody’s amplified voice rang out over the sea, easily overcoming the noise from the storm in front of them. “Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Tonks - you know the plan. Grab your groups, and head in! Selwyn!” He addressed the leader of the Hit-Wizards, an older wizard with greying hair and a trimmed beard. “Cover them and nail anyone who gets past them.” Moody turned his broom around without waiting for an answer. “Potter, Weasley - with me!”

Harry and Ron flew up to Moody as the rest of the force split up and started to vanish into the storm cloud.

“Looks like the amulets are working,” Moody grunted. “Stay behind me!” With that, he shot forward himself.

Harry and Ron followed him. Straight into the storm.

Harry had flown in storms before - he had played an entire Quidditch match in a rainstorm, once, braving the freezing rain for two hours and thirteen minutes before he caught the Snitch - but this was far worse. Water was blasted at him as if there were a hose hidden in the clouds and if not for his Shield Charm, he’d have been thrown straight off his broom. And even with the shield, he had to struggle to keep to his course as the winds tried to buffet him back and forth. Between the rain and the clouds, visibility disappeared in seconds. Without his enchanted glasses he wouldn’t have been able to keep track of Moody or Ron as he forced his broom to stay on course, clenching his teeth so hard he feared they’d crack.

Lightning crackled far too close for comfort, followed by thunder even louder than the roaring storm. Harry drew a hissing breath and hoped that the amulet kept working - this wasn’t natural lightning, but a magical barrier against escape.

He caught glimpses of the other Aurors below him - most of them seemed to be being pushed around by the wind as if they were toy kites caught in a gale - but he couldn’t spare them more than a thought. It was difficult enough to stay in formation with Moody and Ron when there was so much water hitting his shield that he had trouble telling the sky from the sea. If he got lost and flew straight into the waves…

And then the rain and wind suddenly stopped, as if someone had thrown a switch, and he shot through the calm but still cloudy sky above Azkaban, looking down at the prison. And at the dozen prisoners on brooms floating above the dark walls in a circle. Waiting for the Aurors, Harry realised, as one of them suddenly pointed at him.

“Keep ’em busy until the rest of the Corps arrives!” Moody yelled and bent forward, diving towards the flying prisoners just as they were starting to focus on them.

Harry followed suit, rolling to present a harder target as he lined up his first curse. A red spell flashed past him, and he saw the prisoners were abandoning what formation they had managed as they tried to move out of his way.

It didn’t help them. Harry banked to the left without adjusting his angle of descent, weaving through the hastily and sloppily cast curses sent at him and hit one prisoner with a Reductor Curse.

The wizard’s chest exploded, one arm blown clear, but Harry was already past, racing towards the jagged stone walls below. He drew a hissing breath through clenched teeth as he pulled left and up, narrowly missing the stone walls, then rolled and weaved again as more curses flew at him from the ground. He sent a Blasting Curse back that covered the area with dust as it blew up part of the wall, but his focus was on the prisoners on brooms. If they were left alone, they could slaughter the other Aurors as they exited the storm piecemeal and disoriented.

Ron pulled up next to him before they split apart again to attack three flying prisoners in a pincer movement. One of the prisoners spotted them, and tried to escape by diving towards the ground. The other two turned to face them, but they were slow and cast too early - their curses went wide and it was obvious that they hadn’t flown in some time; much less cast while flying. Harry clipped the one on the left with a Cutting Curse that sliced into the man’s shoulder and most of his upper wand arm, then followed up with another that cut the prisoner’s broom in half. Ron simply blasted his target off her broom.

Harry whirled to chase the third and caught sight of him just as the fleeing prisoner crashed into the south wall of the prison then tumbled into the sea below, broom and bones broken.

A glance told Harry that Moody had dispatched three of the other prisoners. Two more were engaged with half a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards who had managed to break through the storm already. They didn’t last long. One was caught in a crossfire and fell to his death flailing and on fire, while the other was blown apart by Moody in passing as the old Auror flew towards Harry and Ron.

“Follow me!” he bellowed, “we’re going into the prison proper.”

Harry glanced at the prison yard and the walls, where at least two dozen prisoners were casting curses at the Aurors and Hit-Wizards lining up to attack. More were probably hiding inside.

Moody, as Harry should have expected, caught this. “Those are small fry. The Death Eaters aren’t there, and not on the island outside either. We’ll have to dig them out!” He turned, ignoring the curses cast at them - they were too high above the ground to get hit.

“Can you spot them?” Ron yelled.

“They warded the walls against that,” Moody yelled back. “Bloody fools!”

Then they were diving again, straight at the yard. A few barely aimed Blasting Curses sent the prisoners scattering to the walls - those not caught in the blasts. Moody, Harry and Ron set down in front of the main entrance, conjured walls shielding them from what few curses the surviving prisoners, under attack from the other Aurors, managed to send their way. One prisoner in the entrance, on the ground with what looked like a broken leg, threw his wand away and raised his hands. Moody stunned him, broke his arms, then blasted part of the wall away - and the prisoner who had been hiding behind it.

Harry quickly tapped his glasses - but the walls still blocked his sight.

“I saw his reflection in the lamp there,” Moody grunted as he led them through the wrecked door into the prison proper.

They reached the first cell floor - and the first dead guard. He hadn’t died easily, Harry noted.

“There’s no use hiding!” Moody bellowed.

“I’m not hiding,” someone yelled back. “I’m staying in my cell. I’m not escaping!”

“Step into the hall!”

“No! I’m not escaping! I’m not escaping!”

“Bloody hell!” Moody cursed. “He’ll alert everyone else. Stun ’im!” he ordered, then turned to the stairs leading further down.

Harry found the prisoner in his cell, pressed into a corner. “I’m not escaping! I’m not…” he managed to yell before Harry’s Stunner shut him up. Two broken arms ensured he wouldn’t reconsider his decision.

“There was no one else in the other cells,” Ron told him as they left the area.

“Hurry up!” they heard Moody. “I know they’re planning something nasty!”

They rushed through the next floor, disabling another prisoner who had been hiding in her cell, then stopped before the stairs leading down to the floor for those sentenced to life imprisonment. The bodies of another dead guard and four dead prisoners were strewn around the top of the stairs.

“Hold it!” Moody held up his left hand. “It’s a trap. Fall back - I’ll trigger it.”

Harry cursed under his breath and took a few steps back, ducking behind a wall Ron had conjured. He used his glasses to see through it and watched as Moody conjured a few dogs, then took cover himself before sending them ahead.

The dogs had barely reached the stairs when the corpses pounced on them, ripping the howling animals to pieces with their bare hands.

“Inferi? How?” Ron blurted out.

“Rookwood,” Moody answered. “Former Unspeakable. That’s his work. And it won’t have been the only trap he’s laid to delay us while he works on the wards. Time to live up to your reputation, lads,” he added with a twisted grin as he got up and flicked his wand, cutting the first Inferi charging them in half with a Fire Whip.

Harry clenched his teeth and stood as well, cutting the legs off the next undead while Ron set it on fire. That stalled the remaining three long enough for Moody to destroy them with a single Blasting Curse.

“Good work,” the old Auror grunted, then led them down a narrow spiral staircase before stopping suddenly.

“Another trap?” Ron asked.

“No. There was a Thief’s Downfall here. Blasted apart. Just like the one at the entrance.” Moody snarled. “Why would...Bloody bastards!” He whirled around. “We need to get back up!”

“What?” Harry asked as the old Auror rushed past him, running far faster than he should be able to with a peg leg.

Moody ignored him and tapped his Auror badge. “Bolt! Tonks! Dawlish! The Death Eaters might be using Polyjuice Potion to hide amongst the other prisoners! Watch out!”

Harry didn’t hear the answer, if any was given. But when they reached the yard, Shacklebolt’s expression told him enough even before the Auror spoke.

“Four escaped. Surprised and overwhelmed half my group when they landed, took their necklaces and brooms and flew off. We gave chase, but lost them in the storm long enough for them to apparate.”

“Four? There were more Death Eaters than that!” Moody snarled. “Lock the entire island down; check everyone for Polyjuice Potion - Aurors and Hit-Wizards too. We’ll root the rest out! Potter, Weasley, Tonks - with me!”

Harry saw Shacklebolt grind his teeth as he turned to follow Moody back into the prison.

*****

As it turned out, they didn’t have to root anyone out. The missing Death Eaters were already dead when they found them.

“What happened?” Ron asked, staring at the carnage in the guard’s room on the lowest level.

“Blood magic ritual,” Harry Potter answered, pointing at the runes forming a broken circle on the floor. He recognised them easily enough - sacrificial ones. “Looks like it failed,” he added, nodding at the corpse in the centre of the circle. It, and four more by the wall behind it, looked as if something had drained them of all liquid, in contrast to the three other corpses inside the circle which had had their throats cut.

“Aye,” Moody agreed. “That was Rookwood. Probably thought he could crack the wards that way. Guess Albus and Croaker were too smart for him. Wards must have sucked them dry.” He stepped forward, carefully not disturbing the circle, and cocked his head, staring at the other drained corpses. “Dolohov. Travers. Mulciber. Avery.” He turned around. “Which means the Lestranges escaped with whoever organised this breakout.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 4th, 1998**

Hermione Granger didn’t know whether she should hug Harry and Ron once they were safely back from Azkaban, or hex them for making her worry so much. First rushing off to battle Fiendfyre and then volunteering to stop the breakout at Azkaban? What would be next? Charging Gringotts without a wand? Invading Magical Australia? Trying to get Quidditch banned in Britain?

She scoffed at her own thoughts. This was too serious to joke about, even in her head. Not even Sirius was making any of his off-colour jokes. Harry and Ron were fighting the most dangerous criminals in Britain - Death Eaters and other dark wizards imprisoned in Azkaban.

“Still no news?” Sirius was all but growling at the hapless Ministry employee who had been assigned to ‘keep the Wizengamot informed’.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the witch said. “The Ministry forces engaged the prisoners half an hour ago.”

“I bet the DMLE knows more but is trying to find a way to spin it so they can hide their incompetence!” Sirius turned away from the witch, shaking his head. “Useless!”

It wasn’t a nice thing to say - the poor witch seemed to be close to tears - but Hermione couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. The Ministry allowed a mass breakout to happen at Azkaban! How inept did you have to be to commit such a blunder?

“You aren’t the only one with family in the battle, Sirius.”

Hermione clenched her teeth for a second so she wouldn’t openly glare or sneer at Malfoy.

Sirius, however, didn’t restrain himself. “I know. But I’m more concerned about my family surviving this battle, than about my relatives escaping the prison.” He cocked his head sideways. “Or did dear Narcissa decide to acknowledge her niece again?”

“My wife and I have never claimed that Auror Tonks wasn’t related to us,” Malfoy retorted.

“Really? You did a very good job at making people think you had.” Sirius snorted. “But I guess when Tonks’s one of the few standing between you and your rabid sister-in-law, it’s easy to grow more tolerant of her origins, isn’t it?”

Malfoy sneered. “And I suppose that you might finally regret not sharing the secret of your own escape. Imagine if it turned out that the guards could have stopped the breakout, if only they had known what you did to escape!”

Hermione pressed her lips together at hearing that cheap shot - or threat. Sirius, though, scoffed. “I informed Albus about it, before the prison’s security was revised.”

“Hiding behind Dumbledore, who cannot confirm or deny any of your claims?” Malfoy shook his head.

Sirius spread his hands. “I wouldn’t be the only one, would I?”

Malfoy’s smile grew very thin, but before he could speak another lie, the fireplaces in the Atrium flashed again and, this time, two familiar figures stepped out of them. Harry and Ron! They looked tired but unhurt!

Hermione rushed towards them, barely managing not to yell their names as she dodged around some stupid Ministry employees who were too slow in getting out of her way, then pounced on Harry, wrapping her arms around him and pressing herself against him. He was alive. He wasn’t hurt. She could feel his breath on her neck, and his warmth against her body.

She didn’t let go for a long time.

*****

“I see you finally managed to pry yourself away from your girlfriend, Potter,” Scrimgeour remarked as soon as they had entered his office.

Harry Potter swallowed the first retort that came to mind. Everyone was on edge after the morning’s double disaster and snapping at the Head Auror wouldn’t do anyone any good. “My _friend_ ,” he stressed, “was distraught. But we didn’t keep you waiting, did we?” he added, a little sharper than he had really wanted. He and Ron had still had to wait a few minutes after Scrimgeour had called for them.

“Don’t mind Rufus, lad,” Moody, who was leaning against the wall of Scrimgeour’s office, cut in. “He’s in a foul mood after today’s cock-up.”

The Head Auror glanced at Moody, his lips pressed together, before clearing his throat. “Cock-up, unfortunately, fits our situation very well.” He shook his head, his grey mane brushing his shoulders. “Several buildings destroyed by Fiendfyre, a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards killed in Azkaban and three of the worst Death Eaters escaped.”

“A dozen?” Ron asked, frowning. “Six were on shift when the breakout started, four were killed by the Death Eaters when they stole their necklaces…”

“Two died fighting the rabble in the courtyard before that,” Moody explained with a sneer. “Damn fools were chasing a prisoner as if it were a Quidditch match and flew into a crossfire. Standards have slipped even more than I feared.”

“Something I will certainly bring up with Bones and the Minister,” Scrimgeour said with a tight smile.

“They’re not going to be pleased,” Moody said.

“You were in command of the assault,” Scrimgeour retorted. “They’ll blame you as well.”

“Bones knows better than that, and Malfoy won’t let Fudge do anything stupid.” Moody grinned. “Dear Lucius will want me to hunt down his dear sister-in-law before she disembowels him and his family for betraying the Dark Lord.”

Scrimgeour snorted but didn’t disagree. “In any case, things could be worse. At least Rookwood, Dolohov, Travers, Mulciber and Avery didn’t escape.”

“The Unspeakables confirmed their deaths then? No Polyjuice Potion involved?” Moody asked.

Scrimgeour shook his head. “Croaker confirmed it personally.”

“Wonder why they didn’t join the Lestranges. They could have wiped out Shacklebolt’s entire group and taken their necklaces.” Moody’s expression turned this statement into a question as he stared at the Head Auror.

“Rookwood couldn’t leave the prison that way,” Scrimgeour said. “He was tied into the wards. Croaker’s work. With Dumbledore’s help.”

“So that’s why he tried to break them.” Moody nodded. “And why didn’t they do the same to the rest of them?”

“I asked him the same question,” the Head Auror replied with a sneer. “In his own words, ‘too expensive’.”

Moody scoffed. “More like too secret for the rest of us. If we had known that, we might not have rushed down to the lowest level.”

“That doesn’t explain why the others stayed with Rookwood, though,” Harry pointed out. “They could have gone with the Lestranges.”

“They might not have wanted to go with the Lestranges. Those three were crazy - even before Azkaban. Or Rookwood lied to them, to get them to stay with him.” Moody shrugged. “What matters is that they’re dead.”

“Indeed,” Scrimgeour said. “As are two dozen other prisoners.”

Moody shrugged again. “I wasn’t about to tell the lads to take any chances with those scum. We lost too many as it is.”

“It could have been worse,” Scrimgeour retorted. “It took a dozen Aurors to arrest Bellatrix Lestrange, back in 1981.”

“She’s probably gonna take a while to get back into shape,” Moody said. “Which gives us some time to prepare.”

“And at least the Wizengamot will, for once, not be split over this,” Scrimgeour added. “Both Malfoy and Black will want the Lestranges caught. And whoever managed to pull off this breakout.” He leaned back. “And Gringotts wasn’t touched. The goblins are making a lot of noise, but they don’t have a leg to stand on.” He nodded at Harry and Ron. “Good work there, and in Azkaban, Aurors Potter and Weasley.”

“Yeah, lads. You did well. Better than most of the others,” Moody added. “Which means you won’t be doing patrols any more. You’ll be hunting down the Lestranges with me.”

“The fastest promotion to special assignments in the history of the DMLE,” Scrimgeour added with a smile.

Harry smiled as well, but he couldn’t help wondering how Sirius and Hermione would take the news.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 4th, 1998**

Apparently, ‘not very well’ was the answer to that question, Harry Potter thought a few hours later, after he and Ron had returned home.

“They have you hunting the Lestranges?” Hermione asked in that clipped tone she took when she was trying not to yell. She was sitting very stiffly in her favourite seat in the living room.

Sirius was less restrained as he paced on the Persian carpet. “What? Are they crazy? Bellatrix took down half a dozen Aurors by herself when she was arrested last time!” he bellowed. “What is Moody thinking? Or Scrimgeour? Bones? I’ll give them a piece of my mind!”

“They’re thinking that we’re the best they have,” Harry retorted. Who did they think he was, an idiot like Smith?

“And it’s not as if we’ll be alone,” Ron added. “They’ve folded the Selwyn murder case into this since it looks like it’s the work of the same Death Eater, so we’ll be working not just with Moody, but with Shacklebolt as well.”

Jeanne narrowed her eyes. “And how did they come to that conclusion?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well, mostly because they don’t think that there are two Death Eaters left who have the skill to do this.”

“A slightly optimistic assumption, I think,” Hermione remarked.

“Tonks won’t be officially involved,” Harry went on, “seeing as she’s Bellatrix Lestrange’s niece, but we’ll be able to call upon her for her special talents.”

“She’s my cousin, and you’re my godson and heir!” Sirius objected.

“That relationship isn’t close enough to bar him from being on the case,” Hermione said. Harry smiled at her, but she frowned at him in return. “That doesn’t mean that I’m happy about this,” she told him. “Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange are among the most dangerous Death Eaters known. And they are in the company of someone who was able to play the DMLE like a fiddle and orchestrate a mass breakout from Azkaban - a feat no one else managed. Not even Voldemort. They will certainly be ready to deal with any Aurors hunting them.”

“We know that,” Harry said. “But we’ll be with Moody. And you know he won’t underestimate anyone.”

“He couldn’t stop them today, could he?” Sirius scoffed as he sat down next to Jeanne.

Harry clenched his teeth and took a deep breath.

Ron blurted out: “That was because we thought Rookwood was the biggest threat.”

Harry glared at him. That was confidential information!

“Oh, stop that!” Sirius scoffed again. “You know as well as I do that they’ll come after us. We were responsible for Voldemort’s death - they won’t let that stand. Only dear Lucius might be higher on their list of enemies.” Harry’s godfather shook his head. “We need to know everything possible to keep ourselves safe.”

“We certainly can’t trust the DMLE to protect us, not with who they have left for guard duty, can we?” Hermione added.

“They’re right, mate,” Ron told him.

Harry drew a deep breath through his teeth. They were asking him to break regulations, if not the law. But they were right. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Alright. Here’s what we know…”

*****

“...and then we were assigned to Moody’s task force.”

Hermione Granger checked her notes when Harry finished his report. She didn’t seem to have missed anything important. But there were a few points that needed elaboration. “They tied Rookwood into the wards?”

“The Unspeakables did. Apparently, it’s too costly to do it for every prisoner,” Harry said.

“Or the Unspeakables don’t want to bother with it for normal prisoners,” Ron added.

“Bellatrix is anything but normal,” Sirius said, baring his teeth. “She’s a bloodthirsty maniac. She, her husband, her brother-in-law and Barty Crouch’s son were the worst of Voldemort’s followers. And the most fanatical.”

“I don’t think that the Unspeakables care about that. They simply wanted to ensure that Rookwood couldn’t spill their secrets,” Ron replied.

“They could have killed him in that case,” Hermione said. She didn’t think that the Unspeakables had many scruples when dealing with such ‘problems’.

“According to Moody, that was how it was done in the past,” Harry said. “But Dumbledore intervened in his case.”

Sirius scoffed. “Wouldn’t have been the first suspicious death in Azkaban. Crouch Jr died in prison - shortly after a visit from his dear old dad.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now, I think.” Though she would still have to figure out how to deal with such a ward scheme. Just in case. “What matters is how we react to this new threat.”

“We need more security,” Harry said. “More training. Better wards. And you need to be more cautious. Much more cautious.”

“We already stepped up our security in response to the murder of Jeanne’s father,” she pointed out. “And we can’t really improve the wards. Not efficiently, in any case.” She saw him frown and elaborated: “Improving wards as old as ours is very difficult. They have grown very powerful over the centuries, and even though modern ward layouts are much more efficient and effective, they would need to be in place for a significant period of time before they were as powerful as the old wards.” And, she added silently to herself, even more time to equal the power of the now illegal spells forming the core of the old wards. “Adding new spells to the ward scheme is very difficult and dangerous, and also of limited use.” Harry was staring at her, and she pursed her lips. “I studied the matter after Jeanne’s father was murdered.” And for years before that, of course.

“Ah.” He nodded. “We need to improve our security in other ways, then. Alerts for the DMLE. Traps to stall intruders. Escape routes. And more Defence training,” he added with a glance at her.

Hermione was tempted to tell him that there already were escape routes and traps to stall intruders. But then she’d have to explain why he hadn’t been told about them. They would have to add even more security. And hide the measures taken to keep the DMLE from arresting them, should they raid the house.

And she had thought that Harry focusing even more on her Defence training would be the most annoying consequence of this mess!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 5th, 1998**

Hermione Granger didn’t know any more whether Harry and Ron’s jobs as Aurors were more hindrance than help for her revenge plans. On the one hand, hiding her - and Sirius and Jeanne’s - secret from them was a nuisance. On the other hand, she was certain that if they didn’t have their duties as Aurors, they would have stayed home today, to serve as protection.

But if he weren’t an Auror, she could tell Harry about her real life. And she wouldn’t have to spend even more time playing the useless-at-Defence witch now that the Lestranges were on the loose.

She sighed as she entered the secret room in the basement. Mr Fletcher was sitting in his usual seat already. “Good morning,” she said.

“Morning,” came the terse reply. Judging by the way his prosthetic foot was whipping up and down and he was twirling his wand, her tutor was agitated. “The Ministry made quite a mess.”

She nodded. “They had to respond to the attack on Gringotts, though.”

He scoffed. “They should have kept more guards at Azkaban, instead of at the Ministry.”

She managed not to chuckle, despite the irony of a thief arguing for more prison guards. This wasn’t a joking matter. So she nodded again.

“What’s Black doing to increase your security?” he asked.

She grimaced. “He’s letting Kreacher recreate some of the traps the elf had made to protect the house in the past. We’ll get two more escape tunnels. In addition to that, he’s chasing down some enchanted statuary to provide us with expendable guards. And, finally, we’ll stay at home more often.”

“Which will make the next heist more difficult to plan and pull off.”

She sighed. “Yes. But that can’t be helped.” Her normal cover stories for any absences would worry Harry too much.

He shrugged. “It’s not our worst problem.”

The door to the basement opened just as she asked: “What is our worst problem?”

“Black,” her tutor said with a barely-hidden sneer.

“Fletcher.” Sirius sniffed.

“Good morning, Mr Fletcher.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and exchanged a long-suffering glance with Jeanne. Then she repeated her question.

Mr Fletcher stopped his staring contest with the dog and addressed her. “The Bulstrodes are close friends of the Malfoys; they’ll be increasing their security even more.”

Sirius, of course, had to retort. “They’ve increased their security already, after…” he trailed off and glanced at Jeanne.

“But now the DMLE’s paying even more attention. One murderer, no matter how clever, wasn’t as bad as the Lestranges.” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “The Ministry will have a veritable army ready to respond to any alert.”

Which would ruin the day of any thief who triggered an alert, Hermione knew. She shrugged, though. “They would have increased their security after the first successful heist against an Old Family’s manor anyway; this is just accelerating the timeline a little. And they can’t react to every alert with their entire force - the Death Eaters will count on that.”

“But the Aurors and Hit-Wizards will be far more on edge. Hunting a thief is one thing, but hunting the Lestranges?” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “They’ll curse first, and ask no questions afterwards.”

She frowned. “Do you propose we put the heist’s preparations on hold?” She really didn’t want to do that. On the other hand, she also really wanted those Death Eaters dealt with before they hurt Harry. Or anyone else.

“It would be prudent,” Jeanne said. “But staying behind wards doing nothing while Harry, Ron and Tonks risk their lives?”

Hermione nodded in agreement. She wouldn’t be able to suffer that.

“What can we do?” Mr Fletcher said. “Things haven’t really changed; we still wouldn’t do much good meddling with the investigation. Or the hunt. Unless you’re willing to play bait,” he added with a glance at Sirius.

Hermione thought that Sirius would like to play bait. But after a glance at Jeanne, he shook his head. “I shared a floor in Azkaban with Bellatrix and the others. They’re crazy. And with Voldemort gone for good, they might even sacrifice their lives to get us.”

“With the right plan…” Hermione began.

The dog cut her off. “No, it’s too much of a risk. They’re crazy, not stupid. We’d have to offer them a real chance to get at us to lure them into a trap - they know how safe Grimmauld Place is.” He leaned back in his seat. “But we have to do something,” Sirius said. “Or I will go crazy.”

Hermione thought that Mr Fletcher muttered ‘crazier’, but wasn’t sure. But Sirius was correct. They had to do something. “Well, we can use the fact that the DMLE will be focusing on the Lestranges for the foreseeable future to make a number of preparations. And hit a target of opportunity.”

“Which target?” Mr Fletcher asked.

“Skeeter’s home.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 5th, 1998**

“Oh, look at them - they’re part of _Investigations_ now!”

Harry Potter refrained from rolling his eyes before turning to face Nott, who had just entered the break room. He had expected that kind of comment. “Special assignment, actually,” he said. “Hunting the Lestranges.” Nott didn’t matter much, but the looks some of the older Aurors had given him and Ron today...

“Ah. That’s only fair, then, I guess - after all, you let them escape in the first place,” Nott said, “didn’t you?”

Before Harry could find the right words to put the idiot in his place without using a curse, Bathilda appeared in the doorway behind Nott. “Merlin’s balls! Theo!” She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the room while closing the door. “The Death Eaters killed eight of us and you act like a jealous git?”

“You weren’t there,” Ron added. “You were puking your guts out in Diagon Alley while we were risking our lives.”

Nott blinked.

“Grow up, Theo!” Bathilda snapped at him. “If John had heard you, you’d be guarding Azkaban for the rest of your career!”

“And if Moody had heard him, he’d spend a week in St Mungo’s,” Harry said. “Training accident.”

Nott glared at all of them, then left the room without saying anything.

Bathilda sighed. “Sorry about him. He’s just…” She shook her head.

“...just a worse git than Draco Malfoy?” Ron asked with a grin that only grew wider when she glared at him.

Sighing again, she sat down at their table. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

“He probably thought that everyone shared his opinion of us getting a promotion;” Ron said, filling her cup.

“Technically, it’s not a promotion. Just a temporary assignment,” Harry corrected him.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Hermione,” his friend shot back.

Harry ignored that remark. “But, either way, I don’t think everyone’s happy for us.”

Bathilda bit her lower lip - like Hermione did, when she wasn’t certain how to say something, Harry remembered - then sighed. “Well, I’ve heard some talk. But mostly from people who weren’t there.”

“Ah.” Harry had expected that. He shrugged. “Nothing we can do about that.”

“They shouldn’t talk like that!” Bathilda said. “They weren’t there.” She shook her head. “They don’t know what they’re talking about! The fighting, the deaths...”

She looked like she would’ve been happier if she didn’t know either, Harry thought. He nodded slowly. “Are you alright?”

She pressed her lips together before answering with a fake smile. “I’m fine.”

Ron rolled his eyes at her. “Did you talk to Dawlish about it?”

She hesitated a moment before answering. “No. I don’t… I don’t want him to think that I can’t handle it. He trusts me.”

Harry could understand that.

“He trusts you to tell him when you have trouble.” Apparently, Ron had a different opinion of Dawlish.

Bathilda drew a shuddering breath, then looked at both of them. “How can you stand it? The riot, the fire, Azkaban…” She shook her head.

Harry almost quipped that Moody’s training was worse. “We’ve gone through worse,” he said instead.

“And we talked to others when we needed to,” Ron added.

Bathilda inclined her head and took a sip of her tea. She frowned and reheated it with a flick of her wand, then took another sip before looking around. “It’s usually packed around this time of day,” she said.

Harry sighed. “Too many are busy, or still recovering.” Or dead.

And some were avoiding him and Ron.

*****

**Carlisle, Cumbria, Britain, October 6th, 1998**

For Wizarding Britain’s most famous - or infamous - journalist, Skeeter had lived a rather frugal life, Hermione Granger thought as she looked around in the small flat in Carlisle. Weak wards - breaking in hadn’t been a challenge at all, as expected - cheap furniture, lots of parchment and old newspapers cluttering up the flat… She frowned. Something was off.

“Trouble?” Sirius asked from where he was checking Skeeter’s desk.

“Something feels off,” Hermione said. “This doesn’t look like I imagined Skeeter’s apartment.”

He shrugged. “She spent more on appearance than on her home, then.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not just that.” She looked at the walls, where instead of pictures, newspaper articles had been framed and hung. Old ones - Skeeter’s debuts and greatest scandals, as far as she could tell. That kind of decor she had expected; Skeeter had a very big ego.

But it didn’t match the rest of the flat. On a whim, she aimed her wand at the closest article. “Finite!”

The article vanished - with its frame.

“It was a copy!” Sirius exclaimed. He flicked his wand, and more articles disappeared. And a chair.

“This flat is a decoy,” Hermione said. “I should have realised that when we found no books.”

It seemed that cleaning out Skeeter wouldn’t be as easy as she had thought.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 6th, 1998**

Harry Potter rubbed his shoulder as he walked towards the living room. Hermione had been rather aggressive in today’s Defence training, and he had had the brilliant - or not so brilliant, as it turned out - idea to use the opportunity to practise his own skill at evading curses. Technically, it wasn’t evading as much as spoiling the opponent’s aim through movement, but no one called it that. Other than Hermione, of course. And probably Percy.

And while he had done well at evading, jumping around like a Puffskein which had fallen into a cauldron full of Pepper-Up Potion, as Sirius once called it, had caused a few bruises - which had left some lingering pain even after he had healed himself.

Hermione had fared worse, though she hadn’t complained. Not much, at least. Although she had insisted on focusing on spells, not wrestling. Granted, that was a smart decision - he didn’t think the Lestranges would resort to melee combat - but he couldn’t help worrying whether it meant something else. Not that he would ask, of course. He’d let her take the first step.

He entered the living room and froze for a moment when he saw Sirius and Jeanne looking at him. They were smiling, but they also looked a little nervous, or so he thought. Before he could ask what had happened - they hadn’t acted like this at dinner, though now that he thought about it, Jeanne had been acting a little off, too, then - Sirius spoke up.

“Harry! We’ve got great news! Jeanne’s pregnant!”

*****

 


	40. Groundwork

**The Weald, Kent, Britain, October 6th, 1998**

“Waiting? Waiting? No! We need to strike while the blood traitors are still reeling from their defeats!”

Rabastan Lestrange closed his eyes as Bellatrix went off on another tirade. His sister-in-law was a great duellist and a terror on the battlefield, but her understanding of strategy and, albeit not to the same degree, tactics was somewhat lacking.

The years in Azkaban hadn’t been kind to her voice, he added to himself, as she continued in a rather hoarse tone. “That was how we forced the Ministry to the brink of defeat last time! By relentlessly pushing and attacking! Not by letting them rest and recover!” Bellatrix drew a shuddering breath as she looked around, daring anyone to disagree with her.

Rabastan would have - he hadn’t forgotten whose reckless plan had led to their arrest so many years ago - but he knew better than to challenge her. He wasn’t her equal, as much as it grated to admit it. And his brother followed her blindly. Fortunately, Rabastan thought as he glanced at the fourth person in the living room of this small cottage, he wasn’t alone.

Barty shook his head. “That was when the Dark Lord was with us and our numbers rose with each victory.”

Rabastan clenched his teeth at the reminder that their Lord was truly dead. His hopes had soared when Barty, thought dead for so long, had appeared in front of their cells and led them to freedom. But then…

Bellatrix glared at Barty. “We only have your word that he is dead!” she spat, but Rabastan could see that she was wavering. “You weren’t at his side when he fell!”

That, of course, set Barty off. The wizard jumped out of his seat and faced Bellatrix. “I would have been at his side, but the Dark Lord himself ordered me not to follow him when he went off to conquer the Ministry, but to prepare for the worst instead!” he snarled. “He trusted me with his life! I was the one he told the secret of his immortality! I was the one who helped him regain a fitting body!” He shuddered and wiped his eyes. “And I was the one who tried a dozen times to resurrect him. In France! In Germany! In Poland! I tried everything, every ritual I could think of - but his soul anchors are gone! Gone!”

Bellatrix shook her head wildly, but other than a low, guttural wailing, she made no sound as she cried. The sight of the proud witch wailing made Barty back down - he sat again.

“Betrayed twice by those he trusted,” Rabastan’s brother spat as he wrapped his arms around his wife. “First by denying him after his defeat, and then by luring him into a trap and cursing him in the back!”

“They will pay! All of them!” Bellatrix screeched, pushing Rodolphus away, and for a moment, Rabastan feared she would destroy part of the house, like before. His sister-in-law managed to control herself, though.

“They will,” Barty said, “but we will have to prepare carefully to bring them to justice. We cannot act recklessly or all will be lost.” He took a deep breath. “You are still weakened by your ordeal.”

Rabastan nodded. As good as it felt to hold a wand again, and to wear decent robes, he knew that he was far from being ready for another battle. The effects of spending more than ten years rotting in prison didn’t disappear with a hearty meal and a dozen cleaning charms.

Barty looked at everyone, then continued: “The Ministry’s forces are stretched thin. With careful planning, we can force them to react as we want them to, and strike at exposed locations. Just as I did when I freed you,” he added. “Following the riot, another threat to Gringotts forced the Ministry’s hand. They had to draw away most of Azkaban’s guards to prevent a war with the Goblins.”

Rabastan had heard it before, but it would be rude to interrupt. Barty had gone to great lengths to rescue them, after all. “If only the others had followed us, instead of trusting Rookwood,” he said.

Barty shrugged. “They made their choice, and they chose poorly.”

Rabastan didn’t point out that they might not have been able to capture enough necklaces for everyone if all of them had followed Barty’s plan. It didn’t matter now, anyway.

“Why didn’t you attack Gringotts?” Bellatrix demanded. “The traitors wouldn’t have been able to send reinforcements to Azkaban if they had had to battle the goblins in Diagon Alley!”

“The guards stationed in Azkaban don’t normally wear necklaces which allow them to pass through the wards. For that, we needed to capture reinforcements who arrived by broom,” Barty retorted. “I had thoroughly interrogated the Hit-Wizard I impersonated.” He grinned. “Besides, we might want to start the war at a later date, when we are ready to fully exploit such an opportunity. The traitors will pay for their crimes! The Dark Lord’s death will be avenged a hundredfold!”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 6th, 1998**

Jeanne was pregnant. With Sirius’s child. His godfather was going to be a father.

Harry Potter wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was happy, of course. Sirius and Jeanne deserved this. Especially Sirius. After a decade in Azkaban, he was due such happiness. Harry’s godfather had done so much for him, and for Hermione, only a cad wouldn’t be happy for him.

But Harry couldn’t help worrying how his relationship to his godfather would change, now that Sirius would have a child of his own blood. A real son or daughter. Harry knew very well how it felt to be the not-quite-as-much loved child in a family. The orphan taken in out of duty, second to one’s own flesh and blood…

He sighed and lay down on his bed, closing his eyes. Sirius wasn’t like Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. He wouldn’t ignore Harry just because he had a child of his own. And Harry wouldn’t be left with cheap gifts while the baby received the expensive ones. He snorted - not that there would be a competition anyway. Harry was an adult now, working as an Auror. And Sirius’s child wasn’t even born yet.

A baby… He sighed again. A baby demanded a lot of attention. Harry had known that ever since their neighbours, the Smiths from number two, had had a baby ten years ago. They weren’t able to sleep through the night, they had to remodel the entire house so it was safe for the baby, they had to feed the little tyke at odd hours with special meals… Sirius would be very busy with his baby, and between that, Jeanne and his work - his important work to reform Britain, Harry reminded himself - Harry’s godfather wouldn’t have much time left to spend with Harry.

It wouldn’t be as bad as the Dursleys, but it would still sting. But there wasn’t anything Harry could do. Or should do. Sirius deserved this and the baby would need the attention, and hadn’t done anything wrong.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Harry? May I come in?”

Sirius! “Of course,” Harry answered, sitting up.

His godfather entered, then closed the door behind him. He was taking a little longer to do so than usual, Harry noticed. And he seemed nervous.

“So…” Sirius began, then trailed off.

Harry nodded. After a moment, he said: “So.”

Sirius chuckled. “Alright. There’s something I think we should discuss. Talk about.”

“Yes?” Harry tried not to sound as nervous as he felt.

Sirius sat down at Harry’s desk. “You know that you’re my heir, right?”

Harry nodded. “You’ve mentioned that before. Until you’ve got a child of your own.”

Sirius cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s the thing. That’s what we need to talk about.”

Harry frowned. “What’s there to talk about? Once you have a child of your own, they’ll be your heir by law.” Provided they were legitimate, of course.

“Well, that’s the law, yes.” Sirius’s smile looked rather forced. “But there are ways around that.”

“What?”

“I could adopt you. Adopted children have the same legal status as other children. And if I adopt you before the baby’s born, there’s no question at all who’ll be the firstborn, and heir.”

Harry blinked. “Why would you do that?”

Sirius drew a deep breath. “Well, it feels as if we’re robbing you of your birthright. You’ve been my heir for years, and now, suddenly, you aren’t any more. Or won’t be, once the tyke is born.”

Harry shook his head. Was that what Sirius was worried about? “But I’m a Potter, not a Black. I couldn’t inherit your name, not without abandoning my own.”

“But you’d inherit my gold. A lot of it, at least.”

Harry bit back his first retort. “Did I ever care about gold? Other than when Hermione needed help, I mean.”

“No,” Sirius admitted, “but you always had gold, too.”

“I’m not going to be suddenly poor, am I?”

Sirius shook his head. “No, of course not. But you’ll lose your status as the Black heir.”

“So?” Harry shrugged. “It’s not as if I wanted to become a member of the Wizengamot.”

“Well, since you were awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, you have the right to attend anyway,” Sirius pointed out. “And you won’t be potentially the richest bachelor in Britain any more.”

Harry scoffed. The witch he wanted didn’t care about gold at all. “It’s better this way, actually. You’ll have an heir to carry on the Black name.” And he wouldn’t have to decide whether he’d abandon his parents’ legacy - after they died for him - or the family of the only one who had truly cared for him since his parents’ deaths.

“If you’re certain…” Sirius trailed off, and, for a moment, he looked very vulnerable.

Harry nodded. “You’ll always be like a father to me, anyway.”

That made Sirius smile. Genuinely. He started sniffling, too, and Harry hugged him so he wouldn’t have to see Sirius cry.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 7th, 1998**

_“One good thing about our new assignment: No more graveyard shifts!”_

Hermione Granger waved as Harry and Ron disappeared through the fireplace, then sighed. She wouldn’t call that a good thing - it made preparing her next heist quite a bit more difficult. And Harry being around much more often also meant they’d be training more often. Which was a problem of its own, on more than one level.

She sighed, then glanced at Sirius and Jeanne, frowning slightly when the expected comment about missing Harry wasn’t made. “Mr Fletcher should have arrived already,” she said after a moment.

Sirius grumbled, which was expected, but he nodded, and they went downstairs.

Mr Fletcher was already sitting at the planning table, sipping from a cup of tea courtesy of Kreacher and whipping his prosthetic foot up and down. “Quite a mess,” he said instead of a greeting.

“The Ministry certainly didn’t cover itself in glory,” Sirius commented as he pulled out a seat for Jeanne before sitting down himself. Jeanne rolled her eyes, Hermione noticed.

“To be honest, they didn’t show too much competence,” she said, “but their hand was forced by the attack on Gringotts.”

“They overreacted,” Fletcher replied. “Shouldn’t have pulled the reserve from Azkaban.” He shrugged. “And now we’ve got not just one, but four, highly dangerous Death Eaters at large.”

Sirius shrugged. “Our unknown criminal might not have done themselves a favour by freeing the Lestranges. They’re dangerously unstable. I should know - I spent far too much time just two doors down from their cells.” He shook his head. “And with Voldemort dead, they’ll fly off the handle. They’ll probably get themselves killed attacking the Ministry or Malfoy Manor.”

“Or your home,” Fletcher said. “I trust your cousin won’t be able to enter.”

Sirius glared at him. “Of course not! I dealt with that before I let Harry stay here!”

“She would still have considerable knowledge of the house’s layout and defences,” Hermione pointed out. “And we have to assume that the Lestranges are in the company of the murderer of Jeanne’s father - someone who has proven twice now that they can infiltrate heavily warded locations.”

“It takes a little more to get through our wards than to sneak into Azkaban or the Ministry,” Sirius retorted. “And we’re already adding more defences.” Kreacher had been happy and tired this morning, Hermione recalled. “But, more importantly, this unknown Death Eater is obviously very good at breaking into places. The first murder could have been an inside job. But this? Using Fiendfyre as a distraction, then sneaking into Azkaban and killing all guards there… There can’t be that many wizards in Britain who could accomplish that.” He was staring at Fletcher.

Hermione’s tutor scowled. “I’ve been asking around. No one knows of anyone who could have pulled off this. They must be a new face.”

“Or a Death Eater veteran who went to ground after 1981,” Sirius said. “Or a foreign mercenary.” He shrugged. “Too many possibilities. We have to focus on what we can do to protect ourselves. And our families.”

“My parents will have to take a trip again,” Hermione said, biting her lower lip. She should have arranged that after Jeanne’s father had been murdered.

“I’ll cover it,” Sirius said. He looked at Jeanne. “And your family…”

“They have already taken appropriate measures after my father’s death,” she answered. “But I will urge them to be even more cautious and vigilant.”

Hermione didn’t know if Jeanne was talking about her family in France or the Selwyns, or both. She didn’t ask - it wasn’t her business.

“I’ve got no family, and no one knows I’m with you,” Mr Fletcher said. His tone didn’t invite any questions.

After a moment, Hermione cleared her throat. “I think that’s settled then. Let’s talk about Bulstrode Manor.”

“Not yet,” Sirius said. “Jeanne’s pregnant.”

“Ah.” Mr Fletcher tensed, Hermione noticed.

“So?” Jeanne said, glaring at Sirius.

“An Old Family’s manor isn’t like the locations we’ve hit so far. The Bulstrodes aren’t as rich as the Malfoys or our own family, but they’ll have all manners of defences - rare dark curses, exotic poisons, guard creatures,” Sirius went on. “And, unlike vampires in hiding or paranoid dark witches, they’ll have a lot more wands to bring to bear, even without the DMLE coming to help.”

“So?” Jeanne repeated herself and her glare seemed to intensify.

“I don’t think you should join us for this heist,” Sirius said.

“You’d rather have me wait at home while you take all the risks? And if you get killed, I should raise my child without their father?” Jeanne all but growled at her husband.

“Be reasonable!” Sirius replied - Hermione saw that he was clenching his teeth. “It’s not the same!”

“Mais oui! C'est la même chose!” Jeanne had switched to French now, a bad sign.

“If you die, our child dies as well!” Sirius retorted.

“Si tu meurs, mois, je ne veux pas vivre non plus!”

“I won’t die!”

“Mais tu pense que moi, je vais mourir?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Tu mens! Hypocrite!”

This was very embarrassing and getting far too intimate. Hermione exchanged a glance with her tutor, who seemed as ill at ease as she felt. “Please…” she began, but Sirius and Jeanne ignored her.

“Just until the child is born!”

“Tu peux faire pareil!”

“No, I can’t! If our child is to have a better future, then Malfoy’s power needs to be broken!”

They were both standing, their noses almost touching now. Both had their wands drawn - unconsciously, Hermione hoped. She was holding her breath.

“Please…” Sirius’s whisper cut through the sudden silence. He looked like he wanted to cry.

Jeanne looked away, then lowered her head. She was crying. But she let Sirius hold her.

Hermione glanced at Mr Fletcher and they snuck out of the room. They could plan the Bulstrode heist later.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 7th, 1998**

“There you are. Sit down,” Moody growled as soon as Harry Potter and Ron entered his office.

“Let’s sum up what yesterday’s mess taught us about our unknown dark wizard,” Moody went on before either of them had taken their seats. “What do we know about that scum?”

Harry cleared his throat before answering. Fortunately, he and Ron had given this some thought. “They used Fiendfyre as a diversion - and they had experience casting it. They placed it so we could stop it before it hit Gringotts, but only if we mobilised everyone we could spare.”

The old Auror nodded.

“They also have considerable experience with Polyjuice Potion and the Ministry’s counter-measures,” Ron added. “No one suspected a thing until the reserve had left Azkaban.”

“They interrogated the Hit-Wizard they impersonated. Killed him, too - messily,” Moody said. “Anything else?”

“They are very dangerous - they killed half a dozen Hit-Wizards in Azkaban,” Harry said.

“Right. Hit-Wizards aren’t the brightest, but they generally can fight.” Moody sneered. “Anything else?”

“They aren’t an expert Curse-Breaker,” Ron said. “Their plan relied on infiltrating Azkaban through the Floo connection. They didn’t even try to go through the wards.”

“Rookwood tried,” Harry pointed out.

“And died,” Moody retorted. “But the Lestranges didn’t stick around to wait for him - they went straight with the Polyjuice Potion. This wasn’t a thief, but a dark wizard.”

“A Death Eater,” Harry said. “But all of the skilled, dangerous ones are accounted for.” They had checked that already.

“Voldemort might have recruited a foreigner before he returned to Britain,” Ron said. “Maybe a houngan or a vampire.” The blood magic could point at either.

Moody snorted. “It would have to be a true believer to continue like this after Voldemort’s death. You’re not likely to find such a person among foreign mercenaries.” He shook his head. “Look at how the Azkaban job went down: Only the Lestranges followed them, none of the others - they stayed with Rookwood.”

“The Lestranges might have known our suspect and trusted them,” Ron said. “That would explain it.”

“The only friend the Lestranges had was Barty Crouch Jr - and he died ten years ago, in Azkaban.” Moody scoffed. “I heard Lestrange cried when she heard about that.”

Harry blinked. “Crouch Sr was one of the first victims of Voldemort, after his return.”

Moody nodded. “Indeed. There might be a connection there.” He grinned. “We’ll have to do some digging there. Literal digging.”

Harry blinked. “We’re going to exhume Crouch Jr?”

“Aye. I already informed Rufus and Bones. We’re good to go.”

*****

**North Sea, Azkaban, October 7th, 1998**

Azkaban’s cemetery looked as bleak as the rest of the prison, Harry Potter thought as he looked around in the small, enclosed yard. Dozens of plain, grey tombstones, arranged in narrow rows - far too narrow for normal coffins, he noticed. He tapped his glasses and took a closer look at the latest rows, where the dead from the breakout had been buried not a day ago - it wasn’t as if many families wanted the bodies of the inmates to bury them in the family lot or crypt. There were spells on the ground. “Extension Charms?”

“Aye,” Moody answered.

“I would have thought they’d cremate the bodies,” Ron said, “to avoid someone creating Inferi.”

“That practice was stopped in 1742, after the guards tried to cover up the murder of a prisoner,” Moody replied as he walked through the rows.

Movement up on the wall south of them drew Harry’s attention and he aimed his wand before realising that it was a wizard repairing the damaged stonework. He still kept an eye on the man, of course. And on the Hit-Wizard on the other wall, who was staring at them.

“There aren’t many guards around,” Ron commented.

“There are fewer prisoners to guard,” Moody said.

And there were fewer Hit-Wizards available after their losses, Harry knew.

They stopped in front of an older tombstone. “Bartemius Crouch Junior,” Ron read aloud, “1962-1981.”

Barty had been - or was - two years younger than his parents and Sirius. They would have been together at Hogwarts for five years, Harry realised.

Moody reached into his robes and pulled out two shovels. “Start digging, lads.”

“We could just vanish the earth,” Ron protested.

“And contaminate the site?” Moody snorted. “Don’t worry; it’s a shallow grave.”

A shallow, but extended, grave, Harry discovered soon enough. And the earth was hard and packed tightly - it took them half an hour to reach the shabby coffin and another ten minutes to get it out.

“Do we open it here?” Ron asked.

Harry was about to cast a Bubble-Head Charm when Moody shook his head. “No. I’ll put a seal on it and we’ll let the Unspeakables open it.”

“How long will the examination take?” Ron asked.

“You never know with the Unspeakables,” Moody answered with a chuckle, “But with the Ministry and the entire Wizengamot pushing for results? I doubt that even the Unspeakables will drag their feet. Croaker will want to avoid getting blamed for any delays.”

Moody was right - they got the results before Harry and Ron’s shift was over.

The body in the coffin had been under the effects of Polyjuice Potion at the time of death. Which meant that Barty Crouch Jr hadn’t died in Azkaban.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 7th, 1998**

Hermione Granger carefully studied the book on the stone table in front of her and moved her wand in an intricate pattern as she cast yet another detection spell. Still nothing. She bit her lower lip in frustration. She was certain that the tome was protected against unauthorised readers - several other books which referred to it had mentioned that - but she simply couldn’t find any curses. And she didn’t think that Borgin and Burkes would have removed the book’s protection; that would have lowered its value for their usual customers.

Although… maybe Umberto Eco had had the right idea. She flicked her wand and grinned when the tome’s pages glowed green. Poison. How quaint. It couldn’t be too lethal - all of the contact poisons strong enough to render bezoars useless would wreck the parchment unless the best preservation spells were used. And there were no such spells on the book, just the usual ones. Of course, she wasn’t an expert - there might very well exist an exotic contact poison that wouldn’t damage parchment.

Although… maybe there were two poisons mixed on the pages which, when combined, had a much stronger effect? She sighed. She didn’t know enough about poisons to answer that, either.

She would have to ask Mr Fletcher if he knew anything, but he had left already ‘to look into things while Black and Jeanne are having it out’.

The sound of the door opening made her look over her shoulder. Speak of the devil - or dog...

Sirius was standing there, looking none the worse for wear. “We’ve come to an understanding.”

“Oh?” She turned around and cocked her head. She hadn’t been afraid that they would break up over this, not really, but a having a baby changed relationships and lives.

“Yes.” He sighed. “Jeanne won’t do anything dangerous while she’s carrying our child.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “And what did you concede in return?” She knew her friend; Jeanne wouldn’t have given in without a concession.

He sighed again. “After the child’s born, we’ll either go together on heists or not at all.”

She nodded. “I see.”

He scoffed. “I don’t like it either, but it was the best I could manage!”

She frowned at his presumption that she would share his views - although not going on a heist while pregnant was just common sense. “And will you continue to go on heists?” If the answer was no, then she would have to go over her plans - see if she could finish her list within eight months.

“We want to.” He conjured a seat and sat down.

“The Potters went into hiding after Harry’s birth,” Hermione said.

“After they heard of the prophecy and that Voldemort was after them,” Sirius corrected her. He scoffed. “They didn’t want to. They wanted to keep fighting.”

“Like you and Jeanne.”

He nodded. “But…” He shrugged. “I remember how having Harry changed James. Mostly,” he added with a familiar wince. “I don’t want my kid to grow up in a Britain ruled by the Old Families. But…”

“You don’t want your child to grow up without parents either,” Hermione finished for him.

Sirius nodded. “That’s why I wanted Jeanne to stay safe while I do what we need to.”

Hermione snorted. Jeanne was a typical French witch; only a stupid dog would have even considered that plan. But she could understand him; if she had a husband… She stomped down on that thought. “Did you even consider that when you decided to try having a baby?” she asked, her tone a little harsher than she’d intended.

He coughed. “Well…”

They hadn’t, then. “Have you talked about the consequences of her getting pregnant at all?”

“Not in that much detail.” He frowned. “But we both thought, after her father’s murder, that we should start the next generation of our families.”

She couldn’t help smiling ruefully at that. It was understandable. Have a baby, so if you get killed your family - or your line, for Old Families - lived on. Probably an almost instinctive urge, even. “And you both thought that the other shared your opinion on how things would work out.” She would have expected that from the dog, but Jeanne should have been smarter. But then, she had just gotten married only to lose her father within a day.

He glared at her, then sighed. “I understand that she wants to fight as much as I do. But if we both die, who will take care of our child?” He scoffed. “Malfoy would push for Narcissa getting custody as ‘next of kin’ no matter what arrangements I made. And if I’m dead, he would have the clout to get the Wizengamot to rule in his favour.”

Hermione bit her lower lip. She hadn’t considered that. If Malfoy got his hands on the Black fortune… “We need to step up our timetable then,” she said. They had to finish off Malfoy before Sirius’s child was born. She doubted that she would manage to find trusted partners-in-crime to replace Sirius and Jeanne.

Sirius nodded. “Yes, we do.”

*****

**London, Merton, October 7th, 1998**

It didn’t feel like coming home any more, Hermione Granger realised as she approached her parents’ house. It felt like visiting her parents. Even though she had a room there. Home was Grimmauld Place. Her parents wouldn’t like that. Didn’t like that. But then, shouldn’t they have expected it? She was an adult now, she had a job, and so it was only natural to move out of her parents’ home. Although most people wouldn’t move out gradually, she supposed.

Not that it mattered since she had come to get her parents to move out of their home. For the second time. Third time, if she counted being forced out of their original home due to her debts.

Her parents really wouldn’t like that.

She opened the door and entered. “Mum? Dad?”

“Hermione?”

That was Mum, in the living room. She heard noise from the kitchen, so Dad would be cooking. “Yes, Mum!” she answered as she went to the living room.

“You’re early.” Mum’s smile took any sting out of her words as she hugged Hermione.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. We need to talk.”

Mum released her and stared at her with narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t want to repeat herself, but she also didn’t want to stall. So she took a deep breath and started talking. “There was a breakout at Azkaban. Three of the most dangerous and deranged Death Eaters escaped.”

“Oh no!” Mum gasped.

Hermione saw that Dad had left the kitchen as she nodded. “And they will come after everyone involved in Voldemort’s death. And their families.”

“Does that mean you’re here to send us to Australia again?” Dad asked. Well, no one had ever called her parents dumb.

She forced herself to smile. “Australia or maybe a cruise around the world. As long as you’re not in Britain, where they can find you. Money’s no issue.”

“I thought with Voldemort’s death, things changed.” Mum shook her head and sat down. “That’s what you told us.”

“Things did change,” Hermione insisted. Just not enough. Not yet.

“But we need to flee our home again. And I assume that Mr Black will be paying for our trip. Again.” Dad stood next to Mum’s seat and crossed his arms.

Hermione sighed. As she had feared, her parents were going to be difficult. “The alternative would be to move into Grimmauld Place for the duration of this crisis. Which would mean no telly. No computers. No Internet. And no working either.”

“But we would be with you,” Mum said.

“And you’d be with Mr Black, his wife and the rest of his family,” Hermione countered. “All of them wizards. And you’d need them to handle the magic whenever I’m not around to do it.” That was a small hyperbole. Not that small, actually. Hermione felt bad for manipulating her parents like this, but she really couldn’t have them move in with her. That would make it almost impossible to go on heists.

Her parents exchanged a glance. They hated owing Sirius, and this would be much worse than going on a cruise. To depend on wizards and witches for near everything every day, to feel helpless and useless… They would see reason, Hermione was certain.

But they were so stubborn, it would take a while.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 8th, 1998**

“That mouse wasn’t very good. Can’t you get a dessert mouse next time? A young one?”

Harry Potter closed his eyes and muttered a small curse. He should never have joked about desert mice being ‘dessert mice’ to Mr Biggles. It wasn’t as if the two words sounded the same in Parseltongue. Now the little snake wanted - demanded - more exotic food. Even though Mr Biggles had never, ever - at least not in his care - tasted anything other than feeder mice.

A barking sound drew his attention away from his pet snake to his pet owl. Hedwig couldn’t understand Parseltongue. She couldn’t know what Mr Biggles wanted. And yet, the snowy owl prodded her own feeding bowl - full of her favourite owl pellets - with one claw, then stared at him.

Harry snorted. “You already hunt whatever you want,” he told her. The droppings he had to clean up each day certainly showed that she wasn’t just eating pellets and bacon. Those didn’t have fur or bones.

She barked, then stared at Mr Biggles. The snake quickly hid beneath the log in his habitat.

Harry sighed. “Whatever you want but Mr Biggles. You know that pets are not for eating. That includes my pets.”

Hedwig barked again and prodded her feeding bowl. Harry offered her one of the feeder mice from the ice box in his room - everyone had made it clear that he couldn’t store pet food in the kitchen.

Hedwig turned her head away.

“What? Do you also want some exotic mice?”

Harry couldn’t speak owl, but the sound Hedwig made was a clear affirmative. He sighed. Maybe the Owl Emporium had some special food. He’d have to check next time he visited Diagon Alley. Something, he reminded himself, that might not happen for a while; the hunt for Crouch and the need to improve the security of his family were taking up most of his time.

Although, he added to himself as he got up - it was time for another training session with Hermione - seeing how Hedwig was looking at him, maybe getting her some special treats would be the right thing to do for his own safety. His owl still hadn’t gotten over her jealousy.

*****

Harry Potter dashed forward then turned left, his wand flicking up and down as he sent a continuous stream of Stinging and Paint-Splash Hexes at Hermione. Two hit her Shield Charm; the others missed as she dropped to the ground and started to roll out of his field of fire. Or rather, as Harry’s wand swished, directly into a puddle of water he conjured. A fraction of a second later he hit the salt water with a Sparking Hex and she yelped.

“That hurt!” she complained, sitting up and rubbing her side. “And if my hair is now frizzy…”

Harry snorted, despite her threatening tone. “Your hair is fine. Slightly wet, but fine.” As he had come to expect, she was already casting a hairstyling charm. “Besides, you were already out - I hit your shield twice.” In a real battle, her shield would have been shattered by the first curse, and the second would have taken her down.

She huffed as she dried herself. “You could have called it.”

“Why stop when there’s more to learn?” Harry grinned. “‘You need to be aware of your environment at all times’,” he quoted Moody. “You’ve been getting better at avoiding my hexes,” he added to encourage her.

She scoffed. “Better doesn’t mean good enough, or does it?” She rubbed her thigh. “I’ll have bruises tomorrow from your Hammer Hexes.” She glared at him.

Harry coughed. He might have gone a little overboard with those spells - they were more powerful than Stinging Hexes, although not even close to a Bludgeoning Curse - but he was still holding back compared to what Moody was doing in training. “Sorry.” Her attempts to dodge had improved after she had been hit by a few of those hexes, though, so Harry wasn’t too sorry. Anything that helped her improve was justified if it might save her life should she get attacked.

“No, you aren’t,” she retorted with a frown.

He didn’t deny the accusation, shrugging instead. “Nothing a little ointment won’t fix.”

“A lot of ointment,” she complained. “And I’ll be needing a Cushioning Charm for dinner.” She rubbed her rear for emphasis.

Harry didn’t remember hitting her there. Although he might have. “I can put the ointment on, if you want,” he said without thinking, then coughed. “I mean, only if you need the help and no one else is available.”

“I’ll manage,” she said after a moment. “Dinner’s in half an hour.”

That meant that she was done with the session, Harry knew. Even though they had ample time left for a few more rounds. But she looked tired - she was still breathing heavily, and she was moving quite a bit more slowly, too, as she got up and started to stretch.

So he nodded and started to stretch himself. And didn’t stare too much at her as she stretched. “Alright.”

“How’re things with Sirius?” she asked after a moment, slowly rolling her shoulders.

He knew what she was really asking about. The baby. “Fine,” he replied. He wasn’t lying, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

She glanced at him, but didn’t press him. Good. Ron had been annoying enough when he joked how how he envied Harry for being the big brother. It wasn’t like that. But she was still looking at him. And not in the way he liked her looking at him. He sighed. “We talked. He offered to adopt me.” He ignored her surprised gasp and went on. “I refused. I love him, but I’m a Potter. I’m not giving up my parents’ name.” Or stealing a baby’s inheritance. “He won’t love me less.” Sirius wouldn’t.

“Of course he won’t.” She nodded, but he couldn’t tell what she was really thinking.

“I don’t suppose there’s been any progress in your hunt for Crouch?” Hermione asked a bit later as she arched her back and spread her arms.

He pressed his lips together for a second. He still felt it was wrong to tell anyone confidential information concerning the investigation. But everyone in the house already knew about the exhumation and its results; you couldn’t keep something like that a secret, especially not after the breakout at Azkaban. Not in Wizarding Britain. “Nothing new,” he said, just before she turned her head to look at him. “We’ve been chasing down some of his old classmates from Hogwarts.” He scoffed. “Of course, everyone who had been close to him at school ‘didn’t really remember’ their Death Eater friend, and those who weren’t close had nothing relevant.”

She nodded. “What about the Lestranges?”

“Same results so far, but we haven’t talked to the Malfoys or the Tonkses yet.”

“Why not?”

“Moody wanted to make sure that everything was by the book.” With Bellatrix being so closely related to those two families, and Tonks working as an Auror, not to mention Malfoy’s past as a Death Eater, they couldn’t afford any mistakes or any evidence gathered might become unusable.

Hermione snorted. “Does that really matter? With Sirius and Malfoy’s interests overlapping in this case, the Wizengamot’s verdict is a foregone conclusion. If they even need a trial, seeing as all of them were already sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.”

That wasn’t an excuse to break regulations, much less the law, Harry knew. He didn’t say that, though. “Malfoy’s pushing for the death penalty. He’s even asking for a kill on sight order, or so I’ve heard.”

Hermione shrugged. “Of course he would - all of them want him dead. And if they managed to break out once, they might do so again.” She didn’t sound as if she cared too much about the Death Eaters’ fate. Or rights.

Or, Harry thought, it was more likely that after her own experiences, she had lost any faith in the judicial system. And it was up to him and Ron to restore that faith.

He could only hope that they would succeed.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 10th, 1998**

After she had returned home - to Grimmauld Place - from Heathrow, Hermione Granger went straight to the kitchen. When she saw Jeanne sitting at the table there, she almost turned around. She wanted tea and scones, not company.

“Hermione. You’re back.”

Hermione swallowed a sarcastic comment along the lines of ‘Really? I thought I was still at the airport. Are you sure?’ and nodded. “Hello, Jeanne.”

“How did it go?” Jeanne asked as she flicked her wand and pushed the chair across from her back - an invitation Hermione couldn’t refuse.

So she sat and shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time. They weren’t happy, but put on a brave face.”

“Ah.” Jeanne nodded as she floated the teapot and a cup over to her.

“It took longer to convince them that they really had to go, for their own safety, than to organise the trip and the substitutes at their practice,” Hermione said, more to avoid an awkward silence than because she thought Jeanne actually wanted to know the details. “Money smooths a lot of things over.” Such as rescheduling appointments and getting the most skilled replacements available.

“But not everything,” Jeanne said.

Hermione winced. She had been insensitive again, too focused on herself. Her parents were going on a world tour for at least several months - but Jeanne’s father was dead. “Yes,” she managed to say as she filled her cup and summoned a pair of scones from the basket on the counter. “Is your mother safe?”

Jeanne nodded. “Yes. She’s staying with an old friend.”

It had to be a rich, old friend if Jeanne considered that enough to keep her mother safe. Maybe a step-father of sorts - Hermione knew that Jeanne’s mother hadn’t married. She absentmindedly petted Crookshanks, who was rubbing himself against her leg.

“I offered her refuge here, at Grimmauld Place,” Jeanne went on, “but she declined.” She snorted. “She still hasn’t forgiven me for choosing to become Father’s heir. Not really.”

“Ah.” What else could Hermione say? She bit into a scone to have an excuse for her almost-silence.

“But she’s safe.” Jeanne refilled her own cup - coffee. Black. But with a lot of sugar.

“That’s the most important thing.” Hermione took a sip from her cup. “What about the rest of your family?”

Jeanne scoffed. “The Selwyns are on their own. Most of them would be overjoyed if the Lestranges killed me.” She shook her head. “They even have the gall to blame me for my father’s death!”

That wasn’t entirely unreasonable, Hermione thought. Unfair and cruel, of course. But it was pretty obvious that Crouch wouldn’t have attacked Selwyn if not for Jeanne’s marriage to Sirius - the Selwyn family had taken care to keep their heads down during the Blood War. Not that Hermione would ever say that. Or defend the Selwyns - they probably only cared for the gold they ‘lost’ to Jeanne anyway. Then she had to break the silence again before it got too awkward. “Did you tell your mother about your pregnancy?”

“I did. She was pleased.” Jeanne smiled, as she usually did whenever her baby was mentioned. “Not pleased enough to visit, though,” she added with a frown.

“She might be unwilling to risk it while the Lestranges and Crouch are at large,” Hermione pointed out.

Jeanne sniffed. “She shouldn’t be.”

Hermione didn’t know whether Jeanne meant that her mother should be braver - she was French, after all - or that there was no real risk. “Let’s hope things have been settled by the time you’re giving birth.”

Jeanne smiled, one hand on her belly. Hermione took another sip from her tea to mask her expression. Jeanne wasn’t that much older than Hermione, but she was married and going to be a mother. Hermione knew that wasn’t an option for her. Neither was. A visibly pregnant thief would be ridiculous. And she had no marriage prospects anyway.

But she couldn’t help wondering. For a moment, at least.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 11th, 1998**

“Yes, I know that it’s Sunday,” Hermione Granger said, sighing in the best manner of a poor, abused flunky of a Wizengamot member. “But Mr Black wants those records right now so that he can prepare his speech for tomorrow.”

“The Ministry archives aren’t open to Wizengamot members or their staff on Sundays unless it’s an emergency.” Mr Clark, the archivist on duty, quoted the regulations at her. “And this doesn’t seem like an emergency,” he went on. “Trade records of the 18th century?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I wasn’t aware that deciding what does and doesn’t qualify as an emergency was one of your competencies,” she said in shaper tone. “But, for your information, Mr Black is very concerned about the current - and growing! - tensions with Gringotts and wishes to estimate the possible consequences for Britain’s trade should those tensions escalate to war. And for that, he needs an overview of the effects of the last few Goblin Rebellions on our economy.”

“That was over two hundred years ago!”

“Our treaty with Gringotts is only a few decades younger,” she retorted. “Now, either let me enter the archives or give me a written refusal that I will take back to Mr Black so he can respond to your judgment that there is no emergency in whatever way he so chooses.” She bared her teeth and lowered her voice. “He’s been in a very foul mood since that incident at Azkaban, and I certainly won’t risk his ire on your behalf.”

She refrained from smiling when she saw Clark had grown pale during her little performance - sometimes, Sirius’s reputation was very useful.

“On second thought, and as an exception, I think there’s no harm in granting you access to the Ministry archives on this occasion.” Clark was smiling weakly. “Although I have to point out that my duties require me to remain at my post, which means I cannot render you any assistance in your search.”

She frowned, even though she had counted on that. “I should be able to manage,” she said through pursed lips as Clark unlocked the doors.

Once inside, she made her way to the trade records, which were very far towards the back of the magically extended archives, and conjured a small desk upon which she deposited her parchment and writing utensils. A quick glance told her that Clark had closed the door again and so wouldn’t be able to observe her. She then drew her wand to check for detection spells. There usually weren’t - this wasn’t her first visit - but they might have stepped up security this weekend.

A few spells later she was sure that as long as she didn’t try to tamper with any of the records - they were positively glowing with protective spells in her enhanced sight - she wouldn’t trigger an alert.

Hermione grinned. She had no intention of tampering with the records. She just needed to read the right file. Like, for example, the court records of the Bulstrode family inheritance dispute two hundred and twenty-seven years ago. Those records, unlike the Floo Connection permits, would contain their manor’s physical location, since that had been the main part of the disputed inheritance.

She pulled out the trade records from 1767 and placed them on her desk, then used her wand to send a paper aeroplane from her notes flying through the archives - towards the court records.

‘I had to catch a paper aeroplane that suddenly flew off for no reason’ wouldn’t make her look particularly competent, but it would provide a decent excuse for being near the court records instead of the trade agreements sections, should Clark actually bother to check up on her.

*****

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, Britain, October 11th, 1998**

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”

Mrs Malfoy greeted Harry Potter with an almost-curtsey as he stepped out of the fireplace in the manor’s entrance hall. Malfoy, standing next to her, nodded - though not quite as courteously as would have been polite, Harry noticed. But then, Moody, who had arrived before Harry, simply grunted a greeting in return, and Ron’s nod was almost imperceptible.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Harry replied. He wasn’t being quite as rude as Moody, but Sirius had told him enough about the views and character of ‘dear cousin Narcissa’ that he didn’t bother with more than the minimum politeness required.

If the witch took offence, then she didn’t show it as she and Malfoy led them to their salon. The manor’s furniture and decor looked more expensive than Grimmauld Place’s, but also a little more… Harry couldn’t put it into words. It was elegant, tasteful, classy, he supposed, but it felt… designed, he guessed was the correct word. Composed, not grown. Mrs Malfoy’s work, he thought.

On the salon’s small table waited tea and several plates with snacks. Moody once again just grunted, refusing the offer. Harry didn’t think that the Malfoys would attempt to poison three Aurors in their own home - certainly not when they wanted as many Aurors as they could get for their protection - but he wasn’t about to provoke a lecture from Moody. Besides, they weren’t here for tea, but for information.

“Let’s skip the chit-chat,” Moody growled. “You know why we’re here.”

They certainly knew, Harry thought - preparing and arranging this ‘interview’ had taken long enough.

“You wish to learn what I know about my sister,” Mrs Malfoy replied with a graceful nod.

That was interesting - Harry would have expected Malfoy to answer.

“And what you and your husband know about the other Lestranges. And Barty Crouch Jr.” Moody said.

Neither Malfoy showed any surprise at the last name, so they had known about that already. Harry wasn’t surprised - no secret lasted long in the DMLE. Too many were more loyal to their family than to the Ministry. Or slipped at times, he added to himself with a slight twinge of guilt.

“I’m afraid that I haven’t had much contact with those people,” Mrs Malfoy told him.

“Your sister married into the Lestrange family. You were at her wedding,” Moody said, his artificial eye spinning.

“Of course I was, but that was a family event. I wasn’t privy to their illegal activities.”

Moody scoffed. “Of course you weren’t.”

Malfoy spoke up. “What are you insinuating?”

“Bellatrix didn’t just decide one day to become a Death Eater. She and the Lestranges, as well as Crouch, were part of a crowd at Hogwarts. Like you.” He nodded at both Malfoys.

“We were all in House Slytherin, if that’s what you mean,” Malfoy retorted, “but that was as far as our social circles overlapped. They kept their more extreme views to themselves, and to others who shared them.”

“You were a Death Eater as well,” Moody spat.

“I was under the Imperius Curse,” Malfoy replied with narrowed eyes. “Unlike the Lestranges. They didn’t share their plans or mingle with their _victims_.”

Ron snorted next to Harry, which earned him a glare from Malfoy.

“Are you really going to keep claiming that?” Moody scoffed. “Even when all of them want to murder you and your family? Do you honestly think that we can catch them if you don’t share what you know?”

“Since the Lestranges and Mr Crouch desire to kill my family and me for fighting the Dark Lord, all you have to do to catch them is to guard our home. Sooner or later, they will attack - none of them were very stable or patient, even before they were sent to Azkaban,” Malfoy said with a familiar sneer.

“Seems Crouch at least learned patience,” Moody replied. “He has kept to the shadows ever since he escaped from Azkaban in 1982.”

“No doubt on the direct orders of the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said. “Or he would have tried to free the Lestranges long ago.”

“Be that as it may be, it means he is patient. You can’t count on him rushing into a trap.” Moody shook his head. “Merlin’s balls, cooperate! Do you want that scum torturing your family? They will - Crouch murdered his own father.”

Malfoy clenched his teeth before he answered in a clipped tone. “You know as much about the Lestranges as I do, Auror Moody. They are fanatically loyal to the Dark Lord, reckless and cruel, as their attack on the Longbottoms aptly demonstrated. I have no insights to share that go beyond that. When I was forced to do the Dark Lord’s bidding twenty years ago, my orders didn’t lead to any contact with the Lestranges, and when I risked my life as a spy for Dumbledore upon the Dark Lord’s return, they were still in prison.”

“Our social contact dwindled in the wake of Andromeda’s marriage,” Mrs Malfoy spoke up. “Bellatrix took the news… exceedingly poorly. Neither my parents nor my aunt and uncle approved of her reaction, and she stopped attending family events soon afterwards. She was completely under the Dark Lord’s spell.”

Moody didn’t bother to hide his scorn. “You think she was also compelled to work for him?”

“I didn’t mean a literal spell,” the witch clarified. “But she was fixated on him. I believe it started during her time at Hogwarts - she was a very talented duellist and would have caught his attention at a young and impressionable age.”

“That doesn’t help us catch her before she tortures you and your family into insanity,” Moody said. “We need locations she might visit. Hideouts. Allies and friends who might support her.”

“As I told you: We did not share the same social circles after her wedding,” Malfoy cut in. “Neither of us would know what contacts she made while serving the Dark Lord.”

“The hunting cottage,” Mrs Malfoy suddenly said. “Uncle Abraxas gifted her a hunting cottage when she won the Parisian Duellist Exhibition the summer after she had left Hogwarts. I remember her bragging about it.”

“A hunting cottage? Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs Malfoy said. “She never showed it to me or anyone else. Said she wanted to keep it a secret for herself and her future husband. And Uncle Abraxas didn’t tell us, either.”

“Better than nothing, I guess,” Moody said. “We’ll look into it.”

*****

“Do you think they withheld any information?” Ron asked as soon as they were back at the Auror Office.

Moody shook his head. “Malfoy is a cunning bastard. He would have found a way to share anything useful without incriminating himself. I just wanted to push his buttons - ‘I was a victim’ my cursed arse!”

“How will we find that ‘hunting cottage’?” Harry Potter asked.

Moody grinned. “By sifting through decades of records.” More serious, he added: “But no one can know about this, or someone might warn the scum.”

Harry frowned. “I need to tell Sirius, at least, if I want access to the family records.” And Hermione to help him search them.

Moody grunted again. “I guess he’s unlikely to warn them,” he said after a moment - as if he had to seriously think about that!

Sometimes, Harry thought, Moody was just a little too paranoid.

*****

**West of Bracknell, Berkshire, Britain, October 11th, 1998**

Bulstrode Manor looked far older than Hermione Granger, who was studying it while she hid in the canopy of a centuries-old oak tree, had expected from reading the court files. According to those, the Head of the Bulstrode family had had it built in 1742.

She snorted. Perhaps the Bulstrodes, as a recently elevated family at the time, had preferred an older looking manor to cover up their origin. Or they had taken over a muggle-owned manor. It didn’t really matter.

What mattered were the building’s wards and other protections. And from what she could tell from her vantage point, those looked quite impressive. Of course, she would have to get far closer for a real analysis of the wards, but she bet that all the statues in the gardens surrounding the building were enchanted, and some of the bushes looked rather suspicious too. And then there were the gargoyles on the roof, overlooking every approach.

She sighed. If the wards matched the building’s claimed age - and she had no reason to expect anything else - then breaking them would be both too dangerous and take far too long for a heist that had to be over before Harry and Ron grew suspicious of her and her friends’ absences.

There were ways around either problem, of course. Old wards often had weaknesses that could be exploited - but that would require extensive analysis practically on top of the wards themselves. Which was, given the presence of guards and possibly Aurors, not practical. Burrowing to the wardline might be possible - but she would have to ensure that there were no underground defences that would detect her tunnel. Infiltration, as a guest or friend of a guest, might be the best, if also the most dangerous, option, although…

She blinked and tapped her mask, zooming in on the side entrance. There was a cat prowling in the garden! A cat who was allowed to roam around - past the wardline. If the wards didn’t keep cats out, or if someone in the manor liked cats so much that they had their cat outfitted with a key to the wards, then that might be the weakness she had been looking for!

Hermione grinned widely.

*****

 


	41. A Feline Heist

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 12th, 1998**

“There you go, Matheus!” Millicent Bulstrode cooed after filling her tomcat’s feeding bowl with small strips of chicken breast. Her familiar, as usual, sniffed the meat first, then looked at her and miaowed.

“You’ll get your treat after you finish the bowl,” she told him.

With a sniff, he started to eat while she watched, seated on a chair in the kitchen. Before he had finished, though, she heard her mother call her name.

“Millicent?”

“I’m in the kitchen, Mother!” she yelled, startling Matheus for a moment, before her cat continued eating.

Her mother entered a few moments later. “Don’t yell, dear,” she said. “Use an Amplifying Charm - we wouldn’t want to act like mudbloods.”

“Sorry, Mother.” She knew better, of course. Due to their ancestry, her family had to take great care to keep up appearances. More than any other Old Family - the whispers at Hogwarts had been bad enough, even though Millicent had been close friends with Pansy and Draco.

Her mother nodded and took a seat and the teacup Bibsy offered her. “I see that you’re still spoiling the animal,” she said, taking a sip.

Millicent frowned at her. Matheus deserved the best, but that wouldn’t convince her mother. “What would our friends think if my familiar had to eat common pet food?” she asked instead.

“Touché,” her mother admitted. “Although my family would consider us mad.”

Millicent pressed her lips together. She knew what was coming when her mother mentioned her French origins and decided to get to the point. “I don’t want to move to France,” she said.

“It would only be until those criminals have been caught,” her mother retorted. “And you’d be able to see the country. Meet your relatives.”

“Meet a prospective husband, you mean,” Millicent replied, frowning at her.

Her mother inclined her head. “The French aren’t as narrow-minded as the British when it comes to attractive witches.”

Millicent clenched her teeth. She wasn’t ugly - her face was pretty enough even without makeup. Her hair was great, with the right styling. She wasn’t fat either, or deformed. It was just that her father’s ancestry had been expressed more strongly in her, resulting in her growing taller than most wizards - and more muscular.

Something, she had found out at Hogwarts, that a great many boys didn’t find attractive. Both Greg and Vincent had asked her out, but neither relationship had worked out. Both boys were too… simple for marriage. But to marry into a French family? That meant leaving Britain for good; she wasn’t her father’s heir, after all. And it would mean marrying below her station.

“None of my friends are leaving Britain,” she said. “I’d look like a coward.”

Her mother sniffed. “They’re hiding in their manors, trembling at every creaking sound.” She didn’t add a derisive ‘British wizards’, but Millicent knew what her mother was thinking. “They have no right to call anyone else a coward.”

Millicent agreed, but that didn’t change the facts. “They’re seen as defending their homes, not fleeing the country.”

“No one has even seen Lucius’s son since the incident. I wouldn’t be surprised if ‘dear Draco’ has left Britain,” her mother said.

Millicent felt herself blush slightly, both from embarrassment as well as anger. She had been thirteen when she’d had a crush on Draco! Not that anything would have come of it - Pansy had staked her claim from the start, and Draco had made his views on witches who were taller and stronger than him very clear. “I don’t think that he’d leave Pansy,” she said. It might even be true.

Her mother scoffed. “The Malfoy’s French blood has run far too thin for such a gesture. All they care about are themselves. They would be overjoyed if the Lestranges were killed attacking the Parkinsons - regardless of whether or not Pansy survived.”

Millicent bit her tongue. Her mother was letting her bitterness at having been played by Mr Malfoy show again. If Millicent mentioned that, though, she would draw her mother’s ire for her own role in the ‘mudblood affair’. Even though her parents had supported the plan and had enjoyed the gold they had gained from it.

Her mother sighed. “Well, we’re not as exposed as the Malfoys - or the Blacks. We can but hope that the Blacks or the Malfoys will be those criminals’ targets.”

Matheus, long used to human squabbles, had finished his bowl and was now prodding her calf, begging for his treat.

“Here you go!” Millicent said, smiling as he quickly devoured the treat. She looked back at her mother, who had finished her tea. “I’m going into the garden,” Millicent announced.

“Stay inside the wards,” her mother cautioned her.

Millicent rolled her eyes. She wasn’t stupid.

“Millicent!”

She didn’t wince at the reprimand. “Yes, Mother. I’ll stay inside the wards.”

“Good.”

Millicent sighed as soon as she stepped into the garden behind the kitchen. She felt like a prisoner in her own home. She wished she had gone on a Grand Tour instead of staying in Britain. But none of her friends had wanted to go. Draco was getting tutored by his father ‘so that I can one day inherit his seat’, which meant Pansy wouldn’t even think of leaving Britain, while Daphne and Tracey had started ‘apprenticeships’ in their respective family businesses. And travelling the world by herself wouldn’t have been very enjoyable. Matheus was the best cat in the world, but he was hardly the wittiest travelling companion. And if she went on a tour now, everyone would think she were fleeing Britain.

She shook her head as she followed Matheus through the herbal beds. “Don’t go too far!” she called out, even though she knew he wouldn’t listen. Cats didn’t. He’d roam as far as he wanted, no matter what she said. Although a Summoning Charm would have him back inside the wards quickly enough.

Suddenly, Matheus stopped, a few yards short of the wardline, and growled. Millicent frowned and drew her wand. She couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe her familiar had smelled a disillusioned intruder? But they had guards and spells watching out for that!

Then she saw what had gotten Matheus’ fur up and chuckled. There was a cat, half-hidden in a flower bed, right at the wardline. A stray, she assumed - they didn’t have any neighbours, and the cat’s deep black fur was rather bushy - even a muggle would have taken better care of their pet.

Millicent crouched down and cooed. “Hey there, little one. Are you lost?” The cat took a few steps back, staring at her, but didn’t run away.

Matheus kept growling and she glanced at him. “Be nice, dear. The poor thing probably hasn’t eaten anything but mangy mice for days.”

On a whim, she turned around and raised her wand. “Accio cat treats!” Having to summon her cat every second day had made her quite proficient at casting the charm, and it only took a few seconds for the bag with treats to land in her outstretched hand.

She turned back to the stray, which had retreated a few more steps. “Here!” she said, throwing a treat to it.

The black cat cautiously approached the treat, sniffing at it for several seconds, then looked at her.

“Go on, eat! It’s good!” Millicent encouraged it. Matheus crept forward, still growling, and Millicent handed another treat to her familiar. “See?” she said, as Matheus devoured it. “He likes it, too.”

That - or the threat of losing the treat to Matheus - seemed to convince the stray. It bent down and gingerly picked the treat up in its mouth before eating it in a few crunchy bites.

“There you go,” Millicent said, beaming. Her day was looking up.

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 12th, 1998**

Hermione Granger resisted the urge to gag as she bit down on the crunchy treat. Eating food from the ground! Food her enemy had thrown - thrown - at her feet! Although it wasn’t bad. Quite tasty, actually, if a little dry.

She shook her head. She wasn’t here to eat but to scout. And Bulstrode was her target. The tall witch was still cooing and smiling at her - behind the wardline. Which, Hermione had noticed, included a Cat-Repelling Charm. How barbaric! And the witch probably thought she loved cats, despite keeping them out through such insidious means.

Bulstrode’s tomcat was still growling at her, too. Jealous little git. She sniffed in his direction, daring him to leave the protection of the wards. He didn’t, of course. The pampered house cat - he was even wearing a collar! Like a dog! - knew better than to growl at her where she could teach him a lesson. Not that she was here to make the tomcat learn his place.

“...look at that bushy tail, you poor thing! Your owner must have neglected you.”

What? Hermione resisted the urge to hiss at the presumptuous, ignorant witch. Her tail was just fine! Perfect, in fact - no one would mistake it for the thin, ugly appendage of a mouse. And her fur wasn’t matted! Dyed, of course, so she wouldn’t be recognised, but it wasn’t matted or dirty! She settled for glaring at Bulstrode. And miaowing.

“Oh, you want more treats? Here! You probably haven’t eaten anything in days!”

Hermione froze for a second at the implied insult. She wasn’t some spoiled pet who couldn’t catch a mouse to save herself. Not that she wanted to eat a mouse, of course. But if she had wanted to, she could have easily caught all the mice she could eat. Still, she was here for a reason. She sniffed at the treats in front of her.

“They’re fine! Matheus loves them! It’s the same as the one you just ate!”

Hmph. As if she’d be so trusting as to assume that just because the first treat was fine, the others would be as well. But they smelled the same, and she hadn’t seen the witch cast a spell or otherwise manipulate the treats. And she had to play her role as a temporarily displaced cat.

So she ate the three treats. And the next two. It was like eating crisps. Kind of. Although she could have done without the crumbs of earth on some of them. She told herself that wine connoisseurs liked an ‘earthy note’.

“Feeling better?”

Hermione looked at Bulstrode. The witch had closed the can with the treats. Matheus - what a stupid name for a stupid tomcat - was still growling. Despite having been fed several treats himself, which wouldn’t do his paunch any good. A few more treats and he’d comb the lawn with the fur on his belly. But the witch was waiting for an answer, so Hermione miaowed.

“That’s enough, my dear. You can hunt again now, can’t you?”

Of course she could!

“I would brush your fur, too, but I’m not to leave the manor’s protections. There are bad people just waiting to kill me, you know.”

Yes, she actually did know, thank you very much. Although neither the Lestranges nor Crouch were in the area - Hermione had checked. But a harmless cat wouldn’t know that, of course, so she miaowed again.

“I’d take you in, but Matheus would be jealous. And you look fine now.”

She had looked fine before, too, thank you very much! Hermione glared at the stupid tomcat. If not for him, she’d have a way inside the wards. Although… She miaowed again, acting more pitiful this time.

Bulstrode visibly flinched, then stood. “Sorry. Here are a few more treats.”

Hermione forced herself to eat the treats as Bulstrode picked up her spoiled pet and retreated inside the manor. Then she sat down at her spot and kept staring at the manor for a little longer.

And planned.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 12th, 1998**

“How did it go?” Jeanne asked as soon as she saw Hermione Granger in the kitchen.

Hermione Granger looked around. Before she could ask, Jeanne answered: “Sirius is still at the Ministry. He’s invited Harry and Ron to lunch.”

“And I spent the day looking through the library.” Hermione nodded. It was a decent cover.

“And Sirius didn’t invite you so you could keep me company, since it wouldn’t be safe for me to go out ‘in my condition’,” Jeanne added with a sneer that didn’t look like it was entirely faked.

It certainly would explain why Sirius wasn’t eating lunch at home, should Harry ask, Hermione thought. It was a tad early for mood swings, but a decent excuse anyway.

“So, tell: How did it go?”

“Well, I think I have a way inside,” Hermione said. “But it will require me to remain a cat for a while.”

Long enough to lure Bulstrode’s pampered pet outside and check whether his collar would let her pass through the wards, or for her to pose as some sorry excuse for a cat until Bulstrode took pity on her and took her in.

Hermione didn’t know which possibility would be more insulting for a proud cat like herself.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 13th, 1998**

Harry Potter had realised quickly that the archives of the Black Family, if the half a dozen chests they had taken down from the attic to the library deserved that name - Hermione very vocally insisted that they didn’t - were even less organised than the Ministry archives. So had Hermione. But unlike Harry and Ron, the witch hadn’t stopped complaining about it. He briefly stopped sifting through a list of payments to the Black Family in 1823 and glanced at her.

“When I get my hands on whoever was responsible for this mess, they’ll rue the day they decided to store the records so haphazardly instead of doing a proper job!” she muttered under her breath as she swished her wand to remove layers of dust from yet another bundle of parchment. “I’ll find a way to raise them from the dead just to teach them a lesson. This is no way to treat your books!”

She flicked her wand with more force than needed - or so Harry thought - and the string holding the stack together untied itself. Pursing her lips, she started to skim the sheets, one after the other - and to sort them into four different stacks. “Rent payments go into debtors, not creditors. And personal correspondence goes into correspondence, not financial records!” She blinked, then frowned. “No, _this_ letter should go into erotica. Or the bin.”

Harry suppressed a snort. She was adorable when she was all worked up like this.

“Mate, I know you’ve got it bad,” Ron’s whisper interrupted him, “but we’ve got a job to do. Moody’s gonna be mad if we don’t deliver.”

Harry glared at him, but Ron was right. Sighing, he focused on his own stack of parchment again. Which contained lots of long, narrow rows and columns of numbers. Which didn’t make much sense. “Are we even certain that these are the correct records?” he asked. “And not some fake ones made up for tax evasion?”

“They are the correct ones. They cover the time when the Blacks didn’t pay any taxes,” Hermione replied.

Harry didn’t want to abandon his theory so quickly. “Sirius’s ancestors could have cheated each other,” he said. “Because these numbers here do not add up.” He pointed at the offending column.

“Really?” Hermione put her own stack down and tilted her head. “That could have been a simple mistake.” She stood anyway and came over to him.

“They should have spotted it easily, though,” Harry pointed out.

“Because you spotted it easily?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows at him with a teasing grin.

Yes. “No.” He tapped his wand at the sum. “Because the Knuts don’t add up, and there are only two entries that list Knuts.”

“Ah.” Hermione bit her lower lip and studied the sheet herself. “Indeed. I think there’s an entry missing.” She flicked her wand. “No trace of magic, though after more than three hundred years, I don’t think any could be detected.”

“No trace lasts that long,” Harry agreed with her.

“And the amount of gold missing would cover a cottage and some land,” Hermione went on, leaning a little more towards him. He could smell her shampoo even over the dusty smell lingering around them.

“Yes.” Harry had done the math as well. Their thighs were touching, he noticed. He could feel the warmth of her body through their robes.

“Well,” Ron cut in, “we should start looking for signs of an affair, then. That’s the most common reason to hide such records, right?” He held up a dusty letter. “According to this, Orion Black, the Head of the Family at the time, was a ‘lothario’ and his wife was both very skilled in the Dark Arts - even for a Black - and very jealous.”

Harry smiled at him. “That’s great!” That was the break he had been hoping for.

An hour and signs of a dozen different affairs later, they still hadn’t found the damn cottage. Orion Black had spent large sums on his affairs, but not a cottage, or so it seemed. But… Harry blinked. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “If Bellatrix was gifted the cottage, then the Blacks owned it. And all of Orion’s gifts we’ve found so far were gone for good.”

“He might have gifted it to someone and then later taken it back,” Ron pointed out. “You know the Blacks’ reputation.”

“Perhaps,” Harry admitted. “But I think it’s still a more promising lead than sifting through his love letters.” He grabbed another stack of letters. “I’ll check his wife’s records.”

Half an hour later, he found the cottage. “Here it is!” He exclaimed with a wide smile. “She speaks of her hunting lodge - her _new_ hunting lodge - in Herefordshire. Twenty miles from Hereford.” They had done it!

“Which direction from Hereford?” Ron asked.

Harry sighed.

“I’ll get a pair of dividers and a map,” Hermione said. “We can draw a circle with a radius of twenty miles and see where the cottage might be. Provided that she guessed the distance correctly,” she added. “We might have to adjust the search area quite generously.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 13th, 1998**

“Good work, lads!” Moody looked up from the map Harry Potter and Ron had brought him and smiled at them. “We still have to search the area, but that shouldn’t take too long.”

“They might not be hiding there, though. Crouch could have prepared a different hideout for them,” Harry pointed out.

“Indeed, he probably had,” Moody said with a nasty grin. “But he’s a smart one - he’ll probably want to avoid staying too long at his current hideout.”

“And so they might go to the cottage,” Ron said.

“Aye.” Moody nodded. “It’s the best lead we have so far. The surviving prisoners were useless. Not that I expected much from them.” He shook his head. “But you might be interested to know that your old friend Markdotter survived. The scumbag knew better than to fight us, not with the light sentence he had gotten, and surrendered at the first opportunity.” He scoffed. “So did Skeeter, which is a surprise. After all the articles she wrote,  I would have expected someone with a grudge to use the opportunity to do her in. But apparently, she managed to hide for the entire breakout and battle.” He scoffed. “She even wrote an entire article - a ‘first-hand account of the Azkaban massacre’, she called it. Complained a lot when I confiscated it,” he added with another grin.

“Anything useful in the article?” Harry asked.

Moody shook his head. “The usual sensational drivel. If she had seen everything she claims to have seen, someone would have noticed her - disillusioned or not.”

Harry nodded. And whoever noticed her would have cursed her. Just to be safe. “Are you going to let her publish the article?”

“Once I can think of what favour we might need in exchange,” Moody answered. “She has dirt on practically everyone.”

Harry nodded, if a little reluctantly. Such deals weren’t exactly legal, even if they were common in the DMLE.

He hoped they wouldn’t need Skeeter’s secrets.

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 14th, 1998**

The Bulstrodes had a very nice garden behind their manor and a veritable park out front, but they didn’t seem to be fond of actually leaving their house to take a stroll through either, Hermione Granger thought as she watched the building through the discerning eyes of a proud cat.

She’d been here for a few hours already, and the only one to leave the manor in that time had been a house-elf weeding the herbal beds. Not even the pampered tomcat had braved the outside air.

Were they that afraid of the Lestranges? Or had they secretly left the manor, turning it into a trap for their enemies? Was she wasting her time here, prowling through the rows of hedges and flower beds?

She hissed at the thought. It was getting difficult to find the time to do this. Today, Harry and Ron were searching for the Blacks’ hunting cottage, so she could safely spend the day observing Bulstrode Manor, but, sooner or later, her two friends would find the cottage, and once again she would have to deal with the risk of spontaneous invitations to lunch. She didn’t even want to think about the danger her friends were braving, hunting the Lestranges. That would distract her too much.

She couldn’t neglect her work for Sirius too much, either - tongues would start to wag if she wasn’t seen working regularly. That meant she had to find excuses for being out of the house after work.

Perhaps she should invent a muggle boyfriend. That would offer a good excuse to be out of Grimmauld Place in the evenings, even overnight. And muggle Britain was safe from the Lestranges too, so no one would have to worry about her safety.

Hermione let out a low hiss. No, she couldn’t do that. She knew that she couldn’t have a relationship with Harry, not until her revenge was done, but she wouldn’t lie to him like that. She’d just have to visit her tutor more often, to study wizarding laws or such. Or brush up on Potions - no, Harry would offer to help her. And she wouldn’t stand for that. A cat had her pride!

A grasshopper who apparently hadn’t noticed that summer had given way to autumn some time ago landed beneath a flower a little away from her. She blinked.

For a moment, she hesitated. She was here to observe the manor and find a way past the wards, not to hunt bugs.

The grasshopper jumped and landed a little closer to her.

Her claws slid out of their sheaths and dug into the soft earth. It was taunting her! But she was on a mission. On a mission to infiltrate the manor disguised as a black cat. She bared her fangs. And that meant acting like a normal cat. And cats hunted impudent bugs that provoked them!

The grasshopper jumped again.

She pounced.

*****

The bug had led her on a merry chase across two flower beds, but the outcome had never been in doubt. She had caught it a few yards before the wardline, too - if anyone were looking, especially that pampered tomcat, they’d have seen how a proper cat hunted.

But now the bug was dead, crushed beneath her paws. She prodded it, evoking no reaction. Yes, dead. And she certainly wasn’t going to eat it. A flick of her paw batted it into the herbal bed across the wardline. It could still serve as fertiliser.

Or, Hermione thought when she spotted the tomcat approach the carcass, it could serve as bait.

She eyed Matheus - what a stupid name for a cat - through narrowed eyes as he sniffed at the dead bug. It was her prey. She might not have wanted to eat it and thrown it away, but that didn’t mean that any other cat could simply take it!

Matheus sniffed a bit more at her kill, then finally seemed to realise that he was a cat - if a spoiled one - and not a scavenger, and so should act like it. He approached her, stopping a foot before the wardline, and hissed at her.

She hissed back, daring him to leave the protections of the manor and face her paw to paw. She’d teach him a lesson before taking that collar off him and checking whether it was enchanted.

His fur bristled in a pathetic attempt to appear more threatening. As if she’d be impressed by such a sad sight - Crookshank was easily twice the size of this stupid house cat and he knew his place - below her!

She sniffed and sat down, licking her paw to show that she didn’t consider him a threat at all and that this was her spot now. Her territory.

Predictably, the stupid tomcat growled and hissed, his tail swishing back and forth as if he were trying to sweep the stone path on which he was standing, sheathing and unsheathing his claws. She kept her eyes on his hind legs, though. If those tensed…

He pounced, through the wardline, directly at her. His claws met only earth, though, as she had rolled out of the way just in time. And before he could recover from his ill-fated charge, she was on top of him, biting his neck and pinning him, swatting away his feeble attempts to scratch her and ignoring his pitiful cries until he finally submitted.

Sniffing, she released his neck, then herded him away from the manor, towards the forest nearby. She needed the cover to change back and check his collar for spells.

He tried to run twice - once on the way to the forest, and once when she changed in front of him. He didn’t succeed, of course. But when she finally was able to check his collar, she quickly found that it wasn’t enchanted - it wasn’t a key through the manor’s wards.

Hermione pressed her lips together as she obliviated Matheus of the last hour or so. It looked like she would have to get Bulstrode to take her into the manor.

That would complicate things.

*****

**South of Hereford, Herefordshire, Britain, October 14th, 1998**

Hidden under his Cloak of Invisibility, Harry Potter hovered about a thousand feet above the ground and checked his map. The hill below didn’t look at all like the one on his map. But the village north of him matched the location depicted on the search grid. He wished he had a magical map of the area, not just this outdated muggle version. He’d know exactly where he was in that case. But if there was a magical map for the area, the DMLE didn’t have it. They only had had magical maps that showed your location for Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley (Including Knockturn Alley) and - ironically - Godric’s Hollow. Two places pretty much every wizard and witch in Wizarding Britain knew very well after seven years at Hogwarts and shopping in the Alley, and the one village in Britain with the largest magical population outside Hogsmeade.

The archivist had claimed that the Aurors were most likely to have emergencies in those areas, and therefore it made sense to have such maps in stock.

Harry wished the archivist were here, helping with the search for the Black’s hunting cottage. That would teach her what was actually needed and what was not. It would even be safer for the witch than setting Hermione on her, he thought with a chuckle, even if she happened upon the Death Eaters in hiding.

His levity was short-lived, though. Sighing, he shook his head and focused on the task at hand again. He tapped his glasses to activate the enchantments on it and guided his broom downwards, until the ground was in range of the detection spells, then flew the usual Seeker search pattern, just looking for any magically hidden buildings instead of for the Snitch.

“Weasley speaking. I cleared Area S-Five. Proceeding to Area S-Six,” sounded from his Auror’s badge. Ron had finished another area on their grid. He was still one behind Harry, though - Harry had more experience with this kind of search.

Five minutes later he was about to pull up and mark another area off the grid when his spells indicated a disillusioned area to his left. He started to weave and speed up, turning as he gained altitude, just in case someone had spotted him and was about to send curses his way. When nothing happened, he tapped his badge.  “Potter speaking. Found a disillusioned spot in the south-western corner of Area S-Seventeen.”

“Moody speaking. How large is the spot?”

“I pulled away to avoid detection, but it could be a small hunting cottage.” A very small hunting cottage - but Extension Charms had been invented before the Blacks’ hunting cottage had been built.

“Moody speaking. Keep an eye on the area. I’m headed your way. Weasley, continue your search but be ready to reinforce us.”

“Weasley speaking. Understood.”

“Potter speaking. Understood.”

Harry sighed and flew a little higher. If only his glasses were as good as Moody’s eye. But that had apparently been a personal favour from Dumbledore, something no other enchanter had managed to duplicate - and Dumbledore was dead.

He had left Harry the Elder Wand, though - currently stuck in the hidden holster on his arm - and Harry suspected that with it, he might be able to improve his glasses. Provided he learned the right spells.

Which, unfortunately, would take time he didn’t have while hunting Crouch and the Lestranges.

“Moody speaking. I see you. And the spot.”

A second later, Harry’s Human-presence-revealing Spell created a marker in the air nearby. Moody had arrived.

A moment later, he was chuckling. “Moody speaking. It’s not a cottage but a tent. And unless our Death Eaters have split up and used Polyjuice Potion to look like Alwyn Selwyn and Bridget Brown having an affair, this is none of our concern. Continue your search, Potter.”

Harry was of a mind to send a few spells at the tent below him for making him waste his time. Why would anyone come out to this forgotten area only to have an affair in a tent? But he had his orders. “Potter speaking. Understood. Area S-Seventeen cleared, proceeding to Area S-Eighteen.”

Two hours and half a dozen areas later, Harry was once again hovering in the air, waiting for Moody to arrive. This time, it was an old but well-preserved cottage, surrounded by older trees. He couldn’t spot any sign of muggle technology - no antennas, no phone or power lines, and, most importantly, no road that led to the cottage. Unlike muggles, wizards didn’t need roads.

“Moody speaking. Good find, Potter. That looks like our target. Muggle-repelling Charms and a couple of darker spells. Probably preservation charms as well. Doesn’t seem to be occupied, though.” Harry knew that didn’t mean anything. Moody’s eye was good, but not infallible - there were spells that blocked even its sight. “Weasley, get over here. We’re going to check this out.”

Ten minutes later, Ron had arrived, and they approached the cottage from the ground, using the trees as cover up to the wardline. Harry still couldn’t see any hint that the cottage might be occupied - no smoke rose from the chimney, the grass surrounding it was undisturbed and all the shutters were closed - but that didn’t mean anything for a magical house.

Moody grunted. “Cover the area with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes. I’ll check the wards.”

Harry swallowed, but quickly did as ordered. “Done,” he reported a minute later, his wand aimed at the cottage’s front while Ron covered the back.

“Alright. Looks like we’ll have to call in a Curse-Breaker to sneak us through the wards.”

Harry licked his lips, then said: “I could try scouting with a conjured animal.”

Moody didn’t answer right away. Then Harry heard him snort. “Been holding out on me, Potter?” Of course Moody was aware that even familiars weren’t smart enough to serve as reliable scouts. That left only one option.

“There was no need for you to know,” Harry retorted.

That caused Moody to chuckle. “Smart boy. Do your thing.”

Harry nodded and flicked his wand, conjuring a tiny snake. Small enough to slip through the crack under the old door. “Go and see if there are humans inside, then come back and tell me!” he ordered it in Parseltongue.

The snake slithered off without a response. Harry tracked it as it crossed the wardline without trouble, then reached the door and disappeared inside.

Five minutes later, it left the cottage again and returned to him. “No humans inside, Master. Only mice.”

“What did the snake say?” Moody asked.

“There’s no one inside,” Harry answered as he dispelled the snake.

Moody grunted again. “Looks like we’ll get a Curse-Breaker then, and set a trap for the scum. Good work, Potter.”

*****

**South-West of Hereford, Herefordshire, Britain, October 14th, 1998**

It didn’t take Moody longer than twenty minutes to return to the cottage with a Curse-Breaker. “Abigail Smith,” the witch introduced herself.

“Harry Potter,” he introduced himself, noticing that her smile was more than slightly crooked.

“Ron Weasley.”

Smith must have noticed Harry’s glance since she added: “Part of my face’s numb. Caught a stray curse ten years ago. It’s why Moody likes to drag me into these secret operations.”

“I picked you because you can keep your mouth shut!” Moody growled. “And certainly not to chit-chat with lads half your age.”

She had to know him very well - she snorted in response. “Yeah, yeah. Now show me this cottage.”

“It’s right there. Don’t disturb the grass.” Moody pointed at the cottage.

The witch walked right up to the wardline, then crouched down, steadying herself with a hand on the tree trunk next to her. She flicked her wand and started to mumble. “Hm. Fairly simple spells. But old ones.”

“Told you that already,” Moody growled.

“I check everything myself. Constant Vigilance, right?” She snorted again.

Moody grunted.

“So, how long will it take you?” Harry asked.

“Afraid you’ll be late for a date, Potter?” Moody asked.

“He should be,” Ron cut in. “Hermione’s got a temper, and she hates when we don’t call ahead if we’re going to be late.”

Harry glared at his friend.

“It’ll take me a couple of hours, at least,” Smith said. “I’ll know more once I’ve finished analysing the ward scheme. Breaching wards without taking them down is a delicate matter. Can’t rush or brute-force it. You have to attune yourself to the wards. Which is,” she added, “quite dangerous, too, even for these rather simple wards, so you better take a few steps back and don’t disturb me.”

Moody scoffed. “You’re too skilled to mess up on something like this.”

“It’s the curse you think you know that kills you,” she retorted. In a more serious voice, she said: “Move back!”

They moved back. And waited. And called Grimmauld Place.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 14th, 1998**

“What made you late?” Hermione asked as soon as Kreacher had served dinner.

“Ah...” Harry Potter began, putting down his fork. How best to word that without betraying secrets?

“We found the cottage we’ve been looking for and had to wait for a Curse-Breaker to get us through the wards,” Ron explained.

Harry glanced at Ron, but his friend was busy getting more bread from the basket.

“You didn’t take the wards down, then? Trying to trap the Death Eaters?” Hermione frowned as she cut her entrecôte. “Wouldn’t that require a constant guard on the cottage?”

For someone as challenged in Defence as his best friend, she knew a lot about Auror tactics, Harry thought. But then, she had helped him study for the entrance exam. “We just set up a long-distance alarm charm,” he explained.

“A ‘long-distance alarm charm’? How does that work?” she asked, leaning forward.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Moody set it up.”

“He stuck a coin to the underside of the table,” Ron explained. Harry’s friend was really a little too free with such information, Harry thought.

Hermione pondered this as she chewed. “Probably a Protean Charm, or something similar, linked to a detection charm. Sounds a little simple.”

“Moody picked it,” Harry retorted, “so I doubt it’s that simple.”

Hermione sniffed but didn’t try to prove him wrong, for a change. She ate another bite, then said: “Oh, I’ll be in France for a few days.”

Harry blinked. “In France? What for?”

Jeanne answered that. “She’s handling a few family issues for me. I’d do it myself, but I don’t want any rumours about me leaving Sirius or hiding in France to start.”

“Skeeter’s still in Azkaban,” Ron said.

“That only affects the Daily Prophet.” Sirius scoffed. “The Wizengamot rumour mill is as bad as the Hogwarts one.”

“Worse,” Hermione said. “I expect that, a day or two after tomorrow, a rumour about Jeanne firing me for having an affair with Sirius will circulate among the Wizengamot aides.”

“You really should legalise duels,” Jeanne remarked.

That was right, Harry realised - duels were legal in France. And Hermione’s skill in duelling was worse than her skill in Defence. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Promise me that you’ll be very polite during your trip!”

“What?” She stared at him.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “If anyone over there feels insulted, and challenges you to a duel…” He shook his head and checked the clock on the wall. “We should go over the basics of duelling. We still have some time.”

“Before midnight,” Ron added.

“She’ll be fine,” Jeanne said, frowning at Harry. “I’ve told you before - you can’t simply challenge people to a duel; it’s just not done.”

“And I’m not the kind of witch to insult people, anyway,” Hermione told him.

Harry managed to cough instead of blurting out his first response to that statement. She still glared at him. He grinned at her. “Well, if you’re leaving for a few days, then we’ll have to do some Defence training after dinner. Can’t let it lapse, can we?”

She always did better in their lessons when she was angry.

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 15th, 1998**

Hermione Granger was a beautiful cat. Well-groomed and always graceful. Proud and skilled. But she was also a cat on a mission. And for that, she had to appear weak and in need of help. Miserable enough for Millicent Bulstrode to take her into her home.

And so she - very reluctantly and with great distaste - rolled over the earth in the woods surrounding Bulstrode Manor until her beautiful fur had collected specks of dirt, and even stray twigs and parts of fallen leaves, as if she were a stray fallen on hard times. Resisting the urge to groom herself was hard, but she managed - she was a cat on a mission. And the sheer wrongness of her appearance - fortunately, her fur was, again, dyed black thanks to a potion so she wouldn’t be recognised - made it easier to play her role. She certainly felt miserable when she approached the manor’s wardline, going to the same spot near the gardens where she had met Bulstrode before, and waited for her mark to appear.

And waited. And waited. Bulstrode was late today, Hermione thought. The witch should have let out her pampered tomcat hours ago! She was starting to get hungry, too. And the sky was getting cloudy.

But the worst thing was that there was nothing to distract her. She had studied the manor’s exterior extensively already. Even the sharp eyes of a cat couldn’t spot anything she hadn’t noticed before: the door to the kitchen, the ivy covering parts of the southern wall - a ready-made route to the roof, from which she could easily reach any windowsill or balcony on the upper floor - and the porch overlooking the garden, with the glass doors - reinforced by spells, of course - leading into a large hall behind it.

There wasn’t even a grasshopper or mouse to distract her, she lamented as she hung her head - and jerked, eyes wide. No!

Yes. Another raindrop hit her head. And another her shoulder. Large, heavy, _cold_ ones. She shook her fur, but more and more icy, watery bombs rained down upon her. Her first instinct was to retreat to the forest, change back and conjure a roof over her head. Or take out her tent. She could always come back once the rain was gone.

But she was on a mission. Bulstrode might let Matheus out once the rain stopped - her sorry excuse for a cat certainly could use the exercise - and even a dull witch like Bulstrode might wonder why Hermione wasn’t wet and miserable shortly after such a rainstorm.

On the other hand, no sane cat would remain in the open in this weather - the ground was becoming wet already! That would mean mud on her paws and fur!

She dashed towards the forest. The trees had lost their leaves, but there was enough undergrowth with foliage left to still offer some shelter against the rain.

Some shelter, she thought half an hour later. Some insufficient, useless _parody_ of shelter. The leaves of the bush under which she was hiding collected the raindrops into little streams of cold water that fell down on her like a miniature waterfall. And each time she moved a little to avoid the icy shower, her paws dug deeper into the mud. She was in hell. In a cold, wet hell for cats.

But she knew one thing: If the dog joked about what she had had to suffer through for this heist, she would claw his nose off!

*****

Hermione Granger almost missed that the rain had ended. She was thoroughly soaked, cold and it seemed that no matter how she moved, some water was always hitting her face. But she finally noticed the amount of cold water dropping on her had lessened. And when she raised her head to look at the garden in front of her, she noticed that the puddles weren’t being hit by raindrops at all - the rain had stopped!

She shot out from under the bush - whose foliage was still directing its collected water towards her - and into the garden, where she shook herself, then started to get the water out of her fur.

She had barely begun when she heard the door to the manor’s kitchen open, followed by Bulstrode’s loud voice: “What’s the matter, Matheus? It’s stopped raining; don’t you want to go out into the garden?”

Hermione dashed forward to the wardline. If that stupid tomcat decided to stay inside, making her wait even longer in this muddy feline hell, she would claw his eyes out next time she caught him!

But no, for once, luck was with her - the huge, ungainly form of Bulstrode, herding that pampered house cat towards the garden, soon appeared in Hermione’s view. And she in Bulstrode’s.

Hermione put on the best miserable, pitiful expression she could - which didn’t require much of an effort - and miaowed.

“Merlin’s beard! Were you caught in the rain, you poor thing?” Bulstrode exclaimed.

Hermione miaowed again.

“You’ll freeze to death out here! Come on, I’ll take you in!”

Hermione almost purred when she heard the witch. Part one of her mission was accomplished.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 15th, 1998**

Harry Potter frowned as he looked at the clock on the wall in the break room. It reminded him that he could have gone home early today, thanks to the overtime he did yesterday, but there wasn’t much point in doing so. Hermione was already in Magical France on that errand for Jeanne. At least she would be safe there. He glanced at Ron, but his friend was busy talking to Luna on their mirror. The privacy charm Ron had cast before activating the mirror prevented Harry from overhearing their conversation, but given that Ron had used such a charm, Harry was probably better off not knowing what they were talking about.

Even if it served to remind him that he was still single because Hermione apparently was shyer than he had thought. For all her often blunt honesty when it concerned academics, politics or his life, she refused to say anything about the attraction between them. Maybe he should reconsider his decision…

The door opened, and he had drawn his wand before he recognised the witch entering. He smoothly - more or less - moved his wand before she could realise that it was pointed at her and summoned the teapot. “Hey, Bathilda. Come, sit down!”

“Thanks!” She flashed him a smile and took a seat opposite him, glancing at Ron, who was reholstering his wand, attention already focused on the mirror again.

“He’s talking to his girlfriend at Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “Privately.”

“Ah.” She summoned her own cup from the rack and filled it. “Must be nice to have a mirror like that.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s nicer to have a girlfriend. I mean,” he caught himself, “it wouldn’t be much good without someone you really want to talk to every day, but can’t visit.”

“In other words, a Hogwarts student.” She grinned.

“Or someone in a foreign country,” Harry added.

“It works over such a distance?” She looked more impressed than envious now, he noted.

“I don’t actually know,” Harry admitted. “I’d have to ask Sirius.”

“Ah.” She leaned back, sipping from her cup. “So, how’s working with Mad-Eye? Heard you pulled an all-nighter yesterday.”

“No. Just a couple hours overtime,” Harry corrected her. “Chased a lead, which turned out to be a bust.” Bathilda didn’t need to know about the cottage.

“Tough.” She nodded in apparent sympathy.

“What about you?” Harry asked when she didn’t say anything else.

She shrugged. “The usual. Dawlish’s keeping me busy with all kinds of paperwork - says it’s best to learn that when you don’t need to actually file it. Fewer mistakes and less stress.”

Harry chuckled. “In other words, boring busywork.”

She laughed. “Exactly. But I now know how to correctly request a sailing yacht from Supplies.”

“A sailing yacht?” They had a sailing yacht in storage? He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Yes. Apparently, a hundred years ago, the then Department Head decided that a sailing yacht was exactly what the DMLE needed.”

More like what the Department Head decided they wanted, Harry thought as he shook his head.

“I’m sure I can find something even weirder if I look through all our forms.” Bathilda grinned.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. And that’s not counting the vaults in the Department of Mysteries.” He saw her frown at that and tilted his head slightly. “Something wrong?”

“No.” She snorted, then brushed back a lock of her hair and blew on her tea. “It just reminded me of Gringotts.”

“The vaults?”

“Yes. With all the tension, my family worries about our gold in their vaults. What if they declare war and take it? We’d stomp the little buggers flat, but that wouldn’t get us back our gold if they’d already spent it.”

“Ah.” He nodded and refilled his own cup.

“And we don’t have a vault at home so we can’t take out too much gold; it wouldn’t be safe. Not with that master thief on the loose.” Bathilda pressed her lips together.

She shared Dawlish’s opinion about the burglary in Knockturn Alley, Harry noted. “Tough.” He felt slightly guilty - the Blacks had secure vaults at home. Although he hadn’t thought of transferring the Potter gold there. Maybe he should.

“Yeah. I’ve heard that some of the Old Families offer the use of their manors’ vaults to their lesser relatives. But we aren’t related to an Old Family, so that’s not an option.” She scoffed. “Probably wouldn’t be worth it, anyway.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “If they’re charging money for the use of their vaults, then that would violate the treaty with Gringotts.” And breaking the goblins’ monopoly on banking would certainly be a casus belli.

“They don’t charge gold, but we’d owe them a favour. And they would get to decide when we’d paid them back.” Bathilda sighed.

Especially with their gold held in someone else’s vault. Harry shook his head at the mess, and once more felt slightly guilty about the privileges he had thanks to being Sirius’s nephew.

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 15th, 1998**

Harry should take a few lessons from Bulstrode in how to treat a stray, Hermione Granger thought as she finished the bowl of finely cut chicken meat, garnished with some freshly cut herbs from the garden, before sitting down on the soft silken cushion she had been given. The witch certainly knew how to make a cat feel at home.

“There you go!” Bulstrode cooed. “Now you’re looking like a fine cat again!”

Hermione sniffed. Her bedraggled appearance had been planned, not an accident.

“Are you still cold?” Bulstrode drew her wand and Hermione flinched. “Oh, don’t be scared! I’m just checking your health. This is a wand, not some stick. I bet those dirty muggles hit you!”

Bulstrode knew how to treat a cat, but she was still a bigot. Hermione reminded herself that she shouldn’t feel guilty for exploiting the witch’s fondness for cats. She was here for a heist, not to be pampered. That didn’t mean, of course, that she wouldn’t learn that Fur-Cleaning Charm that made baths obsolete at the first opportunity - Crookshanks would adore it; he loathed it when she had to use the Scouring Charm on his fur.

*****

A nice, long nap on that soft, warm cushion later, Hermione Granger was on the prowl. She had a new territory to explore, and a heist to pull off. Or, at least, a heist to prepare. Tail and head held high, she left Bulstrode’s room. Matheus was in the corridor, half-hidden behind a drape there, and greeted her with a hiss. She growled and took a few steps towards him, which was enough to make him run away as if his tail were on fire. Stupid tomcat.

Bulstrode Manor was large - larger than Grimmauld Place by far - but as Hermione strolled through the corridors and peered in the rooms with open doors she passed, she couldn’t make out any signs of Extension Charms being used. Not many doors were open, though. At least not on the first floor, where her mark and the rest of her family had their rooms.

Downstairs, though, things were different. She already knew her way to the kitchen and investigated the dining room on the way there. A house-elf was setting the table, struggling with the heavy china and silverware. She stopped to check where they would be stored - they were so coming with her once she left this house - and made a mental note before continuing on her way.

As she had expected, the ground floor housed more people. Either guests not worthy of the guest rooms on the first floor, or hired help. She bet on the latter, and since the Bulstrodes had at least one house-elf in their employ, that probably meant guards.

Following the chatter her fine ears picked up from far away, she quickly found the servant’s quarters and peered inside through the gap left by the door. Indeed, the half a dozen wizards and witches sitting around a table, playing cards, certainly didn’t look like house servants. They looked as if they were a class above the kind of thug you found in Knockturn Alley. But they also were, across the band, taller than average, and more muscled. And there was a faint but definite resemblance to the owners of the manor.

It looked like the Bulstrodes liked to keep their security in the - albeit distant - family, Hermione deduced. That didn’t change anything, of course. She snuck inside and looked around. Eight beds in alcoves - the first Extension Charms she spotted - and all looked used. No sign of a kitchen, so they’d be fed by the regular staff. No sign of a schedule or map with patrol routes either, though. She hated it when people were so unorganised.

“Hey! What’s that?” She looked up. One of the guards was pointing his wand at her.

“Stow it, you fool!” another, older guard snapped. “Do you want to tell Millicent you cursed her cat?”

“She’d break you in half,” a third added with a chuckle.

“That’s not her cat,” the first insisted.

“It’s her new cat. The girl found a stray shivering in the rain today and adopted her on the spot,” the older guard explained.

The third snorted. “Must be a stupid cat to not get out of the rain. I bet it’s eating better than we do, though.”

She took a few steps forward and made as if to paw at the wand still aimed at her.

“Hey!” The wand was hastily withdrawn while the other guards laughed and Hermione strolled out of the room. There were more parts of the manor to explore.

*****

“Another cat! As if one weren’t enough already!”

Bulstrode’s father was huge. Not as huge as Hagrid, but he was easily the second-largest man Hermione Granger had seen to date. He made Bulstrode appear dainty, and his wife, while on the taller side, looked positively petite next to him.

And he didn’t like cats! She stretched in her spot near the door to show that she didn’t care about his opinion.

“I found her in the rain, all hungry and shivering. She must have run away from muggles - her fur was too well-groomed for her to have grown up in the wild.”

The brute grunted. “Nothing good comes from muggles!”

Hermione glared at him.

“She’s a cat, not a mudblood, father!” Bulstrode said, stating the obvious and displaying her bigotry at the same time. Hermione didn’t feel as bad about robbing them blind now. Not that that would have stopped her anyway - not only had they framed her and tried to ruin her family, but she knew what they and their friends were doing to prevent the direly needed reform of Wizarding Britain.

“And she looks cute,” the mother added, “if a little bushy. You’ll have to brush her daily.”

“Black cats bring bad luck,” the father grumbled.

“That’s a _muggle_ superstition, mon chéri,” the mother chided him. Hermione took note of the form of address.

Which settled the discussion. Hermione hoped to hear more interesting information, but the rest of the talk was about Bulstrode’s brother Eric, who was currently on his Grand Tour - for the second year - and apparently reluctant to return home just because - or perhaps because, Hermione added - a number of Death Eaters might be threatening the family.

She stayed anyway and let Bulstrode pick her up and carry her to her room. To keep up the charade, of course - she wasn’t a pampered, spoiled house cat like Matheus.

*****

Hermione Granger sneaked out of Bulstrode’s room, waited until the guard passing in the corridor had turned the corner leading to the stairs, checked left and right - no sign or whiff of that tomcat - and changed. A moment later, she was standing there, clad in her catsuit, mask on, and stretched, back in her human body for the first time since that morning. As she had observed as a cat, the guard would return in fifteen minutes; ample time to search the first floor for curses and traps, and enter the rooms she hadn’t been able to explore as a cat. Fortunately, there were very few portraits. That would facilitate her mission.

Somewhere on this floor had to be the library.

She activated the detection spells on her mask, disillusioned herself and studied the corridor. No spells on the ground - she expected that - but the windows were secured with strong charms and curses, as far as she could tell from a quick glance. The drapes, though, were free of spells and would make good hiding spots for a cat who wasn’t as inept as Matheus.

Fourteen minutes left. She checked the rooms next to Bulstrode’s. One was larger and filled with Quidditch paraphernalia - all of it Puddlemere United but for last year’s Holyhead Harpies Calendar - and haphazardly arranged books and magazines. That had to be Bulstrode’s brother’s room. The other was a smaller room, furnished and decorated in that impersonal style shared by guest rooms and hotel rooms the world over. No spells on either door, but Bulstrode Jr’s desk was covered with spells. Ineptly cast spells, she quickly realised, probably by the owner himself. It was unlikely to be hiding anything of value, she thought, but if she had time during the heist, she would check it anyway.

Ten minutes left. She sneaked over to the other wing, past the two guards in the centre who were paying more attention to their whispered dispute over Quidditch than to their surroundings. Another guest room, and another and - finally - the manor’s library. To think the Bulstrodes were keeping their books in a room past the guest rooms! Barbarians! Those books would find a better home in her own library! Even though it would take some time to get through the spells guarding them.

Four minutes left. She quickly checked the remaining two rooms - a study and a music room, which surprised her - then changed when she heard footsteps on the stairs nearby. When the guard turned the corner, a clever cat was hidden behind the drapes in the corridors.

It took the guard two minutes to pass through both wings. Rather sloppy, she thought. Not that she was complaining. But enough time for a fleet-footed cat to dash downstairs and hide behind the pillar in the entrance hall, next to that heavily guarded door leading to the basement. She watched the guard descend from the first floor, pass the fireplace - where the Bulstrodes had very recently installed a Thief’s Downfall, which must have cost a fortune - and take up a spot next to the main door. A minute later, the other guard standing there went outside for his own patrol, complaining about the cold as if there were no warming charms to deal with that.

She studied the angles and fields of visions, then nodded. Even as a human, she wouldn’t be visible from the entrance when she stood right behind the pillar. And any marker from the Human-Presence-revealing Spell would also be hidden. Sloppy architecture. But then, not many would be able to reach the pillar unseen. And the guard would only have to stretch his legs a little to spot her.

She changed and activated her detection spells again, then silently hissed. Those were heavy wards - and just on the door leading down to the basement. And she would only be able to study them in increments of ten minutes, between the patrols of the guards at the door. Analysing the spells might take her all night.

Although, she thought as she pointed her wand at the door, Bulstrode would certainly let a sleeping cat sleep.

*****

Four hours and sixteen interruptions later, a very tired cat padded into the kitchen and approached her water bowl. She changed, vanished the water in the bowl, then pulled out a vial from one of her suit’s enchanted pockets. She crouched down and carefully tipped the vial, filling the bowl with the Hair - or, in this case, Fur - Dyeing Potion.

A minute later, the bowl was licked clean, and a black cat was on her way back to Bulstrode’s room for a very well-deserved nap.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 16th, 1998**

Sitting at the kitchen table, Harry Potter was reading the latest issue of the Daily Prophet when he felt four light pricks on his leg. “You’ve been fed,” he said, without looking down.

He felt another four, not so light, pricks. And a slight tugging.

This time he looked down. “Crookshanks, Hermione will be annoyed with me if you gain too much weight in her absence.”

In response, the fat, ugly monster got up on his hind legs, putting both front paws on his thigh, and miaowed. It wasn’t very moving - but all the tomcat’s claws were out, and if Harry pushed him away, he would leave scratches on his thigh and trousers. And Crookshanks wouldn’t stop anyway.

Sighing, Harry gave in. “Alright, let me get up and get you another bowl of food.”

Crookshanks released his leg at once and dashed to his feeding bowl, tail twitching eagerly. It was peculiar, Harry mused as he filled the bowl with more of the gourmet cat food Hermione insisted they bought, that Crookshanks could understand him perfectly when it was about food, but never when it concerned shredded furniture.

The fat cat dug in without acknowledging him, and Harry shook his head. “I wish Hermione were back already, you know?”

The cat didn’t react in any way.

“Not just because she would be taking care of you, of course. I miss her.” Harry bent down. “You also miss her, don’t you?”

Crookshanks didn’t even look up at him.

Snorting, Harry straightened. “Well, at least you’ve never tried to eat Mr Biggles.”

A barking noise drew his attention. Hedwig was staring at him, then turned her head to stare at her bowl.

Harry closed his eyes. “Not you, too. You’ll get too fat to fly if you try to match Crookshanks!”

His jealous owl just barked again.

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 17th, 1998**

Hermione Granger had everything worked out. The guards’ schedule, their patrol routes, their locations and even their names. The house-elf quarters. The portraits she’d have to vanish. And her own route and timing. And that there were no ghosts to worry about. All that was left was waiting until Bulstrode’s mother stopped by to check on the witch on her way to bed, and Hermione could start the heist. If only Bulstrode wasn’t reading a stupid robe-ripper! After thirty minutes of listening to the witch gasp and giggle, Hermione was very tempted to spoil the ending for her. Or simply change and stun her.

Finally, the mother made her appearance, inquired after the stupid tomcat, petted her, told Bulstrode not to stay up too long and retired to her own bedroom.

Hermione waited ten more minutes, just in case, then changed and stunned the witch before Bulstrode even noticed her. Hermione checked her watch, stunned Bulstrode again - the family had a giant among their ancestors, and those were resistant to magic, after all - then changed again and sneaked out to wait behind the drapes at the corner, outside the field of view of any of the paintings, until the first patrol passed her.

She couldn’t just stun the guard from behind, alas - they checked in with each other at each corner. She had to time this just right. And this was the wrong guard anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, she spotted another guard approaching. The one who had complained about the food. Perfect! She crouched down, pressing her belly against the carpet and tucking in her paws, until the man had passed her. And as soon as he had tapped the enchanted necklace he wore and told the others where he was, she rose, changing in a smooth motion, and silently stunned him from behind.

She managed to catch him before he fell to the ground with a levitation spell cast on his clothing and then levitated him to the next guest room. The clock was ticking. She quickly cast another Stunner and a full Body-Bind Curse, followed by conjured ropes for good measure - he was a Bulstrode too, if distantly related - then plucked one of his hairs and dashed out of the room. She managed to retrieve and prime the vial of Polyjuice Potion while running, only stopping to pull out a spare robe and change it into the guard’s robes before swallowing the potion - drinking that particular potion while running would only end up with her on the floor in a tangled heap of limbs; she knew that from experience.

Even so, she was just thirty seconds behind the man’s usual time when she reached the stairs leading down to the entrance hall.

And, as she had expected, the other guard hadn’t even noticed the slight delay - he was too busy casting Warming Charms. Another Stunner took him down when he opened the door. She quickly stunned him again, vanished the sleeping portrait overlooking the entrance hall, then pulled the guard outside and bound him - his charms would keep him from freezing.

Two down. And ten minutes left until the next check-in. She rushed to the guards’ quarters.

She cleared her throat, pulled out a box from her pockets and entered. “Hey!” she called out, her new, deep voice sounding strange to her ears.

“Anton?” The oldest guard glared at her. “What are you doing here?”

She frowned at him. “I’m here to share a little gift from the elves.” She held the box up. “A perfectly good cake that Basilus didn’t like.”

“Oh!” One of the guards shot up and reached for the box. “Let’s see what it is!”

‘It’ was a perfectly duplicated chocolate cake that the Bulstrodes had enjoyed after dinner, but the guards didn’t know that. And neither did they know that it was laced with Sleeping Draught.

“Don’t be greedy!” she admonished the man. “There’s enough for everyone.”

“Leave some for the others,” the old guard - Theo - ordered.

“I’ll bring them a slice each on my next patrol,” Hermione said, picking up a slice for herself as two eager men reached for the box. But the guard in charge and the witch on the bed in the alcove to the left didn’t look like they would be eating.

So she faked taking a bite, waited until the two guards with her dropped unconscious, and let herself collapse as well.

“Merlin’s Arse!” the old guard shouted. “Someone poisoned the cake!”

“I’ve got a bezoar!” Hermione heard the witch yell. Perfect.

When someone grabbed her shoulder and turned her around, she just had to point her wand and cast. The witch who had been about to stuff a bezoar down her throat collapsed. She flicked her wand around and her next Stunner caught the old guard in the process of trying to help the other guards.

Six down. Two to go. Four minutes left. She double-stunned and bound all four, conjured a plate, put two slices on it, and went off to deal with the remaining guards on the first floor.

She found them with their wands drawn. “You’re late,” the witch told her.

“The elves gave us some leftover cake,” she replied, holding out the tray.

Ten minutes later, after having also taken care of the house-elves, she was breaking through the wards on the main bedroom. They were strong and well-cast, but not particularly inventive. It took her half an hour to open the door, and thirty seconds to stun the sleeping Basilus Bulstrode and his French wife.

And five minutes to secure the huge wizard to a conjured metal chair with chains even a half-giant wouldn’t be able to break.

Hermione smiled as she pointed her wand at him.

“Ennervate!”

*****

 


	42. Redress

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 17th, 1998**

Basilus Bulstrode froze as soon as he opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his bed. This was his bedroom, he could tell even in the dim lighting that left most of it in shadow, but he wasn’t in his bed; he was sitting on a cold chair - and he couldn’t move; he was bound to it. He tried to break free - he knew how strong he was - but the bindings - chains - didn’t give, and the chair didn’t even creak - it was massive and made from steel. Where was Marie? “Marie?” he yelled, craning his neck to check his bed, but he could only see the corner on his side. What had happened to her? “Marie!”

“She’s stunned.”

What? He whipped his head around and gasped as he saw a figure wearing dark robes and a mask stepping out of the shadows. A Death Eater! The Lestranges had broken into his manor. He was dead! His family was dead! He struggled against the chains again, grunting when the links bit into his skin, drawing blood. He’d not die like a sheep!

The figure cleared their throat. No, _her_ throat - the tight garment she was wearing made that clear. Those weren’t Death Eater robes. And that black, shining mask with the stripes wasn’t a Death Eater mask. He should have realised that right away!

“Hello, Mr Bulstrode,” she said, amusement clearly audible in her tone. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

“Who’re you?” he snapped.

She chuckled and shook her head. “If I wanted you to know who I am, would I be wearing a mask?”

He clenched his teeth, glaring at her. No one mocked him! The Bulstrodes were an Old Family! A pureblood family, despite the rumours about their distant ancestors! “What do you want?”

“That’s a better question.”

She reached out, and he flinched, then took control of himself. He wouldn’t show fear. He was Basilus Bulstrode. Head of an Old Family. He had his pride.

Her gloved fingers patted his head. “Good boy.”

“Don’t mock me!” He jerked his head away, and she giggled. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Could she be…? No. The figure was wrong. And Bellatrix would never, ever wear such obviously muggle clothes.

“Aw, but it is so tempting! I finally have you at my mercy! And there’s so much to mock! I don’t even know where to start!”

“Who’re you?” She obviously had a grudge against him. This was personal for her.

“The same question again! Did you know that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results?”

“What?” He blinked.

She shook her head and sighed theatrically. “Never mind. Obviously, such a joke is beyond your poor, limited wit.”

He ground his teeth at the insult. “What do you want?” Who was this witch? The clothes would indicate a mudblood, but what mudblood would be able to break into his manor? And why? And where were his guards? His eyes widened when he suddenly understood.

He had been betrayed! His guards must have let this witch in. They were behind this. Those traitors! He snarled. “You’ll pay for this! All of you!”

She cocked her head at him, one hand on her hip. “And why, pray tell, would you say that? I have you at my mercy. I can do anything I want to you!” She reached out again, this time to flick his nose.

“But you don’t have my son! Even if you kill me, he’ll avenge me!” He grinned at her, baring his teeth. To think that he would be happy that Eric had refused to return home when Basilius had told him to! But Eric was safe! If only Millicent had gone on a Grand Tour as well! “You won’t escape justice! Not for this! No matter who’s behind you!” This wasn’t done to an Old Family!

She laughed. “Oh, this is great. You think I’m some pawn, working for someone - maybe a rival family, yes?”

He clenched his teeth. She was working for his distant kin. She had to be.

“But you’re wrong! No one sent me.” She leaned forward and grabbed his hair, forcing his head back, and whispered into his ear. “I’m here for revenge!”

She was surprisingly strong for her size. Was she a bastard of his? Not a mudblood but a half-blood? But he had always been careful. Even during the war. And why would she be so angry at him? “Revenge? Who’re you? What have I done to you?”

She released him and took a step back, tapping her mask with one finger. Then she slowly nodded. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you why I’m here.” She tilted her head and twirled her wand between her fingers, then pointed it at him. “You tried to ruin my family. You tried to destroy me. You failed.”

He was sweating. Who was this madwoman? He couldn’t think of any Old Family he had wronged like she claimed. Who’d do this? This had to be a plot. “What do you want from me?”

“What do I want?” She laughed and spread her arms. “Everything!”

“What?” He stared at her. Was she going to kill him? And his family? No!

She reached into a pouch on her belt - enchanted, he noted - and pulled out a vial. He stared at it as she stepped up to him once more, shaking it. “And you’ll help me with that.”

Veritaserum! He clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t tell her anything!

She laughed in his face. “Do you really think that you can stop me?”

Her wand swished, and he felt his mouth open against his will. “A simple prank spell - the Hanging-Jaw Jinx.”

He tried to curse her, but he could only make incoherent noises as his chair was tilted back and she slowly tipped the vial above his head until he felt three drops hit his tongue.

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 18th, 1998**

“...and that concludes our conversation. Thank you for your cooperation!”

Hermione Granger took a bow, even though the wizard chained to the chair in front of her was still under the effects of Veritaserum, and wouldn’t appreciate it. She had waited too long for this moment not to savour it. That was why she had stepped under the Thief’s Downfall - she wanted to confront Mr Bulstrode in her own body, not disguised as a guard. She wanted him to see who had beaten him.

She tapped the side of her mask and signalled the others. “I’m coming out to let you in.”

“What took you so long?”

She huffed. “I had to ensure that I knew how to get you through the wards safely,” she told the dog, shaking her head. Dogs had no patience - and no sense.

She waved her wand, undoing the Sticking Charm on the chair, then cast a Levitation Charm on it. Mr Bulstrode might have a - slight - resistance to magic, thanks to his ancestry, but the chair she had conjured didn’t.

Manoeuvring the chair with its sedated passenger to the ground floor proved a little harder than she had anticipated - the sheer size of the man and his chair made it very unwieldy - but nothing beyond her skills. She soon stepped out of the front door and approached the wardline, the bound wizard trailing behind her.

Sirius and Mr Fletcher were waiting for her at the wardline. Her tutor had his wand - he had been studying the wards. At his nod, she floated the chair and its passenger through the wards.

“Alright, looks like it’ll work.” Mr Fletcher stepped forward and sat on Mr Bulstrode’s lap. “Let’s test it.”

Hermione took a deep breath. If she had made a mistake, if Mr Bulstrode had managed to lie to her… But Mr Fletcher knew all that and trusted her. And he had checked the wards himself. She flicked her wand and directed the chair back to her spot, holding her breath.

Nothing happened. As soon as the chair was clear of the wardline, Mr Fletcher climbed off. “Good work.”

She nodded, smiling happily under her mask as she sent their captive back to fetch Sirius - who, of course, complained about having to sit in a man’s lap.

Dogs. No sense of priorities.

“The entrance to the vault’s back there,” she told them as soon as they entered the entrance hall. “But we’ll need Bulstrode to open the actual vault.” Or spend hours they didn’t have on cracking the defences and protections.

“Alright,” Fletcher said. “Let’s see if your plan works here as well.”

“I still object to my role in this plan,” the dog complained.

She glared at him. “We can switch our roles if you prefer.” They couldn’t, not really. But she knew how he’d react.

He shuddered. “No, thanks.”

She snorted. “Thought so. Here.” She handed him another vial from her pouch and took out one for herself. Mr Fletcher had brought his own.

A sip and a quick Transfiguration later, she was a perfect copy of Bulstrode’s wife, wearing her favourite house robe and looking at a pouting daughter and a snotty elder wizard she didn’t know but Mr Fletcher said was a representative of Gringotts.

Then she vanished the chains and the chair, transfigured Mr Bulstrode’s nightshift into a robe and administered the counter-agent to the Veritaserum - though he seemed to be coming around anyway. As soon as he started to blink, she hit him with a series of Confundus Charms. A half a dozen should be enough to overcome whatever innate resistance his giant blood granted him.

Time to play her role. “Mon chéri? Mon chéri?” she said, imitating Marie’s faint accent.

“Uh…” He blinked. “What?”

“The gold, mon chéri. Mr Fulmar has arrived to receive it. You wouldn’t want Eric to remain imprisoned in Algiers for not paying his fines, would you?”

“What?”

“Eric, our son. He needs you to pay the fines so he’ll be released from prison in Algiers. Remember? We talked about it all of yesterday. You were so angry that you scared Millicent’s cat.” Hermione looked at Sirius.

The disguised wizard nodded. “Yes, Father. It took me an hour to calm him down again.”

“Stupid cat,” Bulstrode mumbled. “Stupid son.”

“Yes,” Hermione said - Bulstrode was certainly right about Matheus, and probably about his son, too - “but Eric needs the gold. And it isn’t that much. He’d be able to pay the fines if he hadn’t been gambling.”

“Fool!” Bulstrode grunted.

“Please, mon chéri.” She pointed at the door and forced herself to smile sweetly at the confunded wizard.

He grunted again but finally started to move. It took him two tries to tap the correct spot on the door, and he almost fell down the stairs behind it, but they managed to arrive safely in the basement.

He ignored the strongbox there, heading towards the back. As Hermione had expected, the actual vault was hidden behind a fake wall which swung around and disappeared as he tapped a brick several times in rapid succession - she noted the sequence.

There it was! The Bulstrode family’s vault! Hermione had to struggle not to cackle in triumph when - eventually, after two failures - their duped victim managed to insert his wand into the right opening while putting his free hand on a spot in the centre of the vault door.

A moment later, the door slowly swung open, revealing the stored riches of the Bulstrodes.

Hermione almost squealed with pleasure at the sight of the mounds of gold inside.

“Hmph. I expected more.” Of course, the dog had to point out that the Blacks were far richer!

“Huh?” Bulstrode turned towards his ‘daughter’.

Hermione stunned him twice, then glared at the dog, who ignored her in favour of poking at his borrowed body. She sighed, then turned back to the vault. They couldn’t enter; the protections wouldn’t let them, only the one who actually opened the vault could.

But the protections wouldn’t stop them from levitating and summoning the gold out of the vault while Bulstrode’s unconscious body served as a door stopper.

*****

Hermione Granger ran through her mental checklist as she walked along one of the corridors on the first floor. They had emptied out the vault - mostly gold and other easily portable valuables. Not that Shrinking Charms and extended pockets cared much about portability. Mr Fletcher was dismantling the Thief’s Downfall in the entrance hall. She had the library in one of her pockets. And Sirius had gone through Bulstrode’s study, taking all his records.

That left the furniture - and the china and silverware, of course - though the sun was already about to rise. She snorted - there wouldn’t be any visitors until at least nine. And she would hate to do a lackadaisical job for her first revenge heist on the Old Families.

Grinning, she flicked her wand and started to summon and shrink the expensive-looking furniture in the corridor before vanishing the rest. Then she did the same in the entrance hall.

It wouldn’t do to leave the work half-done, after all. Although she did leave the rather graphic letters Eric Bulstrode had hidden in his desk in his room. And she vanished that damn robe-ripper of his sister’s with a vengeance.

“Are we done yet?” the dog complained as she rejoined the others in the entrance hall.

“Almost,” she said, after a glance at Mr Fletcher, to see if he wanted to explain this. “We still need to obliviate Basilus Bulstrode and Matheus.”

“Who is Matheus?” the dog asked.

“Bulstrode’s useless tomcat.” Hermione replied. “I’ll do it after I fake the death of the poor stray cat Bulstrode took in.”

It wouldn’t do to direct any suspicion at cats, after all - she wanted the DMLE to wonder how this heist had been done.

And she wanted the other Old Families to worry if it would be repeated in their homes.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 18th, 1998**

Hermione Granger hadn’t used the underground passages leading into Grimmauld Place’s basement often. Once or twice, so she would be able to do it smoothly when needed, but there hadn’t been a reason for her to use them regularly - unlike Mr Fletcher, who couldn’t be seen in the house proper. But tonight - or today, seeing as the sun had risen - she had to sneak into her home like a thief; Harry and Ron were sleeping upstairs, or maybe getting up already, unaware of her presence, or her plans, even though they were trained Aurors.

It was a thief’s dream, and just thinking about it made her smile behind her mask as she followed her tutor through the dark tunnel.

Of course, having robbed the Bulstrodes blind was an even better feeling. She had done it! She had robbed an Old Family’s manor! An Old Family’s manor which had had additional guards because they feared an attack by Death Eaters. But not even the extra security had been enough to keep a thief like her from her prize! Vengeance was hers! In part, at least.

Jeanne wasn’t around when they entered the secret part of the basement. She would be upstairs, running interference. Not that there would be much to fear - neither Harry nor Ron seemed to suspect anything. As far as they knew, Hermione was still in France, and Sirius was going to escort her home today.

But that would happen later. Right now, it was time to sort the loot!

She was smiling widely as she pulled off her mask and started to empty out her enchanted pockets on to the table in the room.

*****

“I’m going to need another Extension Charm,” Sirius complained as Hermione Granger finished sorting all the loot they had taken from the Bulstrodes. She ignored his whining, of course - he had known from the start that they would clean out the entire manor, so he had to have realised that that would, even using Shrinking Charms, require more room in their secret storage. Instead, she gazed on the loot, precisely divided into gold, valuables, books, valuable (and shrunken) furniture, records with valuable information and worthless things someone, probably the dog, had taken by mistake.

And this was the best opportunity she would get to finally talk about something that had been weighing on her. She cleared her throat. “We’ve taken almost everything the Bulstrodes owned. They have some properties left and the contents of their Gringotts vault, although they withdrew a lot of their gold from there following the tensions with the goblins. They probably have a few outstanding debts owed to them and some businesses,” she added with a look at Sirius. But no insurance; with magic providing so many ways to commit insurance fraud, and almost as many ways to rebuild a house, insurance had never taken off in the magical world.

He nodded. “I’ll have to go over their records in detail, but their businesses won’t save them - not when they lack the gold to run them. They’ll have to sell some of their properties to get cash.”

“Which means,” Mr Fletcher cut in, “they’ll lose the income from those properties. They won’t be broke, but they’ll be too poor to retain the status of an Old Family. Once this gets out, the other Old Families will cut their ties quicker than you can cast a Stinging Hex.”

And that would be a fate worse than death for the Bulstrodes, Hermione thought. They wouldn’t be financially ruined, unlike her family had been, but they would no longer be among the ruling class, even though they might hold on to their Wizengamot seat for a while. But without gold, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with their former peers and would lose their social power and influence.

She nodded. “Good.” Then she took a deep breath. “The heist was a complete success. The plan went off without a hitch.” She ignored Mr Fletcher’s grumbling about the risks she had taken, and Sirius’s nod, and continued: “And now we need to split the loot. Everyone who helped deserves a fair cut.”

“I don’t need the gold,” Sirius said at once.

“I didn’t do much,” Mr Fletcher mumbled. “You took all the risks.”

“The heist would have been impossible without you - and without Jeanne providing an alibi for Sirius and me,” Hermione insisted. She glared at Sirius. “And I would like to use this opportunity to repay the gold you paid for my debts.” He opened his mouth to decline, but she cut him off before he could say so. “Please. Let me pay my debts. I need to do that. And you can use the gold to counter Malfoy.” The Blacks were very, very rich, but more gold never hurt.

“The gold, yes. But the rest of the valuables will need to be fenced,” Mr Fletcher said. “Wouldn’t want to leave a trail of gold leading straight to you.”

“Which will be your task,” Hermione said. “We won’t be able to fence this in Wizarding Britain.” The Wizengamot would be in an uproar. They might cut their ties to the Bulstrodes, but no one robbed an Old Family like that. The loot was too hot to be sold in Wizarding Britain. “Even Sirius’s contacts won’t be safe enough. And that’s another reason why you deserve a fair cut as well.”

They put up a fight, worse than when her mother and her grandmother used to fight about who would be allowed to pay for the groceries, but Hermione knew them too well; they’d get their cut of the loot, and they’d like it!

*****

**Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 18th, 1998**

“What are you doing here? This isn’t related to the Death Eaters!”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you, Dawlish?” Moody scoffed. “We’re dealing with a dark wizard who escaped Azkaban by faking his death, remained undiscovered for almost twenty years and engineered a crisis with Gringotts as a distraction to break his comrades out of Azkaban. You can’t dismiss anything as unrelated until it’s been thoroughly investigated.” He made a show of looking around, even though Harry Potter knew that Moody’s enchanted eye allowed him to see anything around him without moving his head. “And, from what I can see, this robbery could certainly fit him.”

Looking around the empty entrance hall, Harry had to agree with the old Auror. The room had been stripped bare. Everything that wasn’t nailed down had disappeared.

“Did they steal everything?” Ron asked, whistling as he looked at the fireplace. “Even the Floo powder bowl?”

“Stole, or vanished,” Moody said, turning to them. Behind him, Dawlish was visibly grinding his teeth, and Bathilda looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but here. “I don’t think anyone able to pull this off would bother stealing worthless junk. This wasn’t just a robbery, lads. This was a message.”

“For Bulstrode?” Harry asked. That would narrow down the suspects. At least a little.

“For everyone.”

“Not everything is part of a plot, Moody!” Dawlish snarled. He looked around. “The robbers might have simply taken everything to sort out the valuable loot once they were safe.”

Moody scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”

“I’m not dismissing it,” Dawlish replied. “Not until I’ve further investigated this case.” He turned to Bathilda. “Come, let’s talk to the family.”

The tall wizard who had been waiting in the room took that as his cue. “Mr Bulstrode is waiting for you in the living room. If you’ll follow me?”

Dawlish nodded and did so. Moody snorted and stepped up his pace, his peg leg making a cracking sound each time it hit the bare stone floor, until he was walking next to Dawlish. Both seemed to ignore each other.

Harry exchanged a glance and a wry smile with Bathilda as they fell in behind their respective superiors.

The corridors had been stripped bare as well. Everything was gone - carpets, drapes, paintings. They passed open doors showing empty rooms until they reached what was probably the living room. The wizard opened the door and waved them inside. This room was furnished - there were couches, seats and a low table. They were of a rather simple design, though - some even seemed rather crudely made. Conjured, Harry thought.

“Mr Bulstrode. Ma’am. Miss.” Dawlish nodded at the three members of the family present. “I’m Auror Dawlish; this is Auror Meringworth. I think you’re acquainted with Auror Moody, who is here because he thinks this might be related to the fugitives from Azkaban.”

Moody made a noise that could be interpreted as a greeting while Bulstrode and her mother paled.

The huge wizard - Harry now knew from whom Bulstrode got her height and build - gestured at the seats opposite his. “Welcome to my home. Please have a seat.”

As they sat down, Harry tapped his glasses and took a closer look at the furniture. It was conjured, as he had thought.

“Please tell me what happened - everything you know,” Dawlish began.

Mr Bulstrode growled. “I don’t know what happened! I woke up on the floor of my bedroom. Everything was gone! We couldn’t even call the DMLE until one of our guards arrived in the morning to start his shift because there was no Floo powder left!”

Which meant, Harry realised, that their wands had been taken as well, or they could have apparated. But to ask about that… that was an incredibly personal issue for wizards. At least those raised in Wizarding Britain.

Dawlish would know that as well but didn’t raise the point. He nodded. “You woke up first?”

“Yes.” The huge wizard growled. “Millicent was next. Marie didn’t wake up until the guards had woken up.”

“And no one noticed anything?” Dawlish’s Dictaquill was scribbling on a floating parchment as the Auror questioned the wizard.

“No. Everyone had been stunned and no one remembers anything past yesterday evening’s dinner.”

“Obliviated,” Bathilda said, then blushed as Dawlish frowned at her.

“Have you been checked for Obliviation?” Dawlish said.

“There is no need to look at my memories; it’s obvious that we were obliviated of anything we might have seen last night.” Bulstrode obviously didn’t want the Unspeakables poking around in his head.

“Anyone who can pull this off wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind,” Moody said. “Be glad you were just obliviated and not killed; someone had a grudge.”

Dawlish clenched his teeth at the interruption, but didn’t start a scene. “Was anything left behind?”

“No.” Bulstrode shook his head.

Harry wasn’t certain that he believed the wizard. Borgin and Burkes had been robbed in a very similar way, but their illegal artefacts had been left behind for the Aurors to find. Bulstrode would have had enough time to remove such evidence before calling the Aurors.

“There is one thing…” Millicent spoke up. “My cat.”

Harry wasn’t the only one who looked at the cat in her lap.

She blushed. “Not Matheus. I had a new cat. A stray. I found her a few day ago in the rain. She disappeared. And Matheus was stunned.” She sniffled. “Why did they take her, but leave Matheus?”

“Was the cat in your room?” Dawlish asked.

“When I went to bed. But my door was open - my cats are free to roam the house. If she ran into the thieves...” Millicent pressed her lips together

“We found a blood stain in front of the manor,” Dawlish said. “It wasn’t human blood, but we’re still analysing it. Some black fur, too.”

The witch gasped, then started to sniffle. “They killed her?”

Moody turned his head, his eye spinning wildly. “If they entered through the front door that would explain how the cat got out. Or that was staged to make us think that they entered through the front door and killed the cat. Maybe the cat was a decoy for the thieves, and they killed it when they didn’t need it any more.” He looked at Millicent. “We’ll need a picture of that cat!”

Dawlish sighed. “The remains were right at the wardline. There were paw prints as well. It looks like the animal ran straight into the wards.”

Millicent gasped. “Oh, no! She wasn’t keyed to the wards!” She sobbed.

“That’s probably what they want us to think!” Moody muttered.

Dawlish’s expression clearly showed that he thought Moody was being paranoid again. Harry knew that he shouldn’t dismiss anything lightly - but investigating a dead cat?

At least it didn’t look as if this was related to the fugitive Death Eaters.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 18th, 1998**

“...ninety-nine, one hundred!” Hermione Granger smiled as she pushed the last stack of Galleons towards Sirius. “That pays off my debt to you!”

Sirius grumbled but accepted his defeat with as much grace as a dog could muster. Which wasn’t, of course, very much, but she ignored his mutterings about ‘obstinate witches’. She had paid off her debts! Her family wasn’t living on charity any more. They didn’t owe everything that they owned to Sirius any more. They were free of that obligation weighing on them. And it had been a heavy burden, no matter how often Sirius had said that they didn’t owe him anything.

But no longer! She sighed and leaned back, basking in her achievement. Now, if only she could tell her parents that they were free of the debt. But she would need a really good excuse for that - she couldn’t tell them that she had robbed one of the families who had framed her.

She shrugged as Sirius sent the Galleons to join the others in his extended chest in the basement with a Charm, then looked at the coin, the diadem and the eleven wands sitting on the table in front of her. She picked up the coin first. It was a Knut - her traditional souvenir of a successful heist. Smiling, she flicked her wand, and transfigured it into another ornament for her bracelet, then fixed it to the spot that she had prepared for this coin years ago. Shaking her wrist, she let it dangle and tinkle as it struck against the other transfigured coins.

“Like a cat playing with string,” Sirius said, grinning.

She pouted at him. This was the visible sign of her progress as a thief, not a toy! She felt too content to teach the dog just how a cat played and what could be used as a toy - like his nose.

Huffing, Hermione looked at the wands they had taken from the Bulstrodes and their guards. These were trophies. If you took a wizard’s wand, you rendered them helpless. Unable to cast spells. Barely more than a muggle. It was one of the worst humiliations a wizard could suffer - especially the Head of an Old Family. Bulstrode would be seething, and others would be laughing at him.

But what to do with the wands? She could mount them on the wall, as literal trophies - some wizards had done that in the past, among them some of the Blacks. But that felt… inelegant. She wasn’t a silly bird collecting trinkets to decorate its nest. She didn’t have to. And the wands were a liability. Unlike gold and jewellery, or furniture, they couldn’t be sold easily or safely. And if someone found them… you might have ‘accidentally’ bought stolen goods, but wands? She shook her head and conjured a stone basin, then dropped the wands inside. A flick of her wand filled the basin with oil. A moment later, oil and wands were burning.

“Merlin’s beard,” she heard Sirius mutter - purebloods were so squeamish about destroying wands. Even Mr Fletcher seemed to be watching the flames with a peculiar expression.

She looked at the diadem. The last of the loot that held a special significance for her. She picked it up and turned it around. Expensive indeed - though, while she was no expert, she was certain it wasn’t as expensive as the Bulstrodes had claimed during her trial. The first and last time she had seen it had been during her trial when she had been falsely accused of having stolen it.

And now she had stolen it. And everything else those liars owned. Poetic justice, in her opinion.

“Are you going to keep it as a trophy?” Mr Fletcher asked.

She shook her head as she dropped the diadem on the table. “I thought about it, but no.” It would only remind her of her trial and expulsion. Of how she and her family had been hurt. She wasn’t that girl any more. And - she looked at her bracelet again - she already had the trophy she wanted. “We can fence it or break it up and fence the parts.”

Mr Fletcher nodded. Sirius was still staring at the burning wands.

And Hermione flicked the coin dangling from her bracelet. One family down, four to go. She still had lots of room left on her bracelet.

*****

**London, Waterloo International, October 18th, 1998**

“Here are your tickets. Enjoy your trip, Miss Brown.”

“Thank you.” Hermione Granger took the tickets from the clerk and stepped to the side, pulling her trolley bag behind her as she passed the line.

Mr Fletcher was leaning against a pillar, waiting for her. He pushed off and strode towards her as she drew near him. “All done?”

“Yes.” She looked around, then quickly flashed her wand and cast a privacy charm. “It feels wasteful to use a fake ID for a single trip.”

“It’s not a good one,” he said. “It’ll get you past the controls here, but it wouldn’t withstand closer scrutiny.”

They slowly walked past the first shop in the great hall, a boutique. Hermione glanced at the mirror in the display window and checked her appearance. Black wig, stylish trench coat, slightly dated boots, slightly too short skirt and leggings with a turtleneck - she looked like a girl not quite up to the height of fashion and trying too hard on her trip to Paris.

“You didn’t cast the spell to ask me that.”

She winced, then smiled a little ruefully. Of course, he’d notice - they had discussed the ID before. “You’re right.” She looked at the big clock nearby. Still forty minutes left until her departure. “I wanted to talk about the heist.” She pointed at the nearest café. “My treat?”

“You’ve already forced too much gold on me,” he retorted.

“Your treat then,” she told him. “And I’ll be sure to order the most expensive tea on the menu to soothe your guilty conscience.”

He barked a laugh at that but didn’t contradict her.

Five minutes later, they were drinking their teas. Hermione took a deep breath. “You didn’t offer much criticism.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t much to say. The plan worked.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before.” She hesitated a moment, then pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. “You were against the heist.” He hadn’t said anything, though.

He flinched. Almost imperceptibly, but she noticed. She kept looking at him while sipping her tea.

Finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I didn’t like the plan.”

She nodded.

“Too dangerous. If you had been spotted during your recon, you’d have been alone, against what, eight guards and the three Bulstrodes?”

This wasn’t the moment to point out that the guards had been Bulstrodes as well. “I took care of them all.”

“You were prepared and caught them by surprise. If anyone had sounded the alarm, or if the poisoned cake hadn’t worked as well as it did…” He shook his head, and she could see that he was clenching his teeth.

“I planned it. I knew they would be split up. I knew they would like the cake - especially if they thought it was originally meant for the Bulstrodes.”

“Too much could have gone wrong,” he muttered. “One guard stepping out at the wrong moment…”

“They would have been isolated as well,” she replied. “And I looked like a guard. I could have fooled them.”

“For how long? Until the stunned guard was found? Until the Aurors arrived?”

“I could have slipped away and changed,” she said, raising her chin.

“And dyed your fur in time?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her. She met his eyes without flinching, lips pressed together.

After a moment, Mr Fletcher sighed. “Yes, you probably could have slipped away. And you probably would have found a way out through the wards as well. Probably.”

She nodded. The heist would have failed, though - even if her cover had held she wouldn’t have been able to try again. They would have doubled up on their security and would have been on their guard. But she had done it.

He sighed again and briefly closed his eyes. “That’s why I didn’t step in. I knew you could do it.”

She smiled at him.

“But I also knew the risk you were taking.” He shook his head. “If anything had gone wrong, I couldn’t have done anything.”

She bit her lower lip and didn’t say that nothing had gone wrong.

“And I’ll be again forced to wait and hope nothing goes wrong in the next heist.”

“We don’t have a plan yet,” she protested. “You don’t know what we’ll have to do.”

He grimaced. “But I know myself.” He reached down and tapped his prosthetic foot. “Used to be, I’d have stunned Runcorn before he could have cast a spell, much less hit me. But I can’t any more. I should have noticed when we robbed that vampire. Black had to save me.”

“He had to save us,” she cut in.

He snorted. “You were still learning. You’ve got better since then. Faster. More skilled. More experienced. And you’re still improving. Me?” He shook his head. “Lucky I only lost a foot and not my life.”

“You’re still the best Curse-Breaker in Britain,” she protested.

“There’s always someone better.” He snorted. “But even if I was, I’m not the best thief any more. Haven’t been for a long time.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Hid too long in a bottle.”

She bit her lower lip again. She didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to see him denigrate himself. He deserved better. Much better.

“So, I can still crack wards. I can fool the purebloods. But when things go wrong?” He shook his head. “I’m too slow for that.”

“We can plan for that,” she replied.

“And we will,” he said, nodding with a faint smile. “But it means I’ll have to wait and watch while you’re taking the risks.” He shook his head. “Well, you should catch your train.”

She still had fifteen minutes until the train’s departure, as a glance at the station’s clock confirmed. More than enough time even if you weren’t a Weasley. But she nodded. “Yes. See you soon.”

He nodded and hugged her when she stood, and when she checked as she was about to pass through the turnstile, he was still standing there, watching her walk away.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 18th, 1998**

Harry Potter couldn’t help relaxing a little after stepping out of the fireplace in the entrance hall. After spending most of the day in Bulstrode Manor, seeing that his home hadn’t been ransacked was reassuring - even though everything had been alright when he had left it just that morning.

“Feels good to see a house that’s not empty of everything,” Ron remarked, echoing his own thoughts as he cleaned the soot off his robes.

“Yes.” Harry nodded. Everything was fine. But after seeing Bulstrode Manor, he didn’t feel as safe at home as he used to. “Let’s do a perimeter check.”

“Already?” Ron asked.

“We don’t know how the thieves broke into Bulstrode Manor.” Breaching the wards on Grimmauld Place would take anyone, even Dumbledore, more than a day, as far as Harry knew. But the same would have been true for the wards on Bulstrode Manor. And no one had noticed anything. Moody’s friend Smith was still analysing the wards, but… “Better safe than sorry,” he said.

“Right.” Ron nodded and cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell. “Let’s check if someone’s hiding close to the wardline.”

“Hello.”

They turned. Jeanne was standing at the top of the stairs. “I thought Sirius would be back with Hermione,” she said as she descended. “Is something wrong?”

“They aren’t back yet?” Harry asked, tensing. Had something happened?

“No, they aren’t.” She smiled. “But they’ll be stopping in Paris, and I don’t think there’s a witch alive who wouldn’t use the opportunity to spend some time shopping for robes in the Quartier Magique.”

Hermione wouldn’t, Harry thought. But she’d go to the bookstores there. Although if anyone in France had insulted her clothes, she might be angry enough to buy new robes as well.

“So, is something wrong?” Jeanne repeated her question.

“We were just going to do a check of the wardline,” Harry said.

She frowned. “I already did one this morning.”

“Yes, but someone robbed the Bulstrodes blind - cleaned out their manor,” Ron said, “so until we know how they managed that without spending a day breaching their wards, we’ll have to be more careful.”

“Oh. The Bulstrodes are the ones with giant blood, yes?” Jeanne asked.

“Well, it’s not something you talk about in their presence, but yes,” Ron said.

The witch scoffed. “There’s nothing wrong with giant blood - Madam Maxime is a half-giant, and she’s the Headmistress of Beauxbatons!”

“That’s the Old Families for you.” Ron shrugged. “Blood purity is stupid.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “But let’s do that perimeter check. It won’t take long,” he added, nodding at Jeanne as he walked towards the door.

Outside, he looked around. “Might tell Kreacher to put up more traps,” he said, starting to circle the house.

“Won’t really stop a good thief,” Ron replied.

Everything looked fine, Harry noticed as they walked through the garden. Nothing out of place, no markers floating over the lawn. “Every little thing helps,” he said. “We could get some guard animals. Dogs would smell disillusioned intruders.” And dogs were common guard animals. Unlike, say, snakes.

“Dogs?” Ron chuckled. “Hermione wouldn’t tolerate them. You know what she thinks about dogs or anything that could threaten Crookshanks.”

Harry sighed. As if any dog would dare to attack that monster. But Hermione treated the cat like her baby. “It would just be until we’ve caught the Lestranges, Crouch and those thieves.”

“You think that’ll happen soon?” Ron snorted. “With Dawlish on the case?”

Harry sighed. “Maybe we’ll get the case.”

“We have to catch the Death Eaters first.” Ron flicked his wand, stared at the back wall, then nodded. “And we don’t exactly have a firm lead.”

Which was one more reason to step up security, Harry thought. Even Hermione would have to see reason.

*****

“Dogs?” Hermione Granger stared at Harry. Dogs in her home? One was bad enough, and he wanted to get more of the stupid beasts?

“They wouldn’t enter the house. We can add a pen outside. They can smell even disillusioned intruders.”

That’s why any thief worth her salt had potions to remove her scent! But she couldn’t tell Harry that or he might wonder. Even though he should know that as well. “And I guess poor Crookshanks would be locked in the house, then?” she said instead.

“It’s only until we’ve caught the Death Eaters and those thieves,” Ron said.

“Thieves?” She cocked her head and acted surprised.

“Someone broke into Bulstrode Manor and cleaned it out. Took everything,” Ron said. “Even emptied out the pantry.”

She frowned. “How did they manage that?” Had the Aurors already figured out how she had done it?

“We don’t know yet. It’s not our case,” Harry said.

“It’s Dawlish’s,” Ron added.

She sniffed. “Dawlish?” She glared at Harry. “You want to keep dogs in the house until _Dawlish_ solves a case? The idiot who thought I was a dark witch who’d cursed you?”

He clenched his teeth. “We can get other guard animals.”

She scoffed. “We don’t need to! We have Crookshanks! His nose is as good as a dog’s. Better, even - he’s half-kneazle.”

“He’s not exactly a guard animal,” Harry retorted.

“He’s a cat; he’ll protect his home.” She looked at Sirius. “Tell him that dogs have no place here!”

Sirius slowly shook his head, though he was grinning. “I don’t think dogs are a good idea, Harry.”

Her friend sighed. “No dogs then. But we have to step up security. More perimeter checks. More traps, too, I think.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She knew what was coming.

“And more Defence training.”

She muttered a curse under her breath.

Harry frowned at her and Ron chuckled.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 19th, 1998**

_Bulstrode Manor Emptied Out in One Night! Everything Gone!_

Harry Potter wasn’t surprised to find that the Bulstrode robbery was the main topic of today’s Daily Prophet. You couldn’t keep that a secret. Not with so many people involved, on the victims’ side as well as in the Corps. It was just too spectacular. And that the article speculated about ties to the Borgin and Burkes robbery wasn’t anything out of the ordinary either.

But the details mentioned in the article went a little beyond the gossip an Auror heard at work. Someone involved in the case must have talked. Extensively, too. He frowned. That shouldn’t happen. Such leaks would hamper the investigation, and Aurors should know that.

“Oh… interesting. An inside job?” Hermione looked up from the article and tilted her head slightly towards him.

“Just speculation,” Harry answered. “No one knows how the thieves got in, yet. The guards were obliviated, as were the Bulstrodes.”

“Yes, the article said so.” She nodded. “So will they be questioned under Veritaserum?”

“The guards? Probably.” They would likely volunteer if only to prove their innocence to Bulstrode.

“What about the Bulstrodes?” she asked.

“Not a chance,” Ron said. “They’re the victims. And the precedent it would set...”

“Maybe the children or the wife wanted more gold than what Bulstrode granted them as their allowance?” Hermione said.

It wasn’t too improbable, Harry thought. Any family member could have let someone through the wards.

Ron shook his head, though. “Even so, admitting that you suspect your wife or children of having conspired against you? That’s not a thing you make public. Not as an Old Family. Bulstrode would be a laughing stock.”

“I’m certain that he already is,” Sirius said. “Unless he had most of his wealth in Gringotts, he’s ruined.”

“I doubt that he’s ruined,” Hermione disagreed. “They must have land and properties.”

“Not enough to maintain their status as an Old Family,” Sirius retorted. “Even if they recovered from the loss of face of having their ancestral manor plundered, they’ll be too poor for their ‘friends’ to consider them their peers.”

“Oh, how sad!” Ron said with a snort. “They might even have to work for a living now!”

Hermione giggled, then suddenly gasped. “They killed a cat?”

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, who winced. They knew their friend.

Fortunately, it was time to go to work.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 19th, 1998**

“So, what do you think?” Ron asked as soon as they stepped on to the floor that housed Auror Headquarters. “Inside job?”

Harry Potter frowned. “That would be the most plausible explanation. But the similarities to the Borgin and Burkes robbery don’t fit.”

“One of the Bulstrodes could have hired that thief,” Ron said as they approached their office.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve talked to Bathilda; no one in Knockturn Alley seems to know how to contact whoever did that robbery. That a Bulstrode would have been able to find them seems unlikely.”

“Maybe the thieves contacted them,” Ron said. Shrugging, he added: “Wouldn’t take that much to find out if someone in a family is greedy, or needs more gold than they get.”

“If that’s the case, it’ll come out during the investigation.” Even Dawlish would be able to find that out.

“Of course, if this is another distraction planned by the Death Eaters, then that would explain why no one in Knockturn Alley knows about the thieves,” Ron said.

“Or why no one is talking,” Harry added. “Although such a robbery only makes everyone else tighten up their security, so it won’t exactly help Crouch and the Lestranges.” It would also mean that the Bulstrodes weren’t safe from the Death Eaters, despite the fact that the thieves had left their wards intact.

“Maybe the goblins want to convince people that the vaults in the Old Families’ manors aren’t safe enough?”

They both laughed at that.

Harry shook his head as they entered their office - he had to focus on the Death Eaters. Catching thieves wasn’t his problem.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 23rd, 1998**

“I’ve got the location of the Davis Manor,” Hermione Granger said as she put the map on the table. “It’s in Kent.”

“Another urgent research task in the archives for me?” Sirius asked with a sly grin.

She shook her head. “No. I found a reference to the location in an old article in the Daily Prophet about a Spring Dance they held in their manor. Then I went and checked the location,” she said before Mr Fletcher could ask. “And not as a cat,” she added when his expression didn’t change. Sometimes, he was more protective than Harry - and, unlike Harry, he knew what she could actually do!

“Good. The Davises have been offering the use of their vault to their relatives,” Sirius said. “Dear Augusta thought that the Davises were setting a good example by upholding the responsibilities of an Old Family - so she’s been doing the same since the troubles with Gringotts started.”

“I’ve been keepin’ my eyes an’ ears open,” Mr Fletcher told them. “All the Old Families have been hirin’ wands.”

“Despite the suspicion that one of Bulstrode’s guards betrayed them?” Sirius asked.

“That’s been cleared up using Veritaserum,” Hermione pointed out. “Ron said that such a heist would have taken too long to organise for Obliviation to cover everything without leaving traces.”

“And there were no such traces,” Mr Fletcher said, “since they weren’t our accomplices. But everyone will be on the lookout for such a plot.”

Sirius snorted. “Nothing new there - the Blacks often had to deal with such plots. Sometimes even from outside the family.” He chuckled.

“It still means that sneaking in - or sneaking around, should we manage to get inside - will be very difficult,” Mr Fletcher said. “They’ll expect us to try and pick the guards off while they are alone. And they’ll watch the wardline like a Seeker the pitch.”

“I think I have a way around that,” Hermione said. “But it means we’ll have to be content with just cleaning out their vault.”

“Oh?” Mr Fletcher looked at her.

She smiled. “I’ve been looking through our loot from Borgin and Burkes. Do you know what a Vanishing Cabinet is?”

*****

 


	43. Interrogations

**London, Diagon Alley, October 23rd, 1998**

“Manager Sharptooth.”

Dirk Cresswell smiled widely and showed his teeth as he greeted the old goblin. You had to show strength and aggression when dealing with goblins or they would think you were weak. It had been over two hundred years since the last Goblin Rebellion had ended in the Gringotts Treaty, but even the friendliest goblins Dirk had met seemed to consider that treaty an armistice rather than a peace treaty. And, as the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, he had met a lot of goblins.

“Mr Cresswell.” Sharptooth, seated behind his massive desk - bigger than Fudge’s, and that was saying something - nodded almost imperceptibly. “Have you come to offer restitution for the attacks on Gringotts or are you here to waste both our time, as usual?”

Dirk leaned back in his seat. Dealing with goblins was annoying on the best of days. Dealing with goblins in the middle of the greatest crisis in a hundred years - the mess after The Quibbler had claimed that Fudge was baking goblins into pies was a minor nuisance in comparison - was both tiresome and dangerous. They weren’t just looking for a pretext to start trouble, they actually had been attacked, twice. But he was a representative of the Ministry and knew his duty. So he scoffed. “Restitution for what? Neither the riot nor the Fiendfyre incident actually hurt Gringotts in any way. To call them ‘attacks’ is blowing them out of proportion. Both incidents have been handled by the Ministry, in accordance with our duties as stipulated in the treaty.”

Sharptooth scoffed in turn and sneered at him. “It was only luck that prevented either attack from reaching us. We had to mobilise our guards and evacuate the upper levels. That has cost us gold. The next attack might very well be beyond your Ministry’s feeble power to contain.”

Dirk narrowed his eyes but kept sneering at the goblin. The old bastard was correct - the Ministry was far weaker than a year ago. The Battle of the Ministry, the Diagon Alley Riot, Azkaban - the Ministry had lost both a great number of good people and a lot of face. Even worse, Dumbledore was gone, and with him most of Britain’s influence in the ICW. But you couldn’t show any weakness with goblins. “The Ministry is not responsible for any costs you incurred because you panicked.” He scoffed. “Besides, you’re losing more gold each day you keep the bank closed because you claim to be ‘re-evaluating security’.”

“We cannot keep doing business if we cannot trust the wizards to keep up their end of the deal. With these mysterious thieves still at large, a re-evaluation of our security is necessary to keep the trust of our clients.”

That was new - and promising. Dirk had to suppress his smile. If the goblins admitted to being concerned about the thieves who had robbed Bulstrode Manor and talked about regaining the trust of their clients, then that was a sign that they were more concerned about recovering the business lost to the recent crisis, and weren’t looking for an excuse to break the treaty without bringing in the ICW. That might be the breakthrough he had been hoping and waiting for. Time to encourage it. He nodded. “That’s understandable. But I would expect that to be superfluous since it’s widely known that Gringotts vaults are far safer than any vault in a private manor.”

Sharptooth scoffed. “What the wizards believe they know is often far from the truth. Don’t think that we haven’t noticed how you’ve tried to profit from a crisis started by wizards by undermining our treaty-granted monopoly.”

Dirk would have agreed with Sharptooth - as a muggleborn, he didn’t exactly sympathise with the Old Families and their ploys - but once again, he had to represent the Ministry. “That was merely some families offering a helping hand to their relatives during the crisis. No gold was or is being charged for those services.”

“Not officially, you mean,” the goblin sneered. “But we both know that wasn’t some selfless gesture.”

“Then it would be in the best interests of Gringotts to return to normal service. I am certain that a great many wizards would prefer to use services of which they know the costs in advance, but they cannot afford that if Gringotts might arbitrarily close the bank for whatever reason on any given day.”

“Arbitrarily?” Sharptooth sneered. “We have to increase our security when wizards might attack us on any given day!”

“But you’ve spent several days doing that. Is Gringotts so weak that you need even more time until you feel safe enough to resume normal service?”

The goblin bared his teeth at the implied insult. “Of course not! But, as the sole bank of Wizarding Britain, we take our security seriously.”

“So when can the Ministry expect Gringotts to normalise their business hours?” Dirk asked.

“That time could be cut considerably if we had access to the findings of the Bulstrode Manor investigation,” Sharptooth said.

That didn’t seem like a difficult concession. It also would make sense to involve the pre-eminent experts on magical vaults in the investigation. But, as Dirk knew very well, when the Old Families were involved, things were complicated. “I will pass that on to the Minister, with my recommendation to expedite the request.”

Sharptooth nodded. “Regular, uninterrupted service should soon resume.”

Which meant ‘once we feel like it’, Dirk knew. But he also knew how greedy goblins were. They wouldn’t be able to stomach losing both business and clients for much longer.

He nodded at the goblin and stood to leave.

*****

**London, Middlesex, October 23rd, 1998**

Dirk Cresswell sighed and stopped smiling as soon as he stepped out of the fireplace in his home. “Bloody buggering Fudge!” he cursed. “Can’t make a decision without asking his backers first!” He cleaned the soot off his robes and hung them on a hook next to the door. “I had a stressful day, dear,” he announced as he walked towards the living room. “You can’t imagine how stressful…”

“Oh, I think she can, Mr Cresswell.”

He gasped and rushed forward, then froze.

Darlene was sitting in his usual seat, stiff - paralysed, he realised. And next to her, his wand pointing at her, stood a grinning man he recognised from the wanted posters all over the Ministry and Diagon Alley.

Barty Crouch Jr.

The Death Eater smiled at him. “Welcome home, Mr Cresswell. We need to talk.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 26th, 1998**

“Have you heard about Cresswell?” Bathilda asked as soon as Harry Potter and Ron had taken their seats at the ‘rookie table’, as some of the older Aurors had started calling it.

“Cresswell?” Harry dimly remembered the name from the aftermath of the Diagon Alley Riot.

“The Head of the Goblin Liaison Office?” Ron shook his head. “No, what did he do?”

Bathilda leaned forward, apparently eager to share the news - or gossip. “Told off Fudge on Friday. The goblins want to know what we know about the Bulstrode robbery, and Fudge is blocking it. I don’t know what Cresswell told him, but I heard that today Cresswell has been pale and nervous. Might get fired over this.”

“That would be bad.” Ron shook his head. “Percy says he’s the best in that department since the last war. If someone else has to take over, relations with the goblins won’t get better any time soon.”

“And he’s a muggleborn - no relation to an Old Family, so his standing is weaker than that of many others,” Bathilda said, sighing. “Although I don’t know if sharing such information is a good thing. It’s bad enough everyone seems to know as much as we do as soon as we make any progress, but telling the goblins?”

“They’re probably worried about their vaults,” Ron said.

“Well, that’s not a concern for our investigation, is it?” Bathilda shook her head. “We’re not working for Gringotts and helping them to improve their security; we’re investigating a crime!”

Harry nodded. “It’s just another example of politics messing with our investigations.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, “but if we have to choose between sharing information we shouldn’t and war with the goblins, I know what I’d rather do.”

When he put it like that, Harry couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. “But if we do that they’ll demand more a week later. Goblins always push if they think you’re weak.” Even Hagrid didn’t have a good opinion of goblins, and he was a wizard who thought man-eating spiders the size of a lorry were good pets. “Better to take a stand before we compromise our rules and laws.”

“Well, that’s why we have the Goblin Liaison Office,” Ron said, grinning. “So we can tell the buggers off without causing a war.”

It wasn’t actually funny, especially if you were among those who’d have to fight if it came to war, but Harry laughed with the others anyway - that was part of being an Auror, after all. “Speaking of bad jokes,” he said, “what’s Nott doing?”

Bathilda looked at him. “Why do you want to know that? Can’t you let things go?”

He frowned. “It’s not me keeping this feud going. But with the Death Eaters still at large, and now those thieves and the goblins, I’d rather know what Nott is up to before he pulls something stupid at the worst possible moment. Like rerouting a Floo connection before an emergency.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Ron added.

“He wouldn’t do that!” Bathilda protested.

“Can’t be sure,” Ron replied. “He’s been constantly looking to cause trouble for us. And he’s not the brightest.”

Bathilda pressed her lips together. “He’s now working in Filing.”

“Great.” Ron scoffed. “So he can sabotage us by misfiling things and blaming us.”

“I’d like to see him try that with Moody,” Harry said.

“I think he’s stupid enough to do it,” Ron replied.

“His funeral, then.” Harry shrugged.

“Theo wouldn’t do that!” Bathilda insisted. “He gripes about you, but he wouldn’t sabotage you.”

“He’d better not,” Harry said.

*****

**Soho, London, October 26th, 1998**

“Moody had a point about the muggle lists,” Ron said as he and Harry Potter walked away from the stand, their fish and chips in hand. “This is great!”

Harry made a noise of agreement as he munched on a chip. He pointed at a nearby bench, and they sat down. “I’ve got a problem,” he said after eating half of his meal.

“Hm?” Ron turned his head towards him as he swallowed.

“To be more precise, I’ve got a solution, but I don’t know how to implement it. You know, guard animals. We could use snakes. They have excellent senses - they could smell intruders and hear them walk over the lawn.”

Ron nodded. “And you can talk to them and order them around.”

“Yes.” Harry sighed. “But if I want to populate the garden at Grimmauld Place with snakes, they’d need warming charms in winter or they’ll go to sleep.” And it was getting colder. “And there’s another problem.”

“Hermione,” Ron said. “She’d blow up.”

“Not exactly. I could tell her about me being a Parselmouth.” She’d understand - she hadn’t ripped his head off for that slip about the ointment, after all. Another sign that she liked him. “But it’s the other pets. Crookshanks and Hedwig. They’d try to eat them.”

“Tell ’em not to.” Ron finished his meal.

“Tell that furry monster anything?” Harry snorted. Crookshanks would do what he wanted. “And if he gets bitten, it’ll be my fault.”

“Tough.” Ron shrugged and threw the greasy newspaper in the rubbish bin next to the bench. “What about if you put them in cages?”

“That might work,” Harry said. “But then they couldn’t attack intruders. And I don’t know how else they could alert us if they find someone.” Maybe a bell, or something? But that would likely lead to many false alarms. Or some rattlesnakes? But you couldn’t exactly buy them in pet shops, or so he thought. And if a rattlesnake escaped the grounds it would probably cause issues with the neighbours.

“They wouldn’t add much to our security then,” Ron said. “Looks like you can’t use your dark talent to keep us all a little bit safer!” he added with a grin.

Harry huffed. It had been a good idea.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 26th, 1998**

“So, Borgin and Burkes had a Vanishing Cabinet,” Hermione Granger said, pointing at the ornate cabinet she had put down in the middle of the room in Sirius’s basement. “But there was only one - and they come in pairs. Whatever - or whoever - you put into one cabinet appears in the other once you close the door.”

“Which means one cabinet isn’t very useful for whatever you have planned,” Sirius interrupted her.

She rolled her eyes at the dog. “Yes. However, the cabinet still works - so the other cabinet still exists. Somewhere.”

“Are you certain? ‘Vanishing Cabinet’ seems to imply something else,” he said.

She refrained from glaring at him. “Yes, I’m certain. I’ve researched them extensively.” All the books she had found in her recently enlarged library that covered them, at least. She cleared her throat. “The easiest way to find the cabinet’s partner would be to go through it ourselves.”

“That would also be the most dangerous,” Mr Fletcher pointed out. “You could come out anywhere.”

Jeanne sniffed but didn’t comment. Hermione nodded. “In theory, yes. But the cabinet isn’t particularly resistant to the elements, so the environment cannot be too hostile. If it were underwater, then that would have had effects on its partner. The same would happen if it were placed in a vacuum.” All of the others were looking at her. She should have realised that none of them had ever watched Doctor Who. She cleared her throat. “The real danger is that the partner cabinet of this one is damaged.” That sounded better than ‘broken’.

“Damaged?” Sirius frowned at her.

“It doesn’t work as it should. Sometimes, things remain in this cabinet instead of vanishing,” she explained.

“And they might simply vanish otherwise?” Mr Fletcher asked.

“That is possible. But,” she raised a finger before either man could say anything, “the fact that it works intermittently, and not in a consistent fashion, supports the assumption that it works at least some of the time correctly - and, therefore, can be restored to working correctly and consistently with a little effort.”

“I’m not keen on trusting my life to such an assumption,” Sirius said. “Those are not good odds.”

“You don’t have to,” she replied. “We can use simple items to find the malfunctioning cabinet, and then recover it. I doubt that a non-working cabinet would be in a location with heavy security.”

“That’s another assumption,” Mr Fletcher said, “but a logical one.”

Not all wizards were logical, Hermione knew. But if anyone had cared about the other cabinet, they would have tried to track down its partner - and Borgin and Burkes would have been a logical place to check for anyone on such a search. “In any case, the problem is creating items that we can locate with magic so that we can find the other cabinet.” It would be easy if electronics worked inside wards - but the cabinet was almost certainly inside a warded area.

“There are spells that parents use to track children,” Sirius said. “But they have a limited range, and need a connection between the caster and the target.”

“Never heard of them,” Mr Fletcher said.

Jeanne looked interested - of course, she was expecting.

“Well, since the spells require blood, they are also illegal,” Sirius said. “That didn’t stop my mother, of course.”

That wasn’t exactly a recommendation. “We’d have to adapt such a spell,” Hermione pointed out. “Cabinets don’t have any blood, after all.” And she doubted that blood magic would work with wood and resin.

“We aren’t spellcrafters,” Mr Fletcher replied. “And anyone who would work for gold would likely grow suspicious once we use the thing for the heist.”

“We could obliviate them,” Sirius said.

Mr Fletcher snorted. “Anyone able to craft such a spell in the time we need it will be prepared for that - it would too easy for clients to skip payment that way.”

“I don’t know any spellcrafter I would trust with our secret,” Jeanne said.

Hermione sighed. “I was afraid of that. It seems we’ll have to find out who owned this cabinet before it was sold to Borgin and Burkes and see if that leads us to the other cabinet.” She had really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Well, we have all their records,” Sirius said. “We can check them.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have checked the records.” As if she wouldn’t have followed up on her idea already. “Burkes bought the cabinet from someone he called ‘M.M.’. They were a frequent client until two years ago.”

“‘M.M.’?” Mr Fletcher narrowed his eyes. “There’s a thief called ‘Mad Mulligan’, usually hangs around in Knockturn Alley; last I heard he was sent to Azkaban. That would have been around two years ago.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Let’s hope he was released before the massacre there, then.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 26th, 1998**

“I’ve got a new task for you, lads!” Moody announced as soon as Harry Potter and Ron had reported back from their lunch break. “Do you know Cresswell?”

“Head of the Goblin Liaison Office,” Harry said before Ron could speak up. “Never met him, though.”

“That’s him. He was pale and trembling this morning - that’s not his usual behaviour,” Moody said.

“Heard he had a row with Fudge,” Ron replied, “and might get fired.”

The old Auror scoffed. “Anyone who can talk to goblins every week without flinching won’t be scared by Fudge. No, this is something else.”

“He might be sick.” Harry didn’t know if Cresswell was someone who would drag themselves to work despite being ill, but it was a possibility.

Moody snorted. “Sick? Twice Crouch’s struck at Gringotts. And now Cresswell is sick in the middle of his negotiations with the buggers? That’s not a coincidence. Constant Vigilance!”

Harry didn’t flinch at the sudden, loud admonishment. After a few years, you got used to Moody’s quirks. “So, what do we do? Talk to him?” They couldn’t interrogate the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office for being sick, could they?

Moody shook his head, his scarred face forming what passed for a grin. “No, lads. That would tip off whoever’s behind this. You’ll investigate him covertly. I want to know everything he does. I even want to know what dreams he has!” He glared at them, his artificial eye spinning madly. “And don’t tell anyone. You can’t trust anybody.”

Harry glanced at Ron. His friend had a carefully neutral expression. This was probably just Moody’s paranoia. Ah, well - it wasn’t as if they had anything more urgent to do, what with their investigation being stalled for the moment. Moody was still working out a possible deal that he could offer Skeeter for her cooperation. And they still had no good leads - the trap in the hunting cottage hadn’t been triggered yet.

“Alright, boss,” he said. “We’ll investigate and shadow him.”

*****

Shadowing Dirk Cresswell was a lot more boring than Harry Potter had expected. After Harry had used the man’s break to exchange his office door with a conjured copy lacking the original’s protections against Harry’s enchanted glasses, all he had to do was stand outside Cresswell’s office and watch him from under his Cloak of Invisibility. And observing a man dealing with paperwork was even more boring than doing the paperwork yourself. The only breaks in the monotony happened whenever Cresswell sent off a memo. But, after the first two, silently summoning the little paper aeroplanes and checking their content before setting them loose again became routine as well. Although he noticed that Cresswell did tremble, noticeably - and his handwriting showed it, too.

None of the memos looked suspicious, though - just reminders of meetings. The most interesting was the request to share information with the goblins, or rather, the request to grant that request, sent in triplicate to Fudge, Bones and Scrimgeour.

No one visited Cresswell’s office during the afternoon - although that was probably because no one wanted to risk being associated with him until it was clear whether or not Fudge would fire him.

And Cresswell didn’t finish work on time. The man kept shuffling parchment for an hour longer. Harry hoped that Ron had called Grimmauld Place; he wasn’t in the mood for another lecture about being punctual from Hermione - the witch knew his schedule better than he did and seemed to take any deviation as a personal affront.

But finally, the man got up, locked his office and headed to the Atrium, shadowed by Harry until he vanished through the fireplace - to ‘Cresswell’s Home’. An altogether unproductive afternoon, Harry thought.

“Bloody useless task,” he said as he entered his office and sat down heavily in his seat.

“Observing Cresswell?” Ron asked.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “Guy is more boring than Binns!” He scoffed. “Tomorrow, you can stand outside his office and fall asleep.”

“You’re the one with the Cloak of Invisibility and the enchanted glasses, mate,” Ron said, chuckling.

“I’ll loan them to you,” Harry told him.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to decline.”

Harry huffed. Perhaps he should mention to Moody that Ron needed some more experience in shadowing, too? “So, what about your task?”

“Oh, you might be interested to hear that Darlene Cresswell missed the Ministry’s Matrons’ monthly Sunday tea,” Ron said. “She sounded rather distracted, too, according to my information, when she was on the Floo.”

“Ministry’s Matrons?” Harry hadn’t heard that term.

“Percy’s nickname for Mum’s friends - most of them are married to Dad’s colleagues or work at the Ministry themselves. Meet once a month for tea and gossip.”

“You told your mum about our investigation?” Harry stared at him. Ron was more cavalier about secrecy, but this…

“No. I simply called her to talk about dinner at The Burrow this week and mentioned that I had heard Dirk Cresswell looked ill today.” Ron grinned and patted a scroll of parchment. “I got a rundown of the Cresswells’ life in return.”

“Lucky,” Harry spat.

Ron tapped his temple. “Just using my head.” He sighed. “Anyway, it looks like both of them might have been sick.”

“It might be contagious,” Harry said. It likely was, if both Cresswells had caught it. “We should check with St Mungo’s. Cresswell was trembling rather strongly today. It would likely be serious enough for a visit.”

“Already checked. I asked the nurse in charge to visit them, then acted as if I had misunderstood them when she told me they weren’t patients.” Ron sounded smug. “Neither has visited St Mungo’s.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That does look odd,” he said. “Not to seek help… Maybe we should cast a few spells on him when he returns tomorrow.”

Ron nodded. “Yes. Before Mum visits them - she mentioned she might.” He picked up a memo from his desk. “Also, the results came in - the remains from Bulstrode Manor were a cat’s.”

It looked like Moody had been paranoid, then. Even if he might be onto something with Cresswell.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 27th, 1998**

More time spent standing around hidden under his Cloak of Invisibility! And this time, Harry Potter wasn’t even watching his target. Instead, he was waiting for Cresswell to arrive at the Ministry. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait for too long - Cresswell usually came to work early and this morning was no exception. As soon as Harry saw the man step out of the fireplace, he tapped the magic mirror in his pocket.

A moment later, Ron stepped out of the next fireplace, stumbling forwards a little for effect so that he almost crashed into Cresswell. “I’m sorry! Long night… Oh, Mr Cresswell! Good morning. Is your wife feeling better? Mum mentioned that she was ill.”

Cresswell blinked. He was still a little pale but didn’t tremble as much as yesterday. “Pardon?”

While he was looking at Ron, Harry levelled his wand at the man and cast his first spell. No illnesses.

Ron laughed, acting embarrassed. “Ah, sorry again! I’m Ron Weasley. My mum is a friend of your wife’s.”

“I see. Arthur’s son.” Cresswell looked more relaxed now.

Harry cast another, more complex diagnosis spell. It was a little tricky under the cloak, but he managed it. Definitely no illnesses.

“Sixth son, to be precise,” Ron said. “We’re a handful.”

“I can imagine.” Cresswell nodded. “I’ve got two myself, both at Hogwarts.”

Harry cast his next spell. And had to suppress the urge to hiss when he saw the result.

“I think I remember one of them. Gryffindor, right?” Ron asked.

“Yes.”

“Best house!” Ron said, grinning.

Harry cast the spell again, just to ensure he hadn’t made a mistake. He hadn’t.

“Of course!” Cresswell laughed.

And Harry wondered why someone who had been put under the Torture Curse wouldn’t have called the DMLE or St Mungo’s.

*****

“Obliviated and tortured?” Harry Potter blinked at Moody’s statement.

“Aye.” The old Auror was grinning. “I knew something was suspicious.” He grew serious again. “Both him and his wife.”

Harry had expected that, but to have it confirmed… He winced.

“If Mum hears about this…” Ron shook his head.

“She won’t,” Moody growled. “No one can know about this!”

“If the Cresswells were tortured, does that mean they didn’t have access to Veritaserum?” Ron asked.

“Perhaps,” Moody said. “Or they simply couldn’t control themselves. Bellatrix Lestrange loves the Torture Curse, and this looks like her style.” He scoffed. “More important, though, is that we know they’re still interested in Gringotts. Unless this is another distraction, of course. But it’s not as if we have a better lead.”

“So what do we do?” Harry asked.

“We’ll have to investigate Gringotts, of course. Crouch is a crafty bugger; he’ll be planning another attack already.” Moody snorted. “Not that the goblins don’t deserve it, but we can’t afford a war with them. So even if it’s just another distraction, we have to stop it.”

“So his next distraction will succeed again?” Harry asked.

“Only if we don’t catch him first,” Moody replied. “The first two distractions were simple - straight attacks. But if he went after Cresswell for information, then he’s planning something more subtle. Something he needs insider information for. That’s a chance for us.”

“We don’t know much about Gringotts, though,” Ron said.

“Aye. Which is why we’ll be using the Bulstrode robbery as a cover to investigate Gringotts.” Moody chuckled. “I’ll just have to inform Dawlish that we’ve found a connection to our case, but that it’s a secret. He’ll love that!”

Harry wasn’t certain if he should be more concerned about the fact that he was apparently going to spy on the goblins, or that he would have to do so while working with an Auror who resented him and his team.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 27th, 1998**

Hermione Granger shouldn’t be here. She should be out on the roofs of Knockturn Alley, tracking down Mad Mulligan. Helping Mr Fletcher track him down, at least. Even though he had told her that he didn’t need her help with finding him, she certainly could use the experience. She should be on the prowl, on the hunt. She shouldn’t be sitting in Grimmauld Place’s living room with a book in her lap and Crookshanks sleeping on her feet.

And it was all Harry and Ron’s fault. Their new, more regular schedules really complicated her own plans. She glanced at Ron. Her friend was sitting in his usual chair, closer to the windows, and talking to Luna through their enchanted mirrors. She didn’t need to eavesdrop to know that, behind Ron’s privacy charm, they were exchanging ‘sweet nothings’, as her mum would call it - Ron’s expression told her enough. That slightly silly smile, the hint of a blush - yes, he was flirting. As usual. Probably keeping Luna from doing her homework, too.

She sighed. Honestly, he should simply sneak into Hogwarts and meet her properly. It couldn’t be too hard to get in through a secret passage or a side entrance. Harry could even lend him his Cloak.

She was of a mind to tell him so, but that might give Harry and him ideas about her. Ideas she didn’t want them to have. Even if Ron really should sneak into Hogwarts, if only so he was out of her hair.

Although that would still leave Harry. If he had a girlfriend… she pressed her lips together. No. It would facilitate her heists, but she didn’t need him to have one. She was a professional thief; she would adjust and adapt. There was no need to saddle her best friend with some silly, clingy hussy who was only after his fame, gold or both.

She glanced at him as he sat, reading, on the couch. And found him glancing at her just as she looked at him. She forced herself to smile and meet his eyes, instead of looking away like a little girl caught staring. And she hadn’t done anything wrong, either! “What are you reading?”

He blinked, then smiled and held up his book: “Gringotts: A History.”

Oh. She narrowed her eyes. That was a strange choice for her friend. It wasn’t as if he’d only read Quidditch books and magazines (and books about magical animals), like another friend of theirs, but goblins? “Are you working on a case involving goblins?” she asked.

“Ah…” He cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”

She shook her head. Of course he was - he wouldn’t be behaving so evasively otherwise. She stood, apologised to Crookshanks for dislodging him from her foot and disturbing his nap, and then walked over to Harry. “I’ve read that book recently,” she said as she sat down next to him. “What are you looking for?” He probably wouldn’t be interested in the goblins’ security, but it wasn’t as if she had skipped the chapters covering politics.

It turned out he was interested in the goblins’ security. That was interesting - and inconvenient, since she’d have to play ignorant again.

On the other hand, since she was already familiar with the content, she could enjoy the experience of reading a book with her best friend - while sitting so close to him that she only needed to slightly shift her weight to lean into his side and rest her head on his shoulder.

Only to get a better angle to read the rest of the page, of course.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, October 28th, 1998**

“There. Mad Mulligan lives in the back flat on the fifth floor,” Mr Fletcher said as he pointed ahead to the house on the corner.

Hermione Granger, wearing a dark hooded cloak, like Mr Fletcher, which hid her mask and suit, studied the building. It was only three floors high - but then, most of the doss-houses in Knockturn Alley made heavy use of Extension Charms to cram more flats inside their decrepit structures. The outside of the building made The Burrow look solid; the inside probably made Kowloon Walled City look spacious.

“How did you find him?” she asked.

“Bought a few drinks in the local dives,” he answered. “Mad Mulligan is well-known, but not well-liked.”

She nodded. She could do that too, should she have to track down such a wizard herself. “Why is he called that?” She doubted that the man played golf.

“Twice broke into the same house in Diagon Alley and was arrested each time,” Mr Fletcher explained.

Hermione shook her head. That sounded like their quarry was both stubborn and stupid. An embarrassment to any professional thief. “Well, I guess that makes it likely that he didn’t rob a well-guarded place for the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“Might’ve found it in some rubbish,” Mr Fletcher said. “A single cabinet isn’t valuable.”

Hermione hoped that that wasn’t the case - it would make trying to find the original owner both more difficult and more conspicuous. “Do you expect any trouble inside the house?” she asked, glancing at him. Such houses were often claimed by gangs of ruffians - or worse - as their territory.

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “No. The house belongs to the Notts.”

She nodded. No local thug would dare disturb an Old Family’s business. Preying on tenants was one thing, but trying to claim the house as their own? The consequences varied, but it usually ended badly for any ruffians that cocky.

They would still have to be careful, of course. “Let’s go,” she said, starting to walk towards the doss-house.

Up close, it looked worse. Not quite condemned, but close. Magic would help with structural issues, of course, but it said a lot about the Notts - and the tenants - that none had bothered to clean up the entrance and front of the house. On the other hand, she amended as she saw some hulking figures lurking in the alley next to it, if the house looked less decrepit it would probably attract attention none of the tenants wanted.

They entered, and, as expected, the interior went as high as ten floors, two flats per floor. At this time of the day - late morning - it looked deserted. As planned.

They climbed the creaking stairs, scaring a ratty-looking dog away from the third floor, and soon stood in front of Mulligan’s door on the fifth floor. She tapped her mask, activating the spells on it, and fought the urge to sigh. The spells protecting the flat - they could barely be called wards - were pathetic. No self-respecting thief would live like that!

A few flicks of her wand and they were inside without alerting anyone. The flat’s interior matched the building - sparsely furnished with damaged furniture and some mouldy-looking wallpapers, both covered with dust, painted a depressing picture. Hermione wondered if the thief was too lazy or too inept to conjure better furniture and clean up.

Mr Fletcher gestured at a half-open door. She nodded and moved forward, hearing snoring. Shaking her head, she pushed the door open and aimed her wand at the figure on the bed while she glanced around to check that no one else was in the room. She saw no one, and no floating marker indicated a disillusioned presence.

“That’s him,” Mr Fletcher said. “Drunk off his arse,” he added with a nod at the three empty bottles near the bed.

Hermione sighed. That might complicate the interrogation but wasn’t unexpected. She removed the man’s wand with a quick, silent Summoning Charm, then aimed at his drooling face. “Aguamenti!”

The stream of water woke up the thug - she wouldn’t call the sorry excuse for a criminal a thief - and soaked his bed. He spluttered, trying to shield his face with his hands as Hermione hosed him down.

She ended the spell and addressed him. “Mad Mulligan.”

“What?” He squinted at her, then paled. “Merlin’s arse, no! I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to steal from you!”

Hermione was tempted to close her eyes and sigh at this pathetic display. “Then you better answer our questions.”

He nodded rapidly, sending drops of water flying from his face and hair. With his hair plastered to his head and his twitchy nose, he looked like a large, wet rat. She resisted the urge to hex him on principle. “Three years ago, you sold a cabinet to Borgin and Burkes. Where did you get that cabinet?”

“What?”

The rat was asking for it. She cast a Stinging Hex at his thigh, and he squealed as if she had stuck him with a knife. “You sold a magical cabinet to Borgin and Burkes. Where did you get it?”

“But Burkes said it was rubbish, worthless!”

She hexed him again and then once more. He squealed like a mouse. But he started talking.

“From that house in Godric’s Hollow… the shed. It looked valuable… almost broke my back carrying it outside.”

“The Levitation Charm is a first year spell,” she hissed.

“What?”

She reined in her temper and ignored Mr Fletcher’s chuckling. “Which house?”

“Dunno. Some white one.”

It took a few more Stinging Hexes until they had a sufficiently detailed description.

“That’s all I know… please!” he whimpered.

“We should put you out of your misery,” she told him.

“No! Please! I didn’t know!”

She shut him up with a Memory Charm. Pathetic rat.

*****

**North Sea, Azkaban, October 28th, 1998**

“Merlin’s beard,” Harry Potter heard Ron mutter as they stepped out of the fireplace in Azkaban and found themselves staring down the wands of the Hit-Wizards on guard. “Don’t curse us, even though we’re Aurors!”

None of the Hit-Wizards laughed. “Go through the Thief’s Downfall, and don’t touch your wands!” the witch in charge snarled.

Harry rolled his eyes as he walked through the contraption and let the liquid wash over him. Ron did likewise. The Hit-Wizards should have been this alert before Crouch infiltrated the prison. Though he doubted that the Death Eater would try the same trick a second time.

“Can we draw our wands now?” Ron asked in a rather petulant tone.

The Hit-Wizards stared at them, and, for a moment, Harry thought they would call for someone to check their identities - Ron wasn’t as bad as Fred and George, but he could be very annoying when he tried. But then the older Hit-Wizard nodded.

Harry cleaned and dried himself with two charms, then stashed his wand again.

The witch kept frowning at him. Harry blamed Ron for that. “What is your business in Azkaban?” she asked. “We weren’t informed of another investigation.”

“We’re here to visit a prisoner,” Harry explained. “Private business.”

The witch’s frown deepened. “No funny business. I don’t want an escape attempt on my watch.”

“We won’t do anything but talk,” Harry assured her. He wasn’t certain whether she was afraid of an actual breakout or that they planned to hurt the prisoner and blame it on an escape attempt.

“Just a polite, private talk,” Ron added with a grin.

“And who do you want to visit?”

“Raphael Markdotter.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s one of the wizards who attacked you.”

Harry nodded. “The case’s closed. I just want to talk to him - he was my first arrest.”

She didn’t believe him, he could tell, but there wasn’t much she could do. She snorted and looked at the youngest Hit-Wizard. “Humphrey, lead them to Markdotter. And check if he wants to see visitors.”

The Hit-Wizard jerked his arm, as if he wanted to salute but stopped at the last moment. “Yes, Ma’am.” Turning to Harry and Ron, he added: “Follow me, sir.”

A few minutes later, they were standing in front of Markdotter’s cell. “You’ve got visitors here. Want to see them?” their guide yelled through the door.

“Who is it?”

“Two Aurors on private business.”

A moment passed. Then the thug answered. “Alright. But better hang around, so they don’t have to wait when they want to leave.”

The Hit-Wizard frowned, probably miffed that it would look like he was following the thug’s orders when he stayed, but opened the door.

“Hello, Mr Markdotter,” Harry said, smiling. “I’m Auror Potter; this is Auror Weasley.”

The thug paled slightly. “The Boy-Who-Lived. Who’d have thought?”

Harry shrugged as the door closed behind him, then made a point of looking around. The cell looked new. Freshly cleaned and repaired, he guessed. He stepped to the barred window and peered out while Markdotter turned his head to keep track of him.

“I already told everything I saw during the breakout,” Markdotter said. “Which wasn’t much.”

“We’re not here about the breakout,” Ron said, conjuring a seat for himself and a chair for the thug. “We’re here to talk about your past.” He sat. “Namely, your past business as a wand for hire.” Ron gestured at the chair, and the thug sat down after a moment’s hesitation.

“That case’s closed. I’m doing my time,” Markdotter said. He was glancing back and forth between Harry and Ron.

“The case against you is closed,” Ron said. “But we still don’t know who hired you.”

“I don’t know. The bloke used Polyjuice Potion. I told that under Veritaserum!”

Ron nodded, still smiling. “Yes. But I don’t think that this was the first time you were hired by that person. Went a bit too smooth, didn’t it? No questions, no long negotiations. They knew you.”

“So? I don’t know them.”

Harry stepped behind the thug as Ron leaned forward. “But you know the jobs you’ve done like that one. And we want to know them. And we want your memories.”

Markdotter drew a breath through clenched teeth. “I ain’t no rat.”

He put up a brave front, but he was sweating, Harry saw. He cleared his throat and slowly walked around the man. “You know that Ron and I fought and killed the Dark Lord.”

Markdotter slowly nodded.

Harry bared his teeth at him. “That means we’re the prime targets for the Death Eaters who escaped. And for the Death Eater who freed them.” He scoffed. “I think it’s possible that he was the one who hired you.” Harry didn’t, actually - Crouch would have attacked them, given the opportunity. Probably used the thugs as a distraction and scapegoats. But Markdotter wouldn’t know that. “That would make you an accomplice to the man behind the breakout.”

“You weren’t hurt during all that fighting. Looks a little suspicious, doesn’t it?” Ron added. “And now you’re not cooperating.”

“You’ve got two choices. You can tell us what we want to know. Copy your memories for us. And we’ll be gone, with no one the wiser,” Harry said.

“Or we can ask Moody to talk to you.” Ron smiled.

“Mad-Eye?” Markdotter said, paling even more.

Harry nodded.

Markdotter talked.

*****

**Godric’s Hollow, Cornwall, Britain, October 28th, 1998**

The Barntuckles lived in a modest house on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow. Former farmhouse, Hermione Granger thought - she recognised the style, but the fields around the house weren’t cultivated, and there was no sign of any livestock, although there was an old barn next to the house. Well, no sign other than a lazy, overweight dog sleeping in the sun on the lawn. Sirius probably approved, she thought with a glance at the wizard next to her.

After adjusting the fake Auror badge on her red robes and tucking a strand of her currently straight, blonde hair behind her ear, she knocked on the door. After half a minute, it was opened, and an old wizard in house robes squinted at them. “Yes?”

“Mr Barntuckle?” Hermione asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Auror Smith; this is my partner, Auror Wesson.” She pointed at the disguised Sirius. “We’re investigating a robbery, and we would like to ask you a few questions.”

“A robbery?”

Hermione hoped that the wizard’s memory was better than this first impression implied. “Yes. May we come in?”

“Oh, of course!”

The house was bigger inside than outside, but not extremely so, and the furniture was old and well-repaired, but didn’t look very expensive. They sat at the large, heavy dining table and refused Mr Barntuckle’s offer of pumpkin juice and scones. Hermione came straight to the point before Sirius could make idle conversation, probably about the dog outside. “Mr Barntuckle, we found a list of stolen goods, and one of the items on it was a Vanishing Cabinet taken from Godric’s Hollow. Did you ever own such a cabinet?”

“Oh…” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, yes, we did. A pair even!”

Perfect. She leaned forward. “What happened to the cabinets?”

“Oh… that was… fifty years ago? Or something.” He blinked again.

Fifty years? Hermione suppressed a wince. The cabinet could be anywhere!

Mr Barntuckle went on. “Marcus and I - Marcus is my brother, you see. Married a Prussian witch and now lives in Berlin. Writes me every week, though, he does. And sends me pictures of my grand-nieces!”

She forced herself to keep smiling. “What did you and your brother do?”

“Oh. We had a plan, you see. We wanted to use the cabinets to come and go from Hogwarts as we pleased. One here, in the barn, another in Hogwarts, hidden somewhere. We could have visited our parents whenever we wanted.”

“What a great idea!” Sirius exclaimed. “And you could have smuggled in all kinds of things!”

“Oh, yes. We had plans,” Mark Barntuckle said, nodding. “Marcus knew a shop where we could buy firewhisky without trouble, you know.”

“What happened?” Hermione interrupted. “You had plans, but nothing came of it?”

“Oh, we broke the cabinet. We managed to get it to the Forbidden Forest with our flying carpet - they weren’t banned back then, you know?”

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said with a forced smile.

“Yes, anyway, that was before school began. And then, in the first week, we fetched the thing. Only, it was so heavy, I had trouble with it, and Marcus tried a Levitation Charm, which went awry, and we dropped it. A few times. Cracked the frame. Never worked right afterwards, so we left it there, hidden on the first floor.”

“And is it still there?” Hermione asked.

“I gather… we never tried getting it back. No point when it’s broken, you know? And we told our parents that it had been stolen.” He chuckled. “And then, years later, the one in the barn really was stolen. Kind of fits, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hermione lied.

“Where did you hide it?” Sirius asked. “I’ve done a few pranks myself at Hogwarts, and I know the first floor well. Maybe in the alcove behind the silent knight’s portrait? There’s a secret passage, you know?”

“Oh, is there? We never knew! Did you find the one linking the History classroom and the courtyard?”

“Yes, we did!”

Hermione fought the urge to hex both men as they started to reminisce about their time at Hogwarts.

*****

“You didn’t have to obliviate him, you know,” the dog remarked when they finally - after spending far too long listening to old stories - left the house.

“Yes I did,” she retorted. “You practically told him who you were with all your stories!”

“He probably wouldn’t have remembered us anyway.”

She glanced at him. He looked rather morose, for a change. Of course - he had lost a lot of his memories, but due to Azkaban, not to old age. She swallowed her sharp retort and shrugged instead. “Better safe than sorry.”

He grunted.

“Well, at least you’ll get to relive your past glories when we sneak in and recover the cabinet,” she commented.

“You’re right!” He perked up. “We should use the opportunity to play a prank on Remus! Or McGonagall!”

“No, we shouldn’t,” she said through clenched teeth. Maybe she should have obliviated both of them?

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, October 28th, 1998**

Harry Potter didn’t bother nodding at the glaring guards as he entered Gringotts. They wouldn’t have appreciated it, anyway. Instead, he glanced around, taking in the layout. They had installed Thief’s Downfalls at the main entrance since his last visit, but apart from an increased number of guards, he didn’t notice any other changes as he stood in line.

Well, the line was shorter than last time, too. It didn’t take him long to reach a teller. “Yes?” The goblin sneered at him.

“I’d like to access my vault,” Harry said, showing his key. “Number 687, Potter.”

The goblin scoffed and hit the bell on the counter. “Follow Gripclaw.”

The service hadn’t grown any friendlier, Harry noted as he walked behind the other goblin towards the tunnels leading to the vaults. But not any worse, either. No added security at that entrance - no, the door to the stairs he had seen on earlier visits was now barred.

Neither he nor the goblin spoke on the cart ride, but Harry noted that the cart slowed down before passing another new Thief’s Downfall, and there was a new alcove right at that spot, with guards inside. And some dogs, or animals that looked like dogs.

That robbery must have really spooked the goblins for them to go to these lengths, he thought. He’d have to tell Moody tomorrow - the old Auror was still browbeating Dawlish into sharing information.

When they arrived in front of Harry’s vault, he also noticed that the goblin didn’t walk away, but stayed and watched as the door swung open. “Do you mind?” he snapped.

Gripclaw growled but stepped aside, and Harry entered his vault. He had taken most of his gold to Grimmauld Place after the riot, but there was still a decent sum left. Certainly enough to grab a little spending money to keep up appearances. Maybe he should have a browse in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Or perhaps surprise Hermione with a new book… He could claim he spotted a new book she might like while buying the latest European Quidditch Almanach.

*****

**Hogwarts, October 29th, 1998**

“You know, this is just like old times,” Sirius said - not for the first time. “Sneaking through a secret passage into Hogwarts after midnight, using the map to check for patrols, up to no good…”

“And getting caught if you don’t focus and stop talking,” Hermione Granger whispered. “We’re almost there.”

“There’s even a worrywart who can’t stop nagging,” the dog grumbled. “Remus would be proud.”

She wouldn’t hex him. Not in the middle of a heist. She was a professional thief. Not some student out of bounds for a lark.

“Of course, if Remus had been a witch, some things would have been quite different.”

After the heist, though… Hermione clenched her teeth.

Finally, they reached the end of the tunnel, and she felt around for the lever to open the secret door. There! “Is the hallway clear?” she whispered.

“Wait a second… yes. There’s a prefect patrol on the second floor, but they won’t bother us.”

“Unless their route leads down to the first floor,” she corrected him.

“Oh, I don’t think so. They’ve been ‘inspecting’ a broom cupboard for five minutes now. Close together,” he said, and she didn't have to look at him to know he was smirking.

Huffing, she pulled the lever, and the wall in front of her swung to the side.

“The cabinet’s in the alcove next to the former Defence classroom,” the dog said - as if she would have forgotten that. She had studied the maps and knew the way. She was a professional thief, not some prankster!

She wanted to change and sneak ahead as a cat for added stealth, but the dog would copy her, and Padfoot was anything but stealthy. So she quickly made her way on two feet to the classroom, then snuck into the alcove. There was the cabinet, right where Barntuckle had told them.

Now all they had to do was to replace it with the duplicate they made, levitate the original into the secret tunnel and leave.

“Oh no!”

That was the last thing she wanted to hear from the dog. “What?”

“Mrs Norris is coming towards us. I can stun her, but Filch’s got a sixth sense about her - never worked when we did it at school.”

Filch’s pet cat? Hermione had a score to settle with that beast. She hadn’t forgotten her first year!

“Leave her to me. Get the cabinet to the tunnel,” she said and changed.

It was time to teach that snitch that proper cats didn’t act as if they were guard dogs!

*****

Five minutes later, she strolled into the secret tunnel with her head held high and her tail raised. Mrs Norris wouldn’t dare prowl the hallways for her owner for a while!

*****

 


	44. Subterfuge

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 30th, 1998**

Another day, another dozen case files to sift through. On average. Case files to examine, mark the missing forms and sheets and then send them back to the stupid Aurors who couldn’t be bothered to do their paperwork correctly. Or checking whether the stupid Auror looking into the archived files had mistakenly replaced half the sheets in the file with material concerning their current case. Or finding half of someone’s breakfast or lunch spread over the pages of a file.

Theodore Nott, Auror, had seen it all in his time in ‘FiIing’. More than once he had wondered how the Ministry managed to keep going if this was representative of the average competency of its employees. It wasn’t as if it were difficult to handle files correctly - the forms were easy to understand. All it took was care. Diligent working. Adherence to proper procedure.

Something Theo had come to know wasn’t really common among his co-workers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When he saw things like the file he was currently inspecting - which was missing all the even numbered pages - he couldn’t help wondering how they had passed their Potions N.E.W.T.s when Snape had been teaching. His old Head of House wouldn’t have tolerated such sloppiness.

He marked the file as incomplete and dropped it in the basket on his desk that would return it to the Auror who had sent it. Once the office mail got around to it, at any rate.

“Hi, Theo.”

He looked up. “Bathilda? What are you doing here?” He rarely got any visitors here - other than some Aurors who thought that by asking in person, they would get to skip filling out the proper forms to request the files they wanted. But Bathilda wasn’t one of those Aurors - she was one of the few who correctly filed her cases.

The witch held up a file. “I don’t need this any more, and thought I’d deliver it myself rather than let the mail handle it - and ask you if you’ve taken your break already.”

Ah. Theo smiled. Bathilda was such a Hufflepuff - hard working, friendly and considerate. If only all his co-workers were like her, his workload would be cut in half, at least. “No, I haven’t taken my break yet.” He pointed at another file in the ‘out’ basked, where the envelope was visibly discoloured. “Seeing someone’s lunch in that file put me off. But a cuppa sounds good.” He stood, then hesitated. “Potter’s not taking his break as well, is he?”

Bathilda frowned at him. “No, he isn’t. Moody has him and Ron investigating something.”

“Ah.” Good.

They walked towards the break room.

“What’s your problem with Harry, anyway?” Bathilda asked. “And why don’t you have the same issues with Ron?”

“Both of them hate me,” Theo said. “Potter’s the leader, though.” If it were just Weasley, Theo wouldn’t have any trouble with the lout. Weasley’s father and brother worked in the Ministry, but they were dirt poor and lacked the backing of an Old Family, so Theo could have put Weasley in his place easily. But Potter… Bloody Potter.

“You do everything to aggravate them, though,” Bathilda commented as they reached the break room.

“I don’t!” He huffed. He was only defending himself. “This began long before we started at the Ministry.”

“Theo!” She glared at him. “We’re not at Hogwarts any more! No one cares who won the House Cup!”

The bloody Gryffindors certainly still cared. Bloody cheaters! “It’s not about the House Cup. Or anything that happened at Hogwarts.” He shook his head as they sat down at their usual table.

“Then what’s the problem? What makes you three attack each other every time you meet?”

Theo sighed and summoned a cup and the teapot to gain some time. Bathilda wasn’t from an Old Family, so this would be difficult to explain. “Potter’s only part of the problem. He’s a tool.”

“What?” She stared at him.

Of course, she wouldn’t be aware of the politics - she wasn’t connected, and she hadn’t been in the Department long enough. “He is the Boy-Who-Lived.” And the arrogant sod wouldn’t let you forget it. “The most famous wizard in Britain. At Hogwarts, he could do not wrong - Dumbledore always took his side.”

“We’re not at Hogwarts any more!”

“No, but it’s the same thing here. Instead of Dumbledore protecting him, and using him for his own plans, this time it’s Black.” Theo snorted. “Black’s trying to destroy the Wizengamot. He’s spending gold like crazy to get enough idiots on his side that he can pass whatever laws he wants. He’s a revolutionary. My father was in the same year at Hogwarts, and he told me all about him and his views.” Which were terrifying. The fool would destroy a thousand years of tradition and order in his hatred of the Old Families. “And Potter’s Black’s tool to deal with those who won’t be bought. You’ve heard him talk about Malfoy and the others, haven’t you? Bones herself had to tell him that he couldn’t wage his private war against them, but he’s doing it anyway. For Black.”

Bathilda didn’t look like she believed him.

He tried again. “He started at the same time as we did, but while we’re working with experienced Aurors, he gets paired with Weasley at the first opportunity, and they’re set loose. No oversight. No controls. First patrol, they curse half a dozen ruffians - and right afterwards, Mad-Eye picks them for his special group.” He scoffed. “Don’t you see? Black’s pulling strings. As soon as there’s an excuse, Potter gets promoted. Until no one can stop him any more when he goes after Malfoy and the others who oppose Black’s plans.”

“Bones wouldn’t let him break the law!” Bathilda protested.

“Bones is the Head of the DMLE. If she ever wants to become Minister, she’ll need support.” Even as a member of an Old Family. “And Black can offer her that support.” He leaned back and finished his cup. “Bones may talk tough, but in the end, she wants power.”

“And you want to stop Black? By yourself?” Bathilda frowned at him.

“I can’t stop him. But I can try my best to stop Potter from running roughshod over the Department and pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.” He certainly hadn’t planned on doing that. All he had wanted was to spend some years in the Ministry and network until he would inherit his father’s seat. As the scion of an Old Family, Theo would have been promoted quickly, too. But Potter had to ruin everything.

“And why do you care? The Notts aren’t friends with the Malfoys.”

So she did know something about politics. Theo made a mental note not to underestimate her. Dawlish had probably started teaching her the ropes. “I care because I don’t want to lose everything we’ve built over generations to one man’s irrational hatred.” Black was the Head of an Old Family. The richest family, too - and the most feared. He had no need to destroy the Ministry and the Wizengamot.

“Do you think Black wants to ruin your family?”

Theo scoffed. “He wants to ruin all the Old Families. Which will destroy the entire country.”

The mess the Aurors made of their paperwork was proof of that.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, October 30th** **, 1998**

“...and, therefore, I think it’s of utmost importance that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement should focus their efforts on recruiting more Hit-Wizards and Aurors. Even though, as my esteemed colleague Madam Longbottom observed, new recruits won’t be able to do very much, they can still serve in low-priority areas, allowing the more experienced Aurors to focus on catching those vile criminals who threaten the very soul of Wizarding Britain.”

Malfoy certainly laid it on thick, Hermione Granger thought. She certainly would never describe the Old Families as ‘the very soul of Wizarding Britain’ - but she knew the majority of the Wizengamot certainly would agree with Malfoy. Just as she knew that they would agree with Malfoy’s proposal. The Bulstrode heist had spooked them more than they wanted to admit - until now, they trusted their wards to protect them, at least long enough for the Aurors to arrive. Even against Crouch and the Lestranges.

But that all that had changed. As had Bulstrode’s status. She glanced at the man. He was sitting in his seat, surrounded by the other members of the Wizengamot, yet no one was talking to him or even pretending to pay attention to him. Even though everyone was talking about him.

So much for blood and breeding being what distinguished the Old Families! This proved, to anyone with eyes to see the truth, that gold was the only thing that mattered to the leaders of Wizarding Britain. She wondered when Bulstrode would abandon his seat, sick of being isolated and ostracised by his former peers. Although he was a stubborn wizard and a proud one. He might stick it out till the end. But his heir wouldn’t be confirmed in the Wizengamot, though they would find some excuse other than being too poor for an honoured member of the Wizengamot.

Sirius raised his wand. He would support the proposal as well, of course. Anything else would be suspicious. She smiled - it wasn’t as if it would truly hinder their subsequent heists. New recruits or experienced Aurors - none of them would catch her. Not even Harry.

She would have her revenge!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 31st, 1998**

Hermione Granger glared at the Vanishing Cabinet. She had repaired the damaged frame. She had analysed the spells on it. She had a working example standing right there, next to it. Repairing it should be easy. Just duplicate the spells and restore the connection.

And yet, so far, her efforts hadn’t borne fruit. The cabinet still wasn’t working reliably. It wasn’t even working regularly - half the time, nothing happened at all and the rest of the time, the items she was using to test the cabinet either disappeared to somewhere, or, once, came out… changed. She had vanished those.

Sighing, she sat down and closed her eyes. She could do this. She just needed to duplicate the spells. Which required her to learn the spells. Spells that weren’t in the Hogwarts curriculum.

“Hermione?”

She looked up. Jeanne was standing in the doorway.

“You look annoyed.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m frustrated.” She pointed her wand at the cabinet, resisting the sudden urge to cast a hex at it. “It’s not cooperating.” She sighed. “Or rather, I don’t know the spells needed to repair it. I know their effects, and I can identify them easily, but...”

“...but that’s not enough to cast them,” Jeanne finished for her as she joined her on the floor, sitting down cross-legged.

“I can reverse-engineer them.” Probably. “It would take a long time, though.”

“Reverse-engineer?” Jeanne cocked her head at her.

“Recreate the spell.”

“Ah. Recrafting. We did that in Arithmancy.” Jeanne smiled. “I learned a special transfiguration spell for robes that way. The teacher wasn’t amused, but it has come in very handy at times,” she added with a naughty grin.

Hermione hadn’t gone that far. Mr Fletcher had taught her the basic principles, which had been enough for her Arithmancy N.E.W.T.s. But she had focused on wards and Curse-Breaking - spells and techniques a thief needed - and not on spellcrafting. Learning enough to master this would probably take her longer than it would take to find and learn the necessary spells from other sources.

Or she could swallow her pride and ask Jeanne to help. Which was what her friend was obviously expecting, judging by her expression. She didn’t like it, but it was far better than wasting time. “Could you help me with this?”

“Of course.” Jeanne beamed at her and flicked her wand. “Let me take a look at the spells…”

*****

“I think it’s a variation of the Switching Spell,” Jeanne said as she finished her analysis. “It doesn’t need a target to swap, though. That’s where the Protean Charm comes in.”

Hermione Granger had come to the same conclusion. “So can you recraft the spell?”

“I think so.” Jeanne craned her neck and stretched. “But I’ll start tomorrow. Tonight’s Samhain.”

“Halloween,” Hermione corrected her.

The French witch snorted. “Whatever the name, it’s a traditional celebration. We’ll have a feast at the Weasleys, or so Sirius said.” She frowned. “But it looks like Harry and Ron will be out all night.”

Hermione nodded. Once more, Harry’s sense of duty was as annoying as it was appealing. “It’s all Moody’s fault.”

*****

**Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire, Britain, October 31st, 1998**

Harry Potter frowned when he spotted movement in the small clearing below him. He ran his wand along the frame of his glasses and activated the spells on them to zoom in and add more brightness. Yes, someone was moving there. About a dozen people. Thirteen, to be exact, forming a circle holding candles.

He sighed and tapped his badge. “Potter speaking: There are people on site, Forest of Dean. I’m hovering above them. They haven’t spotted me, and they look like muggles. Thirteen of them, holding candles.”

“Moody speaking: That is exactly what Crouch would want you to think! Constant Vigilance! Observe them until Weasley and I join you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. That was the fifth ‘potential ritual site’ Moody had them check out. Two had been empty and two had been full of muggles celebrating Halloween. The people below didn’t look like they were having a party - unless it was a ‘toga party’; Sirius had mentioned them once - but Harry was certain they were muggles. No wand in sight nor any wards or ritual circles. Just candles and bedsheets.

Harry doubted that even Crouch would go that far. And even if he did - why would he waste a few hours before the real ritual? The ceremony happening below Harry was as magical as the BBC test card - no sign of any spells. And the singing didn’t change that either. If Crouch wanted to deceive the DMLE, he would have had to know which location they were checking at which time - and Moody hadn’t told anyone. Not even Harry and Ron.

“Moody speaking: We’re flying towards you now, Potter. Form the north.”

“Potter speaking: Understood.” Harry sighed and wondered when they would be dropping the formalities - it wasn’t as if anyone else could overhear them right now.

A few minutes later, two disillusioned wizards pulled up next to him - he could tell from their floating markers.

“They’re chanting!” Moody growled.

“In Gaelic,” Harry said. “Seamus used to sing like that when he got drunk.”

Ron chuckled. “Oh, yes.”

“Cut the chatter. There’s more to magic than Hogwarts,” Moody growled. “You can’t know what Crouch might have found in twelve years.”

“Apart from blood magic,” Harry replied.

Moody scoffed. “Potter, check for anyone observing them. Weasley, you and me will stun the lot and check for magic before obliviating them.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?” Ron asked. “It’s not as if they’re harming anyone.”

“It’s the Day of the Dead, Weasley. Some of these sites are still powerful enough to be dangerous. And those idiots are trying a ritual. Wouldn’t be the first time someone dug up a working ritual.”

Harry didn’t think muggles could do any magic, even with a working ritual, but there was no point in arguing. “Yes.” He guided his broom down to the forest’s canopy so the ground would be in range of his Human-presence-revealing Spell and started a search pattern.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 2st, 1998**

“...and while Harry was flying circles, we stunned them all. Didn’t find anything dangerous or magical,” Ron finished the tale.

“And I didn’t find anyone either,” Harry Potter said as he refilled his cup. “Spent the whole night chasing muggles away from ritual sites.”

Bathilda shook her head. “No party or feast for you, then?”

Harry shook his head, mirroring Ron. “No.”

“I don’t mind,” Ron said. “Luna’s at Hogwarts anyway. But Hermione wasn’t happy with Harry.”

Harry glared at his friend. “Just wait until next year.”

“So the rumours are true?” Bathilda leaned forward. “You and your godfather’s secretary?”

Harry sighed. “It’s complicated.” And having to work on Halloween certainly didn’t help make it any easier.

“Ah.”

Fortunately, Bathilda didn’t ask for more details. She was a very nice witch, in Harry’s opinion. Too nice - she still hadn’t realised what a scumbag Nott was.

“Very complicated,” Ron said.

Harry glared at him, but his friend didn’t add his usual ‘it can only be solved if Harry asks her out’ line.

“Ah.” Bathilda nodded again, then took a sip of her tea. “Say, I was wondering…”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Bathilda was nice, but she also liked gossip.

“...what do you think of the Wizengamot?”

“It’s nothing more than a tool for the Old Families to run Wizarding Britain as their personal fiefdom,” Harry quoted Hermione. He shook his head. “It’s in dire need of reform, the first task of which would be democratisation. As long as the seats are inherited by the Heads of the Old Families, we won’t ever get rid of the corruption in the Ministry.”

“They have the gold, the seats and the relatives in the Ministry,” Ron added. “If you want to advance, you need a patron. If not for Dumbledore, Dad and Percy would have been fired long ago - or assigned to dead-end posts.”

“That’s the worst thing,” Harry said. “Even if you want to change things, you have to play the game. You need friends in the Wizengamot or you’ll never get promoted past the lower ranks. And in the Wizengamot, you need friends in the Ministry who’ll keep you informed, at the least.” He snorted. “And fighting corruption with corrupt methods is a bad idea.” Like fucking for virginity, as Sirius had once put it - a quote from Harry’s mum.

“But if everyone has friends…”

“...then everyone in the DMLE isn’t enforcing the law, but doing favours for their friends,” Harry interrupted her. “It doesn’t even out. There’s no accountability with inherited seats. Wizengamot members get away with anything, even with crimes, as long as they have enough friends who’ll vote to acquit them in a trial.” He nodded. “We need reforms or the whole system will crash and burn - and sooner than they think. It would already have happened, if Dumbledore hadn’t been so patient.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry scoffed. “What do you think would have happened if Dumbledore had decided to get rid of the Wizengamot? Who would have been able to stop him?”

“He could have just started cursing people in the middle of a session,” Ron added. “No more Wizengamot.”

“But Dumbledore’s dead,” Bathilda said.

“Yes. And he was able to keep the Wizengamot honest. More or less. But since his death the Old Families have grown bolder - and greedier,” Ron told her.

Harry nodded. “And that‘s not a good thing for people who are supposed to both make our laws and judge our cases.”

Bathilda looked shocked. Once more Harry thought that she was a little too nice - or naive - for the Ministry.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 2st, 1998**

“You’re getting better.”

Hermione Granger snorted at Harry’s words as she mended and cleaned her robes - they had gotten both torn and dirty during their ‘training session’ had created - then beamed at him. “Does that mean I can stop getting regularly hexed by you?” Before he could answer, she went on: “Let me guess: I’m still not good enough.”

Harry’s smile slipped, and he sighed. “I don’t think anyone is good enough. Not when we’re facing Crouch and the Lestranges.”

She was tempted to answer with a flirty remark, but his expression made her drop the idea. “What’s wrong?” she asked instead as she stood and walked over to the bench in the room, where he was sitting.

“I’m just a little frustrated at our lack of progress,” he said. “I mean, the lack of progress in hunting the Death Eaters down, not yours. Not that there is a lack of progress on your part, I mean,” he quickly added.

She had to giggle at that as she sat down next to him. “I knew what you meant.” With a mock-scowl, she went on: “At least I hope I know what you meant.”

He laughed. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising, unless you were lying to me?” She asked, then patted his shoulder when she saw him at a loss for words. “Sorry. I’m a little frustrated myself.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t tell him that she resented the fact that she couldn’t do much to repair the Vanishing Cabinet. Nor that she hated the fact that Jeanne could repair it instead - even though she knew that was petty and arrogant. So she lied. “Malfoy’s making more friends in the Wizengamot with his proposals to boost the Auror Corps, and there’s not much Sirius can do about it, unless he wants to be painted as a Death Eater sympathiser.”

“What? Sirius? That’s ridiculous!” Harry exclaimed.

“I know, but the Wizengamot’s whipped up to a frenzy about the Bulstrode robbery and Malfoy’s trying to portray himself as their saviour.” Hermione shook her head. “They’re too afraid to see through his ploy.”

Harry leaned back on the bench. “Well, I can understand that. The fear, I mean. We still don’t know how they slipped through the wards. If Crouch finds out how to do it - or hires them - and they do it to our home…”

Hermione refrained from laughing at that idea. “But didn’t you say that the Death Eaters couldn’t get through Azkaban’s wards and had to sneak in?”

“Yes. But that’s how the thieves did it at Bulstrode Manor, too.”

Had they connected the robbery to the cat? She forced herself not to tense up. “I thought you didn’t know how they did it?”

“Well, not exactly. But Moody’s convinced they somehow snuck past the Thief’s Downfall, not the wards. The human factor is the weakest link in security, or so he claims.” Harry shrugged. “And that’s how Crouch infiltrated Azkaban.”

So they didn’t know. She slowly nodded. “Well, we’re not about to get as sloppy here as the guards in Azkaban were.”

“You can’t underestimate him. He’s one of the most dangerous dark wizards in Britain.”

And she was one of the best thieves in Britain. Even if the Death Eater managed to get past the wards in Grimmauld Place, he wouldn’t catch her. “I certainly won’t. And I don’t think anyone else in our home would, either.” Sirius certainly wouldn’t underestimate the Death Eaters - Jeanne and herself would see to it. “But I’m also not going to live in fear of him.”

“Not fear. Just… caution.”

She sniffed. “Well, I guess if I have to trust Dawlish to catch those thieves, I should be a little more cautious. Or a lot.”

Harry chuckled, then shook his head. “Well, he’s not the best Auror, but far from the worst.”

“Now I’m worried. And afraid,” she said, shaking her head. Good news for a thief, but even better news for the Death Eaters.

“Well, he’s got a good partner, at least. Bathilda - Bathilda Meringworth - is a good Auror. Hardworking, smart and very nice. She was in Hufflepuff, a year above us. She started with Ron and me this year.”

“I think you mentioned her before,” Hermione said. But certainly not as flatteringly - she would have remembered that. “But will hard work be enough with Dawlish in charge?”

He chuckled. “She tries to play peacemaker when Ron and I butt heads with Nott, too, so she’s used to nigh-impossible tasks. She’s even a little too nice for an Auror - or naive.”

Hermione nodded. And made a mental note to take a closer look at this oh-so-nice witch. Just in case she was trying to manipulate Harry.

*****

**Kent, Longbottom Manor, November 3rd, 1998**

“What do you think?”

Hermione Granger tapped her mask to reset the zoom to normal before answering Mr Fletcher’s question. “Mrs Longbottom doesn’t seem to distrust her hired guards, unlike other Old Families after the Bulstrode Heist. There are two double patrols. With dogs.” If Hermione didn’t know how little Neville’s grandmother thought of muggles, then she would have suspected the involvement of a muggle security firm. “I think it’s a safe bet that they’ll be on the lookout for disillusioned intruders with Human-presence-revealing Spells as well, and won’t rely on the dogs.” As if dogs were of any use against a professional thief. Stupid beasts.

Mr Fletcher chuckled. “Unless she hired the dregs of her family.”

“There’ll be at least another patrol, probably two, inside the manor. And the same number of guards ready to react to an alarm,” Hermione went on. “Not counting Mrs Longbottom and Neville.”

“And whoever they have invited to stay at the manor.”

She nodded even though he couldn’t see her, just the marker floating above her head. “They’ll be jumpy too - the Lestranges tortured Neville’s parents into insanity at the end of the last war. To know they are still in hiding, getting ready to strike…” She wouldn’t have known any of that but for one of the articles in the Prophet following the breakout.

“They won’t try to stun an intruder,” Mr Fletcher said.

“They won’t catch us.”

“Don’t be so certain.” She knew he was frowning. He had been when they had been planning this. “Your plan relies on them catching you.”

“Not me, just the attempt,” she responded. “And I’ll have you watching my back.”

He sighed but didn’t try to change her mind any more.

She could understand him, of course. She didn’t like doing this either - and not because of the risk to herself, should any of the patrolling wizards and witches actually spot her. But it was necessary, to prevent an even higher risk.

She drew her wand. “So, let’s go out of sight and start digging.” Or vanishing, to be precise.

*****

**Kent, Longbottom Manor, November 4th, 1998**

Harry Potter stared at the tunnel, or what was left of it. Neville’s guards had torn up part of it and caused the rest to cave in, revealing how far it had run - from the second-closest forest to the wardline at Longbottom Manor.

“I noticed that the earth had started to sink when I checked our gardens. I almost dismissed it as a fluke, but…” Neville shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Definitely,” Ron agreed.

“Why didn’t you call the Aurors?” Harry asked.

Neville chuckled. “I didn’t want to look foolish if it had been my imagination. And Gran agreed. So we had Michael and his wands check it out. They started to vanish the earth there - and discovered the tunnel.”

“And the thieves.”

Neville sighed. “They saw black robes and thought it was the Death Eaters. And they panicked, even though the thieves ran.”

Harry huffed. They had been lucky that this tunnel had been dug by thieves, not Death Eaters. If the Lestranges had been in the tunnel, half of Neville’s guards would have been killed or maimed. Those outside the wardline. “I’ll need the memories of the guards.”

“Their memories?” Neville stared at him.

“Copies. For Sirius’s Pensieve.”

“Ah.” Harry’s friend nodded. “I’ll tell them to give them to you.”

“Is that how they got through Bulstrode’s wards?” Neville asked. “Dug a tunnel to the wardline, deep enough to avoid notice?”

“It’s a possibility. We’ll have to check the area there,” Harry said. “But if they’re smart they’ll have filled up any tunnels after they left the manor.” He doubted that that was how the thieves had gotten through the wards, though he couldn’t tell why he felt that way.

“That won’t help,” Neville told him. “You’ll still be able to tell from the earth.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. “You should tell that to the Auror team working on that case.”

“I thought you and Ron were working on it.”

Ron laughed. “No. We’re hunting the Death Eaters. We only responded to the call here because someone called it a Death Eater attack.”

Harry nodded. “Bathilda, the witch over there with your grandmother, is working on this case. You’ll have to tell her.”

Neville frowned. “I’ll have to go over it again?”

Harry laughed. “And a few times more, I think, once we catch the thieves.”

“At least you won’t have to write it down,” Ron said. “Dictaquills aren’t good with forms.”

“Huh?”

“Just the usual Ministry paperwork. Can’t just file a Dictaquill scroll - have to write a proper report using the correct forms.” Harry scoffed. If it were important to use the forms, they wouldn’t have let Nott anywhere near Filing. That spoiled wizard didn’t know anything about Auror procedures.

“Ah.” Neville nodded. “Like the Wizengamot. They speak normally during sessions, but the record is full of flowery words.”

Ron scoffed. “If we did that Bones would call it ‘falsifying evidence’.”

Harry shrugged as he checked if Bathilda was still busy with Neville’s gran. It didn’t look like she’d be free of whatever lecture or advice Mrs Longbottom was giving her any time soon. He turned his attention back to Neville. “So, how have you been doing since Hogwarts?”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 4th, 1998**

“I don’t know if I should envy or pity Neville,” Ron said, balancing his chair on its two back legs.

“Hm?” Harry Potter looked up from his report and frowned. “Are you taking a break already?”

“No, I’m doing balance training. If Moody asks, that is,” Ron answered with a grin before leaning forward and letting his chair rest on four legs again. “But to answer your other question: I knew Neville had taken his seat in the Wizengamot, but I didn’t know that he still let his gran do the work.”

“He said that he let her check his speeches,” Harry said.

“Yes, he did. Just like Hermione checks Sirius’s speeches.” Ron chuckled.

Harry frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“You’re right. She writes the speeches, and Sirius condenses them into something that won’t drive the Wizengamot away or put them to sleep.”

Harry’s frown turned into a glare. “She’s just thorough. Her essays for Sirius cover everything important.”

“And every detail she could think of,” Ron added. “And both important things and details are wasted on the Wizengamot anyway. The members only care about their own coffers.”

“Most of the members,” Harry corrected him.

“A few exceptions excluded, then.” Ron laughed. “You just acted like her.”

“What?”

“She’d have corrected me as well, even though she knew what I meant - and that I was right.”

“Well, we are Aurors. We’re supposed to look at every detail - and write it all down in our report,” Harry responded. “Like the report you’re supposed to be finishing.”

Ron shook his head. “And once again, you sound like her.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If we’re late because of you lazing around, I’ll tell her it’s your fault.”

Ron shook his head. “She still hasn’t said anything?”

“We need to finish our report.” Harry went back to writing.

Ron sighed. “I could ask Luna to, you know, sound her out next weekend.”

Harry looked up again. “I didn’t know there was a Hogsmeade weekend this week.” Had they changed the schedule? After centuries?

“It’s not. But Luna knows the secret passage to Honeydukes,” Ron said.

“Ah.” Harry nodded.

“She really likes chocolate.”

Harry nodded again, grinning.

“So... do you want me to ask Luna to ask Hermione to ask you out?” Ron asked again.

He was serious? Harry shook his head. “We’re not at Hogwarts any more.” Luna was a sweet girl. A good friend. But he’d rather not see her trying to play cupid. Especially not with him.

He wasn’t desperate. He’d ask her himself instead. Subtly.

*****

**London, Grimmauld Place, November 4th, 1998**

Hermione Granger moved her wand and her catsuit, floating in the air in front of her as if worn by an invisible mannequin, rotated about itself. She studied it with a critical eye, but she couldn’t detect even a hint of dirt. The enchantment to keep it from picking up dust and other material that might be traced to a crime location was working perfectly. She still cast a cleaning charm of course. Just to be sure. Only dogs liked to be dirty, after all.

“Did you pad that thing? It looks quite a bit larger in the chest area.”

Thinking of dogs… She rolled her eyes before storing the catsuit in her trunk and turning to face Sirius. “I ensured that the mysterious master thief of whom the Longbottom guards were allowed to catch a glimpse would have a different figure than myself,” she corrected him. She hadn’t liked that, but it had been a necessary, even crucial part of the plan.

“So you did pad it!” Sirius chuckled. “You know, you can use Transfiguration for that.”

“I would rather not mess up my balance by adding unneeded fat to my body.” Not to mention that such transfigurations shouldn’t be done by amateurs. Even if the stories she had read when looking into the issue might have been exaggerated to keep teenage witches with body issues from maiming themselves, it certainly was neither safe nor easy. Her figure was perfectly fine, anyway. Lithe and graceful, like a cat. Not lumpy like a cow.

Sirius grimaced. “Only you would describe it like that, I think.”

She snorted. “I’m simply precise instead of obsessed with appearances.”

The dog seemed to find that amusing for some reason since he laughed before nodding towards the door. “Jeanne and Fletcher are waiting. Harry called - he won’t be late, but he wants to use the Pensieve after dinner. He was at Longbottom Manor today.”

“Oh.” That was unexpected. Harry and Ron were among the best Aurors - but they were hunting the Death Eaters, not the mysterious thieves preying on the Old Families.

“He didn’t want to tell me much, but he wants to use the Pensieve to ensure that this wasn’t a Death Eater attack,” Sirius said as he opened the door for her.

“A Death Eater attack?” She almost hissed at the thought. “Did they think I was Bellatrix Lestrange?”

Mr Fletcher, sitting at the ‘planning table’, which doubled as the ‘loot sorting table’ after a heist, chuckled. “A witch wearing black clothes and a mask - who else could that be?”

She huffed. “I ensured that they would catch a glimpse! How could anyone mistake my catsuit and mask for Death Eater regalia?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have padded your chest,” the dog said. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

“Easily,” Mr Fletcher responded, ignoring the dog’s remark. “They were nervous and focused on casting curses, not on watching who they fought.”

She sniffed. “If they think that this was a Death Eater attack then we failed. I failed. I should have let them get a better look.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You took too many risks as it was,” Mr Fletcher snapped. “I almost had a heart attack when the tunnel blew up.”

She frowned. “We need to be seen as going after all of the Old Families, or even the DMLE will be able to connect the dots eventually.”

“Let’s wait until Harry and Ron finish their investigation of the incident before we talk about another attempt at misdirection,” Jeanne said.

“We can always rob another family or two,” Sirius said. “I have a few names in mind.”

“The more heists we do before Malfoy, the more prepared he’ll be for us,” Hermione retorted. And the closer her unofficial deadline - Jeanne giving birth - would be. “Every trick we use will only work once.”

“Are you running out of ideas already?” Sirius said.

“Hardly.” Even though she hadn’t yet found a good plan to not only clean out the Davises’ vault but also strip their manor bare. At least not a plan Mr Fletcher wouldn’t reject as too dangerous.

But she did indeed have a few ideas.

*****

**London, Grimmauld Place, November 4th, 1998**

_There was the hollow. It was barely visible - a small depression in the ground. For anyone to notice it, they had to be intimately familiar with the grounds of Longbottom Manor._

_“Alright, I’ll vanish the earth, you be ready with your wands in case this is more than a mole,” Richard Longbottom - very distantly related to the Longbottoms - said. His tone left no doubt that he doubted that this was an impending attack._

_“If it’s a mole, then we’ll have to call Lovegood and tell him we’ve found one of his crazy animals.” Melissa Byers laughed._

_“It could be a Voracious Mole. They really exist - cousin of mine was almost maimed by one in Kenya,” Lesley Hawkins cut in._

_“What’s a Voracious Mole?” Melissa asked._

_“Imagine a cross between a mole and a vole,” Lesley answered. “Give it fangs and sharpen the digging claws. And then enlarge it until it’s the size of a wizard. Although if it were a Voracious Mole, it would have already undermined us to attack us from below.”_

_Melissa cursed, and everyone aimed their wand at the ground._

_“Vole or mole or Death Eater - we’re not getting paid to speculate,” Richard announced. “Get ready!”_

_A moment later, the Earth started to disappear as Richard cast a series of Vanishing Spells._

_“How bloody deep do we have to dig?” Lesley asked once the hole was past ten feet._

_“Until I stop,” Richard snapped. “Now keep your mouth shut!”_

_And then, about thirty feet deep, the earth vanished and revealed a tunnel. And a black-clad figure with a wand._

_“Death Eater!” Lesley yelled, jumping back._

_“Merlin’s beard!” Melissa started to cast a curse but she wasn’t quick enough. The figure jumped back, their wand came up, and the hole was suddenly filled with green smoke that rose upwards._

_“Poison cloud! Bubble-Head Charm!” Melissa screamed._

_“No, it’s acid!” someone yelled._

_And then there was a blast in the hole, and the lawn started to form a more distinct depression._

Harry Potter withdrew his head from the Pensieve and looked at Ron. “You’re right. The thief is a witch. Athletic. And quick. Good reflexes. And she kept her wits - scared the Longbottom guards with a quick conjuration and made her escape.”

“With a good figure too - though that could be padding,” Ron added.

Harry nodded. “It’s possible.” Though he doubted that anyone would wear such tight clothes and then pad them. “And she might be a muggleborn or half-blood - she’s wearing a leather catsuit.”

“Or a pureblood who wants you to think she’s a muggleborn,” Ron said. “Can’t assume anything.”

“Right. So we don’t really know much about the thief.” Harry sighed. “At least we can tell Neville that the intruder is very unlikely to be Bellatrix in disguise. I don’t think she would use Polyjuice Potion. That would throw off her sense of balance. And I really don’t think that she would wear muggle clothes. Not according to what Sirius told us.” And the figure wasn’t tall or buxom enough for Bellatrix.

“So: the thief is an athletic, quick-footed and quick-thinking witch. And probably hot. Do you think Dawlish will investigate the Harpies after he reads our report?”

Harry laughed. “Gwenog Jones would bash his skull in with her bat if he bothered her.”

But he resolved to check Ron’s report before handing it in. Sometimes, Ron showed both Luna’s and the twins’ influence a little too much, and Harry didn’t want the rest of the Aurors to think of him as a randy teenager lusting after a thief.

*****

**Hogsmeade, November 7th, 1998**

Luna was on her sixth coffee and chocolate scone in less than an hour - Hermione Granger had kept count. “No wonder the waiter isn’t batting an eye at your school robes, even though today isn’t a Hogsmeade weekend,” she commented.

“What are you talking about?” Luna asked, frowning at Hermione, a forkful of cake frozen halfway to her mouth. “These clearly aren’t school robes - do you see any Hogwarts colours or badges anywhere? It’s a perfect disguise!”

“The waiter greeted you by name, Luna,” Hermione pointed out. “And he asked how Ravenclaw is doing in the Cup.”

“Well, of course, he would greet me by name; otherwise he’d be rude. And he asked because he, too, was in Ravenclaw.” Luna shook her head.

“And you told him how many points the house currently has.”

“Well, if I hadn’t, I’d have been rude. And selfish.” Luna nodded and then proceeded to finish her cake.

Hermione sighed and looked around to see whether there were any other students in Madam Puddifoot’s teashop. A few of the patrons did look rather young, but they didn’t appear to be nervous, which she would have expected had they snuck out of Hogwarts.

On the other hand, this might be normal for Hogsmeade - she had only visited the village during Hogsmeade weekends, after all. And to sneak into Hogwarts, but she hadn’t lingered in the village on those occasions. And she certainly hadn’t visited any teashops.

She glanced at Harry and Ron. “At least you two aren’t wearing your Auror robes.”

“I already have a girlfriend,” Ron said between taking bites of his cake, “I don’t need to impress other witches with my dashing robes.”

“You better not try to impress other witches!” Luna said, frowning at him.

“Of course not!”

She nodded emphatically. “It would be cruel to make them think you were available!”

Ron nodded with a rather sappy expression. Hermione turned to look at Harry, expecting him to share her wry amusement at their friends’ open affection, but Harry wasn’t smiling - instead, he looked pensive as he stared out of the window. “Harry?”

“Huh? Yes?” He seemed startled.

“Are you thinking about your case again?” That would be more than a little hypocritical of him after dragging her to Hogsmeade to ‘forget about work for a day’.

“No, no. Not my case.”

“Another case then?” she joked. “Still thinking about that thief?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I actually wanted to ask Luna about something, but it’s kind of private.”

Both Ron and Luna perked up at that, Hermione noticed. “Really?” Luna asked, putting her fork down. “Something you talked about with Ron?” Harry stared at her, and she quickly added: “You talk to him all the time, after all.”

“Yes.” He cast a privacy charm - he wasn’t mumbling the incantation any more, Hermione noticed. “I was wondering if you had any idea about which creatures would make good guard animals.”

Weirdly, Ron rolled his eyes while Luna’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! Lots! Daddy taught me all about animals!” She nodded several times. “You want to protect your family vaults from that thief, don’t you? I suggest getting a dragon. No one would dare approach your vault, then. They don’t let anyone close to what they consider theirs, so even if the thief uses Polyjuice Potion to look like you they won’t be able to steal your gold!”

“She,” Harry said. “It’s a witch.”

“Oh, right, Ron told me. You’ve spent hours memorising her figure,” Luna said.

Hermione told herself that it had been a very good decision to pad her suit.

Harry coughed. “I had to be certain that she wasn’t Bellatrix Lestrange. But you were talking about guard animals. Dragons are illegal in Britain.”

“Are you certain?” Luna frowned.

“Yes.” Harry nodded.

“Even for Aurors?”

“Even for Aurors. Especially for Aurors,” Harry confirmed.

“Bah.” Luna pouted and turned to Ron. “I was looking forward to visiting your brother in Romania, but if we can’t get a dragon, it takes a lot of the fun out of the trip. It’s like visiting Honeydukes but not being allowed to buy anything.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, but her friend just shrugged. “We could get a Chimaera instead? That doesn’t count as a dragon, I think.”

“I wanted a dragon,” Luna said.

“Anyway, what other guard animals would you suggest?” Harry asked.

“Oh… given that the thieves like to tunnel, I would suggest a Voracious Mole. They can dig underground and intercept any tunnelling attempts.” Luna smiled. “They eat a lot of meat, so you’d need to cast the Duplication Charm a lot.”

“I think those are a little too big. I merely want guard animals that can detect intruders.”

Hermione knew that she wasn’t the best at Care of Magical Creatures, but had everyone except for herself heard about these animals? She’d have to read up on them.

“You want Shrieking Snakes then!” Luna beamed. “If they sense prey or threats or mates nearby, they scream so loudly, people have gone deaf when they were in the vicinity. They also use that to hunt.”

Harry actually seemed to be considering it! Hermione glared at him. “Think of Hedwig and Crookshanks - they would go deaf from all the screaming!”

“Only until the Shrieking Snakes ate them,” Luna pointed out helpfully. “They prey on such animals.”

“No animals that will attack a cat!” Hermione stated as firmly as she could. “And none that would attack a dog either,” she added.

Which, as it turned out, pretty much excluded most of Luna’s suggestions. And Hermione vetoed most of the rest - there would be no rats in her home, forked tails or not! Nor any Fire Penguins - in her opinion, the lawn didn’t need a lava pit.

She wouldn’t mind a pack of Kneazles, but Harry said that would remind him too much of Mrs Figg’s house - his old babysitter.

Honestly, he should get over such petty issues when his safety was at stake!

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, November 9th, 1998**

“So you’ve finally decided to share your information with us.” The goblin - Manager Sharptooth - had a sneer that was worse than Malfoy’s, in Harry Potter’s opinion. It had more and sharper teeth, for one. And Malfoy had never managed to look at you as if he wanted to kill and eat you, and only wasn’t doing it because he thought you’d taste awful.

It didn’t impress Moody, though. The old Auror shrugged. “Sharing is a good word. We’re not giving it away.”

“What? Those are your vaults we’re guarding!” The goblin rose from his seat, but that actually made him look even smaller.

“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t got much gold myself, and Potter and Weasley here are using the Black vaults.” Moody snorted. “But we’re not here because of the thieves.”

“What? I was told that you would be giving us a copy of your file!”

Moody held up a folder. “Yes. We brought it with us. Including a report on the attempted robbery of Longbottom Manor.”

The goblin’s hand jerked as if he wanted to reach out and grab the folder - despite the fact that he would have to climb across his desk to do that. “What do you want?”

“We want to know everything you know about the Lestranges and the Crouches. Vault contents, records, sightings - everything.” Moody leaned forward.

“We can’t give out such information about our customers. It would be a breach of the treaty!”

“They aren’t your customers. They are your enemies. They’re planning something.” Moody grinned. “Are you certain you want to see them succeed?”

“We only have your word for that.” Sharptooth scoffed. “And wizards lie all the time in war.”

“This is not a war. This is a hunt for criminals - something you should be familiar with.” Moody leaned forward, and his grin grew wider. “They kidnapped Cresswell, you know? Interrogated and tortured him and his wife, then obliviated them to hide the whole thing. Now, I wonder why they would do that if they weren’t planning an attack on Gringotts.” He straightened. “Of course, it’s your prerogative to protect the secrets of such valuable customers. But I think we’d do better working together to catch both the thieves and the Lestranges.” He stood. “So let us know when you’re willing to share information. You know how to reach me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Moody stood and left the manager’s office, Harry and Ron following him. The guards in the corridor outside didn’t bat an eye, but Harry could see that they had gripped their halberds a little tighter.

“Nasty little buggers,” Moody grumbled as soon as they had left the bank. “Don’t know how Cresswell can stand dealing with them. I’d rather talk nicely to thugs in Knockturn Alley.”

“Do you think they’ll share their information?” Ron asked.

“Hard to say. They don’t think like we do. They love gold and war far too much. It took a dozen bloody defeats before they finally realised that they couldn’t win against us. And they still hate our guts while most of us have forgotten about the rebellions.” Moody shook his head. “Bloody fools.”

Harry didn’t know if he meant wizards or goblins. “So we have to hope that they love gold more than war?”

Moody chuckled. “You could say that, yes.”

“They picked gold over fighting when they made the treaty, didn’t they?” Ron said.

“No.” Moody shook his head. “They picked making a treaty and getting gold over getting slaughtered. And, from what I understand, it still was a near thing. Goblins are a bloodthirsty bunch with barely more sense than a werewolf under the full moon.”

“And we let them hold our gold.” Ron shook his head.

Moody shrugged. “They don’t hold the gold of the Old Families, do they?” He chuckled. “Just like it was the common people who died in the rebellions.”

“Why are we working for them again?” Ron asked.

“What’s the alternative?” Moody asked. “Democracy? As long as the Old Families have their gold and their relatives everywhere in the Ministry, they’d still rule the country, democracy or no democracy.”

Harry clenched his teeth. Moody was wrong. You could change the system. Reform the Wizengamot and the Ministry.

But this wasn’t the time or pace for such a discussion.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 13th, 1998**

Hermione Granger was a little frustrated when she returned home from the Ministry. Another pointless Wizengamot session where the members of the Wizengamot lied through their teeth about the good of the country as they did all they could to protect their own interests at its expense - and at the expense of everything and everyone else. Not unlike muggle politicians, as her parents would say when another scandal made the news.

“Hello, Hermione! Did you have a bad day at the Ministry?”

Jeanne sounded far too happy for Hermione’s taste. Chipper, even. Must be the hormones - although she thought it was a little early for the mood swings to have started. “Just the usual Wizengamot business. Sirius went to talk with Doge, but he said that wouldn’t take longer than an hour.” And Hermione hadn’t felt like yet again playing the dutiful muggleborn secretary, even with Doge.

“A bad day, then,” Jeanne said, nodding. “But I have good news! I finished repairing the cabinet!”

Now that was good news indeed! Hermione’s hug almost lifted the other witch off her feet.

*****


	45. Vanishing Act

**London, Diagon Alley, November 18th, 1998**

“Ewan, are you sure that we can trust the Davis Manor’s vaults?”

Ewan Davis suppressed a sigh as he turned to face his wife. They had gone over this before, but Natalia wouldn’t drop the issue. “Of course we can. They’re certainly safer than our own home.” Diagon Alley was regularly patrolled, but that didn’t keep out all the thieves.

“If the family cared about us they’d pay to have our wards strengthened,” Natalia said with a frown.

He loved his wife, but she was Prussian. She didn’t understand the Old Families; not really. Not even after twenty years of marriage. “The cost of installing secure wards on every home would be far beyond even their means. It’s much easier and more logical for Eric to let everyone use the manor vaults to store their valuables.”

She snorted. “‘Eric’. As if he were a friend.”

“He’s family,” Ewan said, a little more sharply than he had intended. Old Families had obligations towards those related to them by blood. And unlike a few other Heads of Old Families, Eric Davis not only understood that but also honoured his commitments. That was how Britain worked, after all.

“So are the Meringworths across the Alley,” Natalia retorted, pointing at the window. “But you wouldn’t trust them with our valuables, would you?”

“I trust Eric and the wards on the manor.”

Natalia scoffed. “He’s a bloody Junker looking down on us. And those vaunted wards didn’t protect the Bulstrodes, did they?”

She had a point there. “What’s the alternative? Trust all our valuables to the goblins?” He scoffed. “They’re just waiting for an opportunity to betray us.”

She frowned, crossing her arms. “At least don’t take everything to the manor!”

“I’m not,” he assured her. “Half our gold is still in Gringotts.” He patted the trunk next to his feet. “But I can’t leave this wood in our shop.” Arcane Gum Tree from Australia, several centuries old. A whole tree’s worth, stored in an extended trunk. It was probably stolen - the wizard who had sold it to Ewan had looked more than a little shady, and the price had been far too cheap for something that rare. But no Auror would be able to find it hidden in a trunk in the Davis vaults. Some things just weren’t done, and searching the manor vault of an Old Family was one of them.

That was how Britain worked, after all.

*****

**Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 18th, 1998**

“Ewan! Welcome to the manor. It’s been too long.”

“Eric. Thank you for receiving me.” Ewan respectfully bowed despite the very friendly greeting. Eric was the Head of the Davis family; he could be as familiar as he wanted with his relatives. Ewan, though, couldn’t. Not with the Old Family.

“Of course! You mentioned you needed to store some valuables?” Eric gestured towards the entrance to the basement. Which, Ewan noticed, was guarded by two tall, muscular wizards. They hadn’t been there when he’d visited the last time.

Eric must have noticed his glance since he chuckled. “I’ve hired a few more guards. Just in case that thief is foolish enough to attempt to rob us.”

Ewan wasn’t an expert, but the two wizards looked Scandinavian. He didn’t recognise them - and, thanks to his carvings being a traditional wedding gift, Ewan was familiar with the majority of his extended family on the British side. He didn’t think Eric would hire strangers, no matter their reputation. Not stationed in his very home. But the Old Family had blood ties to Scandinavia. Blood ties which were not spoken of much in polite company, given the far too favourable attitude of Scandinavians towards werewolves.

As Eric led him towards the entrance - there wouldn’t be a detour to the living room for tea and a chat; they weren’t that closely related - Ewan noticed that both men sported facial scars. Rather notable ones. He suppressed a shudder. If those were werewolves…

Eric must be taking the security of the manor vaults very seriously to dare to hire such cursed beasts as guards. Even though they were rumoured to have a wolf’s sense of smell and would scare off most sane intruders.

“Sven, Jan.” Eric nodded at them as he tapped his wand on the door between the two guards. The larger - Sven - grunted what could have been a greeting. For trolls.

Ewan reminded himself that, according to Kettleburn, werewolves were just normal wizards most of the time. That they couldn’t spread their curse when they weren’t transformed. It had been two weeks since the full moon, too - they were harmless. Or as harmless as wands for hire could be.

It didn’t help. He almost shuddered when he stepped past the beasts. One bite, and he, too, would be cursed. A dark creature. A monster. He shook his head as soon as the door closed behind him and took a deep breath.

Eric glanced at him but didn’t comment. He didn’t have to. Ewan wouldn’t say anything. He, too, was aware of his obligations to the Head of the Old Family. And of what he owed Eric for being allowed to use the manor vaults.

*****

**Diagon Alley, November 18th, 1998**

“He’s back.”

Hermione Granger nodded. Ewan Davis had returned, then. “Through the Floo Network?” she asked, even though she knew that Mr Fletcher would have said if that weren’t the case.

“Yes. And no, I can’t tell if he still has the trunk or not.” The wizard snorted.

She snorted at the rebuke. They knew from listening to Davis’s discussion with his wife that he had taken the trunk with him, and intended to store it in the Davis Manor’s vault. There was no reason to assume that he hadn’t done so. And he would certainly tell his wife if he hadn’t. But she couldn’t help worrying. This was crucial for their next heist. It would be very embarrassing if they stepped out of the cabinet they had hidden inside Davis’s extended trunk last night, only to discover, upon opening the trunk’s lid, that they were inside another vault. Or a secret stash somewhere.

“The plan’s sound,” Mr Fletcher went on, as if he had read her thoughts. “The best cons rely on the mark’s own greed.”

It wasn’t quite a con, but Hermione agreed. In theory. “I’m not worried about that,” she lied.

“You still tryin’ to find a way to loot the manor?” He turned away from the window of the flat they had occupied in the house across from Davis’s shop. “Bein’ too greedy isn’t a good thing.”

“We were lucky to find the cabinet,” she retorted. “It would be a waste if we didn’t even try to get the most out of it.” And she really wanted to humiliate the Davises by looting their manor to the bedrock. Not to mention she wanted their library!

“Jeanne might be able to create another one,” he said.

“That might take several months - or longer. And we won’t be able to use the same trick twice, anyway. Not without waiting too long between heists.”

“If we waited even longer, we could have several cabinets, stored in different manor vaults. And then loot all of them in one night.” He grinned at her.

That was a very tempting idea. Hermione imagined the Aurors’ reaction to such a feat. She shook her head. “It would take too long.”

“Patience is a virtue for a thief,” he replied.

She wasn’t impatient. She had good reasons for discarding the idea. “By the time we were ready, the Gringotts crisis will likely have been resolved. And setting up such a complicated heist when most people no longer distrust Gringotts, and without the public pressure on the Old Families to help their relatives, would be too difficult.”

He grunted, which she took as acknowledgment of her point.

“However, I have an idea that should allow us to loot not just the vault, but the manor as well.” She grinned as she saw him narrow his eyes. “But I’ll need to study Fiendfyre for it.”

“What?” He stared at her.

“I won’t be casting it. But I need to know what it looks like,” she quickly said.

“What exactly are you planning?”

“Applied Chemistry,” she replied with a grin.

*****

**Knoydart Peninsula, Scotland, Britain, November 18th, 1998**

“This is highly illegal,” Sirius said.

“So is stealing,” Hermione Granger replied. “Didn’t stop you. And the Wizengamot would certainly punish robbing Bulstrode Manor far more harshly than a little dabbling in the Dark Arts.”

“It’s not just a little dabbling,” he retorted. “Fiendfyre is among the worst curses known to wizardkind. It burns everything and can barely be controlled even by experienced wizards.”

Hermione made a point of looking around the desolate landscape around them. “There’s nothing to burn here.” Nothing that would be missed, anyway. And it was on the coast, too.

He scoffed. “I’m not certain I should indulge your pyromaniac tendencies.”

She was impressed the dog actually knew the term. But she was less impressed with his procrastinating. “I’m not trying to learn to cast Fiendfyre,” she told him. “I just need to know what it looks like.” After all, the likes of Davis would be familiar with Fiendfyre. And she needed to see the cursed fire with her own eyes to duplicate it convincingly. She didn’t trust Sirius’s memories for this.

He stared at her. “You set fire to a lot of houses.”

“Only when it was needed to hide our traces,” she retorted. And they wouldn’t need to hide that there had been a heist now. Quite the contrary, in fact. “Now please, cast it. I’ll be ready to apparate as soon as you say so,” she added.

He glared at her once more, then pointed his wand at a piece of flotsam a hundred yards away.

A moment later, green fire erupted there - cursed flames as tall as Hermione. The driftwood was consumed in seconds, crumbling to ashes as the flames grew. And moved as if they were alive, reaching out, recoiling from the seashore - and spreading through the meagre grass on the beach.

Spreading towards them like a predator pouncing on its prey. The flames looked like animals made of fire, too. And they were growing even taller. Like a tidal wave made of cursed fire.

“Merlin’s arse! I can’t control it! Apparate!”

Hermione could feel the heat on her skin and saw Sirius reaching for her arm right before she managed to apparate back to the wizard tent they had set up in the Highlands.

For a terrible moment, she feared that Sirius hadn’t made it, but he appeared a second after she did, none the worse for wear.

Both of them were shaking, though.

“I think examining the memories of that in the Pensieve will be sufficient for my study of Fiendfyre,” she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

Sirius nodded. “Yes, that sounds sensible.” She saw him press his lips together. Probably to keep himself from cursing at her.

She certainly felt like cursing at herself for her foolishness. That had been too close. Far too close.

But it meant that her plan was very likely to succeed.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 19th, 1998**

Harry Potter glanced at Hermione over the edge of today’s Daily Prophet, freshly delivered by owl post. She seemed to be in a good mood - or, at least, in a better mood than she had been yesterday evening. Something had happened between her and Sirius - Harry had been able to tell as much just from the tension between them during dinner, but neither of them had told him anything more than that they had had ‘a slight argument’ over their work.

Slight, indeed. He almost snorted at the thought - they had been walking on eggshells around each other for the entire evening. They must have had a spectacular row. Something so embarrassing that both of them wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He could easily imagine that, of course - Hermione and Sirius could both be very stubborn when they thought they were right. Stubborn and passionate. And the current situation in the Wizengamot wasn’t helping, with Malfoy playing the saviour of the Old Families - and more or less subtly criticising the DMLE’s lack of progress at catching either the Death Eaters or the thieves despite all the support he’d organised.

Harry clenched his teeth. It wasn’t as if they weren’t doing all they could - as long as the Death Eaters stayed hidden and inactive, no one could find them. After all, Crouch had managed to hide like that for a decade. No, they had to catch the Death Eaters when they struck at Gringotts. Or at Malfoy.

He closed his eyes. He shouldn’t get angry over this. They would catch the Death Eaters. And the thieves. It was only a question of time. He had other things to worry about, anyway.

He glanced at Hermione again. She was frowning at an article in The Times while eating a croissant. Perhaps he should wait a little longer… No! He had spent more than enough time waiting for the perfect moment, and it had never arrived. He would still prefer to be alone with her for it - he didn’t want an audience, just in case she turned him down or someone thought they should make fun of the whole thing. Their Defence training sessions would be ideal, if not for the fact that Hermione was usually annoyed before, and during, them and quite sarcastic afterwards. And he couldn’t ask her out while he was doing his best to hex or grapple with her. Or talking about her performance.

On the other hand, he had to be subtle, anyway. He couldn’t scare her off by directly asking her on a date - whatever was holding her back from taking the first step and asking him out obviously wasn’t going to disappear by itself, so he had to take the initiative without being too blatant about it. And that would actually be helped if he asked her casually over dinner. Or, in this case, breakfast.

Nothing fancy, of course. Just a casual outing or something. Something they both would enjoy. Or something Hermione would enjoy and Harry could at least pretend to enjoy. Like a visit to Flourish and Blotts. He could invite her to Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour afterwards, on the way back. A natural, casual invitation. Nothing like asking her to dinner. Or to a movie. That would remind her of Paul-the-ex-Boyfriend, and that was the last thing Harry wanted.

Fortunately, he had found the perfect pretext. He suppressed the urge to clear his throat and lowered his newspaper. She wasn’t frowning any more. And Ron was talking to Luna over the mirror. Sirius and Jeanne were discussing some article in the Tribune Magique in French. Good enough. Anyway, he was a Gryffindor. “Hey, Hermione.”

She looked up from her own newspaper. “Yes?”

“I was thinking of checking over lunch if the new edition of ‘Quidditch Through the Ages’ has arrived at Flourish and Blotts. Do you want me to pick up a book for you?”

Her eyes lit up as she beamed at him. Yes! Now she would ask to come along, and they could eat lunch on the way, at that fish and chips shop in muggle London…

“Oh, that’s perfect!” she said. “Can you check if the new ‘Hogwarts: A History’ has arrived? I’ve been waiting for them to finish the new edition for a year, but, apparently, they always take that long for a new edition after there’s a new Headmaster.” She frowned. “Well, I hope they used the time to include everything important. Oh, can you get me a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages as well? And I noticed that we’re missing ‘Blood and Power’, one of the standard works on wizarding genealogy, from the library; I think Sirius’s parents removed it because it contradicted their blood bigotry. If you could get a copy of the latest edition?”

Harry couldn’t do anything but nod and force himself to smile as she turned to Sirius and told him how much gold he’d have to spend. That could have gone better.

At least Ron wasn’t sniggering. Yet.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 19th, 1998**

Ron didn’t say anything until they had reached their office. As soon as the door closed behind them, though, he chuckled. “Mate, that was… not very smooth.”

“What?” Harry Potter frowned at him. “I just asked if there was a book I could pick up for her at Flourish and Blotts.”

“Yeah, sure you did.” Ron shook his head as he sat down at his desk. “Should have let Luna ask her.”

Harry clenched his teeth and glared at Ron, then sighed and sat down himself. “I was just trying to be subtle.”

His friend snorted. “Merlin’s beard, why would you do that?”

“I didn’t want to come on too strongly,” Harry said. And he didn’t want anyone to notice what he was doing. So they wouldn’t laugh at him. “I didn’t want to act like Paul.”

“What did Paul do?” Ron frowned.

He was a smug snob, for one. “I don’t know exactly what he did. But he hurt her when they broke up.” Harry shrugged. “I don’t want to push her if she’s not ready for another relationship yet.”

Ron was still frowning. “So your grand plan is to spend more time with her?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“Haven’t you been doing that already?”

Harry pressed his lips together. “Not like that. I want it to be more…”

“More like a date?” Ron asked.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to ask her out.” Ron shook his head.

“No.” Harry had told him that a few times now.

“I don’t know if that’s a good plan or a pointless plan.” Ron snorted. “You plan to keep doing what you’ve been doing for the past few months, just a little more, in the hope that she’ll make the first move?”

When he put it like that it did sound a little too… subtle. Or timid, if he weren’t a Gryffindor. “I just don’t want to push her,” Harry told him once more.

“Mate, I think you should just ask her out. Waiting for her to make the first move isn’t working. Ask her out and get it over with so you either can move in or move on,” Ron said. “That worked for you before, didn’t it?”

“‘Move in or move on’?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows.

Ron rolled his eyes at him. “You know what I mean. You didn’t act like this with your other girlfriends.”

“Well, they were different,” Harry said.

“How? They were interested in you?”

He glared at Ron. Hermione was interested in him. He was sure of that. He hadn’t misread the signals. Something was holding her back, though. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not here. “Don’t you have work to do?” he asked.

Ron snorted. “Well, you sound like her, at least.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 19th, 1998**

Hermione Granger pressed her lips together when she saw Jeanne headed her way in the Black library. Her friend had that expression on her face that she knew far too well. Sighing, she said, “I know. Harry wanted me to go with him to Flourish and Blotts.” That should take the wind out of Jeanne’s sails.

But the other witch wasn’t so easily dissuaded from her course of action. “And yet, you acted as if you didn’t notice,” she commented as she took a seat across from Hermione.

“I don’t want to lead him on,” Hermione told her. “I don’t want to lie to him.”

“You wouldn’t be lying. You like him, don’t you?” Jeanne tilted her head slightly to the side.

“That’s not the issue. I can’t have a relationship with him.” Not with her secret.

“So tell him that you’ve noticed and that you’re not interested.”

That was exactly what she should be doing. Let Harry move on. He’d find someone else. Someone like… Hermione clenched her teeth. She didn’t want him to find someone else.

Jeanne smiled and shook her head. “You don’t want that, either.”

Hermione huffed and didn’t bother responding.

“So, which do you prefer? Letting him go or lying about your work?”

“I don’t know!” Hermione spat. “If it were just me, I’d have told him long ago.” But it wasn’t just her secret. It was Mr Fletcher’s, Sirius’s and Jeanne’s.

“Don’t do either, then. Just go along next time. After all, he didn’t ask you out on a date.” Jeanne smirked.

She was right, of course. But…

“Or don’t you want to spend time with him?” Jeanne leaned forward slightly as she asked.

“Yes.” She wanted to be with him. Spend more time with him. But that would… She closed her eyes and muttered a curse under her breath.

“Just be yourself, then.” Jeanne stood and patted her shoulder on her way to the door.

“That’s how they usually tell you to behave on a date,” Hermione whispered before she forced herself to focus on her task again.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 20th, 1998**

_The cursed flames flowed towards her, tendrils of cursed fire reaching out to anything combustible on the beach, instantly reducing the driftwood and scarce vegetation to ashes as they leapt ahead of the main body of the flames. Unnaturally fast - a tidal wave of fire - the heat reached her well in advance of the flames, and she could see how they moved - more like animals or monsters than a natural fire driven by the wind._

Hermione Granger pulled her head back out of the Pensieve, taking a deep breath with her eyes closed. Watching the Fiendfyre racing towards her got easier each time she did it, but it never seemed to stop being disturbing. She sat in the armchair she had conjured earlier and rubbed the bridge of her nose, memorising once more the appearance and behaviour of the cursed flames. And the feeling of seeing them race towards her.

She shuddered before she picked up the bowl next to her and added a few more pinches of copper to the powder. That should adjust the colour enough. She put it down in front of her and pushed it to the centre of the room. A flick of her wand ignited the powder, and green flames started to rise. The colour matched her memories. But the flames didn’t move like Fiendfyre. Not yet.

She cast a Flame-Freezing Charm - just to be safe - then swished her wand in a circle, casting a Flame-Moving Charm. The flames started to move in accordance with her wand movements. Not unlike a snake responding to a snake charmer. That was better, but not good enough. The spell might still be useful, though. But not for what she had hoped to use it.

She ended the spell and extinguished the fire. A cleaning charm later, the bowl was empty. Once more she concentrated, then flicked her wand, conjuring powder inside the bowl. It burned in the same shade of green as her original mixture.

She repeated the process a few times, to be sure that she had it down pat. Now came the difficult part.

She left the room and went downstairs, into the secret basement, where she had prepared a fireproof chamber. Two spells later, a green fire was burning in the centre of the solid stone floor. She pointed her wand at the top of the fire and conjured more powder. The flames seemed to leap upward, burning the powder before it touched the bowl below - and for a second, forming a new, seemingly floating, core of fire.

Hermione nodded. That was working as expected. But it was still far more of a proof of concept than anything she could use for the heist. She needed more of those ‘powder clouds’ - many more, and in various shapes.

Fortunately, she was much better at Conjuration than at modifying existing spells.

*****

“Hermione? It’s almost time for dinn… Merlin’s balls!”

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth when the distraction caused her to miss her timing and the cascading fires to burn out half-way. She turned to glare at the dog standing - and gaping - in the doorway to the basement’s training room. “What?”

“That looked like Fiendfyre!”

“It’s supposed to,” she retorted. That was the whole point of her plan - and he knew it. She certainly wouldn’t be daft enough to actually cast Fiendfyre.

He shook his head. “I didn’t expect it to work that well. Could have fooled me.”

She wasn’t sure if she should glare at him for underestimating her or be pleased that she had succeeded. So she scoffed. “It’s not finished yet. I need to be able to conjure far more powder, and in specific shapes. Otherwise, it’ll look like a rather tiny Fiendfyre.” And that wouldn’t frighten people enough.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said, shrugging.

“I don’t have much time left,” she replied. “The longer we wait, the greater the chance that Ewan Davis will take back the wood to use it.”

“He won’t do that for at least another week. Not after Fletcher spooked him with rumours of an investigation,” Sirius said.

“I would prefer not to cut it that close, though,” she said. And she wanted to do it on a night when Harry and Ron were on the graveyard shift. Which limited her options.

She would be rather busy for the next few days. Especially if she also wanted to spend more time with Harry.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, November 23rd, 1998**

Walking through Diagon Alley, Harry Potter had trouble refraining from grinning like a fool. Hermione had asked him to come to Quality Quidditch Supplies as she wanted his advice about a new broom that she was thinking about buying. And Ron had thought Harry’s plan wouldn’t work! Hah! This was exactly what he had been hoping to achieve - a casual outing between friends, doing things they both enjoyed! And Hermione had made the first move!

He glanced at her as they passed Flourish and Blotts. She didn’t stop to browse their displays, although - as he had expected - she looked at the books as they walked past. “See anything you like?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. If Hogwarts: A History had come out, they’d have put it right at the entrance.” She frowned. “If they wait until next year with the new edition, I’ll be very annoyed. Waiting one year is barely acceptable, but two years? They should have been preparing the new edition for years!”

“You could get Sirius to pass a law requiring that,” Harry joked.

She snorted. “I might very well do that; the delay of such an essential book is criminal!” Both of them laughed at that. Although she sighed a moment later. “It’s actually possible that the book’s delay is not entirely due to negligence or lack of planning ahead,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Harry frowned.

“I think a certain Wizengamot member might prefer it if an eagerly awaited book detailing the life and deeds of a wizard who regularly opposed him in the Wizengamot wasn’t published. Especially since many of those issues are still a concern.”

“Ah.” She might have a point there, but… “Isn’t there a saying to never attribute to malice what is likely stupidity?”

She pursed her lips with that slightly pouty expression that made her look adorable, in his opinion, before frowning at him. “What would Moody say?”

“He’s paranoid,” Harry replied. Her frown deepened. He sighed. “He would likely agree with you - he always suspects the worst.”

She nodded. “It’s too bad such a thing isn’t illegal, or we could set Moody on Malfoy. Not that he’d get punished even if it were illegal,” she added with a scowl.

He shrugged. “Sooner or later he’ll pay for what he’s done. His luck will run out.”

Hermione scoffed. “Until his gold runs out he’ll be able to buy his way out of any trouble.”

“Only until you and Sirius manage to reform the Wizengamot,” Harry retorted.

She was still scowling, though. “Even then the Ministry will still be riddled with corrupt officials. People who have been doing favours for the Old Families for so long, they might not even realise that they are doing so. It’ll take years to drain the cesspool.”

That was a depressing thought. Especially for their casual outing. Fortunately, they had now reached Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Harry jumped at the chance to change the subject. “So which broom do you want?” He caught her glancing at him with a guarded expression. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“You sounded like Sirius when he’s about to buy something for Jeanne,” she told him.

“Oh.” Harry cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“‘Like that’?” She had turned away from the entrance to the shop to face him.

“I’m not planning to buy you a broom,” Harry explained. He knew better than to try and impress her like that.

“Good.” She nodded, although he thought it was a little curtly. “I was thinking of buying a Nimbus 2000. A used one - they are good brooms, and since they’ve been outclassed by the Nimbus 2001 and the Firebolt for several years now, they should be cheap.”

Harry nodded. “But as you said - they are outclassed not just by the Firebolt, but also by the Nimbus 2001. They are old and slow.”

“You managed to outfly Malfoy when he had a Nimbus 2001 in second year.”

“Because he can’t fly worth a damn,” Harry retorted as he pushed the door open for her. And because Harry could fly very well. Hermione wasn’t bad, but she wouldn’t be able to push a Nimbus 2000 very far.

“Well, I’m not going to play professional Quidditch or race anyone,” she said as she entered the shop. “It’s just for fun.”

“The matches at The Burrow can get rather competitive,” Harry pointed out as they made their way to the back, where the used broom section was located. The clerk behind the counter started towards them, but Harry waved him off. Hermione wanted his advice, not the clerk’s.

She scoffed. “That’s still fun. I’m not going to spend a fortune on a broom if I’m not using it professionally.” She took a look at the price tags for a used Nimbus 2001, and Harry could see her press her lips together. “Certainly not that much.”

Harry managed not to blurt out that it wasn’t that much gold. That wouldn’t have been well received by his friend. Hermione was as prickly about her finances as Ron had been about his family’s until Arthur’s promotion. “Well, once the Firebolt II is released the prices will fall as every team in the league ditches their old brooms. You’ll be able to get a Nimbus 2001 for the price of a Nimbus 2000.”

“But that might not happen this year, and I would like a new broom this year.”

Harry knew what he would buy her for Christmas this year. He just needed to keep her from wasting her gold on an inferior broom. “Even if they delay the release, brooms will still get cheaper after Christmas. And you can wait another month, can’t you? At least, that’s my professional advice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but nodded. “I guess so. It’s a little cold for flying anyway, even with Warming Charms.”

“Yes.” Harry shuddered at the memories of Wood’s winter training. “So… where do you want to eat lunch?” There. Nothing like asking her to a date.

Hermione pursed her lips again. “Not the Leaky Cauldron. I don’t know many other pubs around here, though.”

Harry was about to mention his favourite muggle fish and chip shop - the one with those nice, small tables in front - when the door opened behind him, and he turned around, hand going to his wand out of reflex. Just in case.

“Harry?”

It was just Bathilda. He relaxed. “Hi, Bathilda. What are you doing here? Hermione, this is Bathilda Meringworth; we started at the Ministry together. Bathilda, this is Hermione Granger, my best friend.”

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Harry couldn’t help noticing that both hesitated a moment before shaking hands. What had Dawlish told Bathilda about Hermione?

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, November 23rd, 1998**

Hermione Granger didn’t like Meringworth, and it wasn’t only because the stupid witch was intruding on her outing with Harry. The rookie Auror didn’t really bother hiding that she thought Hermione was a criminal. Which was actually correct, but Meringworth couldn’t know that Hermione had become a professional thief after being framed as a child. The witch had to be basing her preconceptions on Hermione’s trial and Dawlish’s delusions. Which, in Hermione’s eyes, made her a bigot.

“So, why are you here? Looking for a new broom?” Harry asked, instead of sending the witch on her way.

Meringworth sighed. “Bulstrode owned a Firebolt, and the thieves might try to sell it before the next model comes out and prices fall. John, I mean Dawlish, and I are checking if any shops have been offered a used Firebolt.”

Hermione snorted. As if a professional thief would make such a blunder! The kind of thief who would be so stupid and greedy as to try and sell Bulstrode’s Firebolt - and to Quality Quidditch Supplies, in the middle of Diagon Alley, to boot! - would never have managed to steal it in the first place!

Meringworth turned towards her. “Do you disagree, Miss Granger?”

Hermione met the witch’s eyes with a polite smile. “Yes, actually, I do. I don’t think this is the kind of shop to buy used brooms from questionable sources.”

Meringworth’s smile was more than a little condescending. “You would be surprised how often stolen goods are bought by innocent shop owners.”

Innocent? Hermione almost snorted again. “I don’t think anyone buying a used Firebolt from a thief could be considered innocent. Those are high-end brooms and very rare.”

“You sound as if you know a lot about fencing stolen goods, Miss Granger,” Meringworth retorted.

Did she just go there? She did. Hermione sneered at the Auror. “I don’t think so. I’ve just got a little more common sense than the average Ministry employee. Not that that takes much - my cat has more common sense than the average Ministry employee.” Hermione’s smile left no doubt that she considered Meringworth among those people. She leaned forward. “Did you know that some Aurors were so unintelligent as to think I was a dark witch who had cursed Harry when he had been attacked by Voldemort? Cretins - or following the orders of their masters in the Wizengamot. Or both.”

“If you had been innocent, you could have testified under Veritaserum!” Meringworth spat back. She had definitely been listening to Dawlish.

“See? That’s the naive mindset I’m talking about. You know everything you need to, but you’ve failed to connect the dots or you’d realise how stupid what you just said actually is.”

“What do you mean?” Meringworth narrowed her eyes. The stupid witch didn’t like being called out on her idiocy, then.

Harry cleared his throat, probably worried about the direction this was taking, but Hermione ignored him. She had this in hand. “I was framed because I’m Harry’s best friend - Voldemort’s spies in the Wizengamot were hoping to find out what we did to their master in our first year. If I had been questioned under Veritaserum, Dumbledore’s plans would have been ruined!” Because Harry and Ron would have been in prison with her for drugging Malfoy’s son, but that was a minor detail that didn’t need to be shared.

“What?” The witch looked surprised. So she was merely stupid, and not actively working for their enemies, Hermione noted.

She sniffed. “Ask Harry if you don’t believe me. He knows what we did.” She turned her head to look at her friend; he had better confirm her claim.

Harry nodded, if a little hesitantly. “Yes. I can’t go into details, but if Hermione had been questioned under Veritaserum, then Dumbledore’s plan to defeat Voldemort would likely have been ruined.”

Meringworth gasped. “But… why didn’t he say something? You were expelled from Hogwarts!”

Hermione scoffed. “What could he have said? He couldn’t prove anything without revealing to Voldemort what he had done so far. And the Wizengamot wasn’t exactly trustworthy.” Still wasn’t, in her opinion.

“That’s terrible! But you were pardoned after the Dark Lord’s defeat...” Meringworth blinked.

“Yes, pardoned. Not exonerated. Malfoy knew what he was doing,” Hermione spat.

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“But you can still get exonerated!” Meringworth exclaimed.

“By this Wizengamot?” Hermione scoffed. “I’m just a mudblood to them.” She noted that the other witch flinched at the slur. “They would use the opportunity to damage Sirius’s standing in the Wizengamot by spreading more rumours about me sleeping with Sirius, Harry or both.” And the witch flinched again.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know!” Meringworth blurted out. “No one knows! Even John told me that you were a thief!” She shook her head, and, for a moment, it looked as if the witch would start crying. “I’ll have to tell him he was wrong!”

“Good luck with that,” Hermione said, snorting.

Harry frowned at her as he took a step forward to put his hand on Meringworth’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. It’s how things work in the Ministry. It’s why things need to change. So that what happened to Hermione won’t happen to anyone else.”

And Meringworth nodded. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated herself as she turned to Hermione, “I thought you were a criminal.”

Hermione was about to point out that that was the result of trusting Dawlish, but the expression on Harry’s face stopped her. Her friend was smiling at the stupid Auror as if she were the innocent victim here. Well, originally innocent. So Hermione smiled and simply said: “It wasn’t your fault.” And clenched her teeth when Harry kept his hand on the other witch’s shoulder, consoling her for her appalling lack of common sense and critical thinking.

Hermione really didn’t like Meringworth. Not at all.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 24th, 1998**

“Sneaking back into my own home… something’s wrong here,” the dog muttered as Hermione Granger opened the door leading into the secret area of Grimmauld Place’s basement.

She snorted. “We only have to do this because Harry and Ron don’t know about our plans and think we’re in France. Again.” They wouldn’t be able to use that excuse too often, she knew, even with Jeanne providing an alibi for them in France thanks to Obliviation and Polyjuice Potion.

“And that won’t change,” he quickly said as they entered the basement. “Harry would be devastated if he knew what we were doing.”

She couldn’t dispute that. But the longer they kept this up, the worse it would be once they told him. She shook her head. She had to focus on the heist tonight, not on her personal issues.

Mr Fletcher was already waiting for them. “Hermione. Black.” He nodded. “I’ve placed an order for a Basilisk leather holster at Davis’s Wand Holsters. Davis told me that he’ll fetch the materials from Davis Manor tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“I sure hope that’ll work. I don’t fancy waiting hours in the vault,” Sirius complained.

“I don’t fancy spending too much time in your company either,” Mr Fletcher shot back, “so you can rest assured that I wouldn’t be doing this unless I trusted that it would work. At least my part in it,” he added with a glance at Hermione.

She refrained from huffing; Mr Fletcher remained sceptical of her plan to loot the manor - or at least significant parts of it. She would prove him wrong. “Let’s get ready then,” she said, heading to the changing room.

It didn’t take her long to put on her - still padded in a few locations - leather suit, and she spent a minute checking herself in the mirror to ensure that her appearance was perfect; it wouldn’t do to ruin her diversion at Longbottom Manor by being sloppy.

Everything checked out, though, and she rejoined the two wizards in the main room. Both were already masked and staring at the Vanishing Cabinet. “I took a few items from Borgin and Burkes’s stock,” Hermione told them. “Just in case.”

“Which items?” Mr Fletcher asked.

Sirius frowned. “None of the dark ones, I hope.”

“We left those for the Aurors,” she reminded him. Well, a few questionable, but not really dark, ones they had taken with them. Like the Hand of Glory that she now held up.

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “We won’t have to worry about light giving us away on this heist.”

She grinned. “I know, but there was something else in the shop’s inventory that should add some functionality to it.” She passed a small bag to him.

He took a look at it, then frowned. “Did you test this?”

“Of course!” As if she wouldn’t try out her ideas before implementing them in the field.

“Won’t help Black or me.”

“It’s just in case something goes wrong,” she said.

He grunted. “We can still just loot the vault. Get away clear. No risk.”

Hermione frowned. That would feel like a failure after what they did to Bulstrode. “If my plan fails we can still easily leave. We’ll just fill the entrance with conjured rock and use the cabinet.” Not that her plan would fail. Only a fool wouldn’t run from Fiendfyre.

Sirius clapped his hands. “Any other dried appendages you want to show off, or can we start this?”

She had a few more things in her enchanted pocket, but she nodded. “Let’s clean out a vault, gentlemen!”

She ignored both Mr Fletcher’s snort and the dog’s scoff as she opened the cabinet and stepped inside.

Hermione held her breath as she closed the door. Travelling through a Vanishing Cabinet was the smoothest form of magical transportation she had experienced so far. Unlike Apparition, which felt like you were being squeezed through a rubber tube far too small for a human body, or a Portkey, which dragged you along as if you had a hook behind your navel, you didn’t feel anything. Not even the slight disorientation travelling through the Floo Network caused.

She hated it.

She released her breath, then opened the door. The spells on her mask let her see through the darkness that greeted her, but the smell of wood already told her that she was in Davis’s enchanted trunk, as expected.

She still checked, of course, for traps and ambushes, before heading back into the cabinet to inform the others. A minute later, Sirius and Mr Fletcher joined her in the trunk, which was now illuminated by a floating light.

“Let’s start with the wood,” Sirius said. “My great-uncle risked his life for it, after all.”

“You said that he simply had a muggle deliver it from Australia,” Hermione pointed out.

“Exactly. If my great-grandfather had found out, he’d have been killed for that.”

Hermione assumed that he was joking, but given the history of the Black family, she couldn’t be certain. It didn’t matter anyway - they wouldn’t leave anything of value in the vault or this trunk. “Pack it away”, she said. “I’ll prepare the cabinet for our exit.” Anything of value included the cabinet, after all.

She placed a few packages on the ground next to it while Sirius summoned the wood into one of the trunks they had brought with them and Mr Fletcher checked the trunk’s lid.

“Dark outside,” he reported. “No humans according to my spell.”

“It would be tacky to keep humans in the vault,” Sirius said. “You have dungeons for that.”

She rolled her eyes at the low humour. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” She slipped past the dog and climbed the stairs leading to the top, where Mr Fletcher was waiting. She checked the lid for curses and other spells and caught his approving nod. As if she would forget what he had drilled into her. Then she pushed and moved the lid to the side before sending up another floating light.

When she saw the dozens of trunks, chests and boxes, all lined up - somewhat haphazardly, she couldn’t help noticing - in the long room, she grinned widely. Perfect!

“It’s not quite the Black vault, but it’s certainly impressive.” Of course, the dog had to try to ruin the moment.

She glared at him. “Don’t gawk! We’re on a schedule.” They had a few hours at most until the morning. And they had a lot to do. She tapped her mask and activated the detection spells on it. “I’ll mark the boxes that are safe to move,” she said, kneeling down next to the closest strongbox.

“I’ll check the wards on the door,” Mr Fletcher announced.

Which left the dog to do the heavy lifting.

*****

**Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 25th, 1998**

It took them five hours, but Sirius was floating the last strongbox down into the extended trunk by the time morning approached. Hermione Granger sat down on the ground and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. The defences on the boxes hadn’t been particularly powerful or complicated, but the sheer number of them she had had to deal with… She sighed.

“You look exhausted.”

She narrowed her eyes at Mr Fletcher. “I’m fine. Just taking a break before we proceed with the next part.”

“We’ve cleaned them out already; whatever they have in the manor doesn’t matter much any more,” Mr Fletcher said. He nodded towards the trunk. “You saw the family’s strongboxes.”

The only ones whose defences she hadn’t fully cracked - just enough to transport them safely. “Yes.”

“This is enough to finish them. Losing their vault’s contents - and all the goods their relatives entrusted to them - they won’t recover from that.” He shook his head.

“They could refuse to compensate the others for their loss,” she pointed out.

“The loss of face that would cause would still destroy them as an Old Family.”

She pressed her lips together. She knew that already. But she wanted to do more. She didn’t just want to rob them of their gold - she wanted to humiliate them. And she wanted their books. “They might have things in their bedrooms. And there’s the library.”

“We won’t have too much time.”

“We won’t need that much time. The fake Fiendfyre will give us enough time to get the bedrooms and the library.” She snorted. “Besides, we’re on a heist; you don’t argue during the heist.”

He clenched his teeth; she could see him doing it. But he sighed and turned away. “Better rest then. I’ll wake you when they’re opening the vault.”

*****

“The wards are reacting, get up!”

Hermione Granger gasped and jumped up. She had dozed off! She glared at the two wizards - of course, the dog was snickering behind his skull mask - and moved to stand next to the vault door, her wand drawn. “Ready!” And she was - she had conjured the powder beforehand.

Not even half a minute later, the door started to open. She bit her lower lip. This was it. Through the widening gap, she heard two wizards talking.

“...and he wants a Basilisk-hide holster. Can you imagine that?”

“No. Dragon leather has its uses, but Basilisk hide?” Someone was snickering.

“Pure spectacle, not that anyone will believe him when he boasts about it. But I’ll be compensated well, Eric, and that’s all that matters.”

“Indeed. Now, where’s your chest again?”

“It’s in the back I thi…”

The gap was wide enough now. Hermione moved, swinging around the corner. She was just a fraction of a second slower than Sirius, who came from the other side.

Struck by two Confundus Charms, the two men staggered and blinked.

“Traitors to the Dark Lord!” Sirius’s changed and amplified voice filled the room. “Burn in hell!”

The two wizards screamed and turned to flee even before the green fire sprang up at the vault’s entrance. Hermione waited for a moment, to give them more time to get clear, then started to conjure batches of powder in the air above the flames - and in the direction of the stairs. The fire devoured them, leaping forward, driving the two men up the stairs in a spell-enhanced panic. Hermione followed, trusting Mr Fletcher and Sirius to use Flame-Freezing Charms to keep the flames from burning her as she ascended.

And, of course, to keep the fire from burning the manor down for real as soon as they reached the ground floor. Unlike the stairs to the vault, those rooms contained lots of combustible material.

“Fiendfyre!”

“Death Eaters!”

“Tracey! Tamara! Run!”

“Merlin’s balls!”

“Fiendfyre!”

“Run!”

Her plan was working! She grinned as she heard the screams and yells above her. Some particularly brave guards might decide to face Death Eaters, but no one would try to face Fiendfyre.

By the time she reached the ground floor - the stairs opened into the entrance hall - it was empty of Davises. She conjured more powder - a lot more - to fill the entire hall with flames and set the curtains of the large windows ablaze. It had to look convincing from the outside, after all.

Then it was time to start looting.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 24th, 1998**

“Potter! Weasley! Death Eater attack on Davis Manor!”

Harry Potter dropped his quill when he heard Moody’s yell and jumped up.

“An attack? In the morning?” Ron exclaimed as he rounded their desk on the way to the door. “Are they mad?”

“Of course they are!” Harry yelled pushing open the door of their office. Outside, Aurors were gathering in the entrance area. Most looked nervous, even afraid. Moody looked eager. “Potter, Weasley! We’ll go ahead and take a look!”

“What? Moody, you can’t just go off on your own!” Dawlish yelled.

“Of course I can!” Moody called over his shoulder as he rushed towards the Apparition area of the floor.

Harry sprinted after him. “What do we know?” he asked as soon as he reached the old Auror.

“Davis arrived in the Ministry with his family. Said Death Eaters were burning his manor down.” Moody snorted.

“How did they escape? The Davises,” Harry asked.

“Through the Floo connection,” Moody told them.

“What?” Ron sounded as surprised as Harry felt. “They didn’t block it?”

“Must be a trap,” Harry said.

“Aye. Which is why we wouldn’t use the Floo Network even if the connection hadn’t now been blocked. We’ll apparate to Boston and then fly to reconnoitre the area.”

“Great,” Ron muttered. “Can’t we let Dawlish rush in and trigger the ambush?”

Moody chuckled, but Harry glared at his friend. “Certainly not! He’d drag Bathilda with him.”

And the witch was far too nice to pay for Dawlish’s stupidity.

*****

**Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 25th, 1998**

“Merlin’s balls!”

Ron was correct, in Harry Potter’s opinion. Green flames - he recognised the colour from that awful day in Diagon Alley - were visible behind the windows. It looked as if the entire manor was filled with cursed fire. Any moment now, the roof would collapse… He blinked. Why hadn’t the roof collapsed already? None of the buildings in Diagon Alley had lasted that long against Fiendfyre. Unless the Davises had somehow managed to protect their manor against the cursed flames, that meant…

“It’s fake,” Moody grunted. “That’s not Fiendfyre.”

Ron cursed again.

“Another distraction?” Harry Potter asked, leaning forward on his Firebolt.

“Yes. But for whom?” Moody scoffed. “I’ll need to get through the wards to use my eye. Watch the manor! I’ll fetch Davis to let us inside.”

Without waiting for an answer, Moody disappeared.

“Great,” Ron said, “What if there are Death Eaters waiting for us, and when we enter, thinking this is a mere distraction, they hit us with the real Fiendfyre?”

“Lure the Corps into a trap?” Harry could see that. Crouch was certainly twisted and cunning enough for such a plan. “That’s why Moody wants to pass through the wards and use his eye.”

“And us with him.” Ron snorted. “Lucky us.”

“They won’t be able to catch us in an ambush outside the manor.” At least Harry hoped so. He kept his eyes on the manor. Was that movement inside the fire?

“Bloody hell!”

“What?” Harry looked at Ron.

“The rest of the Corps is arriving, and Moody’s not here yet.” Ron pointed ahead, and Harry saw at least two dozen broom riders flying towards them.

“I’ll tell Dawlish,” he muttered.

Fortunately, it wasn’t Dawlish who was in charge, but Shacklebolt. By the time Moody returned with Tracey Davis in tow, the manor was surrounded and covered in Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes.

“Kingsley, me and the lads will go in and check if it’s trap. The lass kindly volunteered to let us through the wards,” Moody announced.

Davis nodded. “They cursed father. He’s at St Mungo’s.” She pushed her chin up, though she looked more nervous than angry to Harry. “They can’t be allowed to escape!”

“They won’t,” Shacklebolt said.

“If they’re still inside,” Moody added. “It’s taken us a while to reach the manor.”

“Do you think they are Death Eaters or thieves?” Shacklebolt asked as they descended to the ground.

“Either Death Eaters posing as thieves posing as Death Eaters, or thieves posing as Death Eaters,” Moody answered. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Davis looked even more nervous as she stepped up to the wardline, but she flicked her wand and then touched Moody, Ron and Harry without faltering. Harry felt a slight tingle wash over him.

“Done,” the witch said.

“Let’s go, lads!” Moody took a step forward, passing through.

Harry followed him, holding his breath as he stepped through the wards, his wand out and aimed at the manor. He tapped his glasses, too, but the enchantment on them wasn’t powerful enough to see through the manor’s walls. And they weren’t in range for his Human-presence-revealing Spell either.

“The fire’s fake - the interior isn’t burning,” Moody announced. “But it’s rather empty.” Behind them, Davis gasped. “Two wizards in the entrance hall, one of them at the window - he’s seen us. The other one at the stairs to the vault. And one witch upstairs, looting the library. Let’s get them!” Moody bellowed and started towards the manor’s front.

Harry hoped that Davis had the presence of mind to let more Aurors through the wards as he and Ron followed Moody. Three versus three weren’t ideal odds.

“They’re moving! Potter, enter through the southern balcony. Get the witch upstairs - she’s moving to the main stairs! Weasley, with me - we’ll catch them at the vault!” Moody yelled.

Harry pulled out his broom, unshrinking it as his friend and the old Auror reached the main entrance. A moment later, he was in the air and flying towards the balcony. A flick of his wand blew a hole in the glass doors, and, a moment later, he was inside.

And there was the witch! He sent a Stunner at her, but she dropped to the floor, and the spell missed. His follow-up Stunner splashed against a wall that appeared in the middle of the hallway. He vanished it before he crashed into it as he flew on. The witch would be fleeing towards… he almost missed the floating marker moving in the other direction as he shot forward. The thief hadn’t run away - she had pressed on!

He pulled the Firebolt’s shaft up and rolled, executing a perfect Immelmann turn, and cast as soon as he could see the marker again. He missed, though - and almost crashed into another conjured wall.

This time he jumped off instead of flying onwards, vanished the wall and sent two Stunners at the floor right behind it. No marker there - she was almost at the corner. He sprinted, casting more Stunners at the corner, boxing her in as he closed. Her marker moved back - was she going for the windows?

No - the marker moved against the wall, and then flew up - was she jumping off the wall towards the corner? His hastily cast Stunner missed, and the marker disappeared around the corner.

Harry threw himself forward, rounding the corner seconds later, his wand pointed straight ahead - and he stared at the empty hallway leading to the stairs. Just how fast was this witch? Then he caught the tell-tale flashes of spells ahead. Moody and Ron must be fighting in the entrance hall!

Cursing, he rushed forward. If he reached the top of the stairs he could still cut her off… his eyes widened when the entire area ahead of him was suddenly covered in darkness. He activated the spells on his glasses, but the darkness remained.

“Harry! Watch out! They’ve got the entrance hall covered in darkness!” Ron’s voice sounded from Harry’s badge.

He tapped it to answer. “I can see it. The witch disappeared there.”

“All of them are down the stairs… and now in the vault. Can’t see them there,” Moody said. “Stay put. The darkness will be fading in a minute.”

The old Auror was correct - the darkness disappeared, as he had said it would. But when they reached the entrance to the vault a minute and a half later, all they found was the burning remains of several trunks and boxes.

The thieves had disappeared.

*****


	46. Repercussions

**Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 25th, 1998**

Tracey Davis stood frozen as she watched the three Aurors charge towards her home. Fake Fiendfyre? It looked so real to her! Potter mounted his broom and shot into the air, racing towards the southern balcony, while Weasley followed Auror Moody to the front door.

There were thieves in the manor. Criminals who had cursed her father and fooled everyone with fake Fiendfyre. Driven her from her home. She shook her head. These had to be the same thieves who had ruined the Bulstrodes. Millicent’s family. How had they managed to get through the wards? Tracey had had to let the Aurors pass through. Had Father hired a traitor? But he had ensured that the werewolves didn’t have the ability to let anyone enter; only family members could do that. So how… She flinched and ducked her head when Potter blew up the glass doors to the balcony.

“Davis! Let us through!”

She whirled around. Auror Shacklebolt and the other Aurors stood behind her, at the wardline. Of course! She ran back to them. “I’m sorry…”

“Just let us through,” another Auror - a witch barely older than herself - snapped. “Harry and Ron need our help!”

“Meringworth.” Auror Shacklebolt frowned at the witch.

“Sorry, sir.”

At least the girl knew she had overstepped her bounds, trying to order Tracey around. She wasn’t a member of an Old Family. Nor a mad Auror with a creepy eye.

The black Auror nodded, then turned to Tracey. “Get us through the wards, please. First Dawlish and me, then Meringworth and the rest.”

Tracey started casting. They had to catch the thieves! She didn’t flinch when she saw the flash of spells through the hole in the front of the manor where the door had been. She kept granting permission to the Aurors lining up next to her. Six. Eight. Ten. The first had reached the manor when she let the twelfth pass. Fifteen in total. That had to be enough to catch the intruders!

She looked around. The rest of the Aurors were on brooms, surrounding the manor. Preventing the criminals from escaping. She hesitated a moment, then nodded to herself. Daddy was at St Mungo’s, getting treated. Mum was with him. Tracey was the only Davis present. She knew her duty.

Gripping her wand tightly and clenching her teeth, she stepped back through the wardline and walked towards the manor. The flames were still raging inside, but now that she knew they were fake, she finally realised that they weren’t burning the building. She clenched her teeth. To have been fooled like this… But then, she couldn’t have known better when her poor, confused father had pushed her through the Floo connection before the fire reached them.

She stepped into the entrance hall, wincing at the destruction the thieves - and probably the Aurors - had wrought. Holes and craters dotted the walls and floor. Soot covered the ceiling. Part of the floor had been transfigured into something that had subsequently been broken into pieces.

But then she realised that she couldn’t see the remains of the statue that had stood next to the stairs. Nor did there seem to be anything left of her great-grandfather’s collection of antique swords and axes. And the tapestries at the back… She drew a breath through clenched teeth. The thieves couldn’t have had enough time to loot her manor.

Two Aurors stood near the stairs, but before she could address them and make them tell her where the thieves were, she saw Potter appear at the door leading downstairs, to the vault. Straightening - a Davis was always composed - she walked up to him. “What happened here?” she managed to ask politely, without ranting at him - or crying.

“The thieves fled down into the vault when we arrived, delaying us with curses and by other means. When we reached the vault, it was empty. Only ashes were left,” Potter said.

“What?” She blinked. That wasn’t possible. “The wards…”

“The door was open.”

“But… they waited until the door was open before they attacked Father?” How could they have hidden there? The stairs weren’t wide enough for so many people.

“We don’t know how they entered the manor, nor how they left,” Potter told her. “Yet.”

Tracey scoffed. They still didn’t know how the thieves had broken through the Bulstrodes’ wards. But… “I have to see the vault.”

Forcing herself not to run down the stairs was hard. Not crying when she saw the empty, ash- and soot-covered vault was harder. All the gold was gone. And all the goods stored there. Their own, and their relatives’. How had the thieves managed to do that in the time they had had?

Tracey took a deep breath to calm herself. She was representing the family. She wouldn’t lose her composure. “You caught them in the entrance hall?” she asked, turning her head to Potter.

But it was the old Auror standing in the middle of the vault who answered. “Two of them. Potter went after the third, who was up on the first floor.” He turned his head, and she saw his artificial eye spin wildly. “Don’t see any sign of a secret passage, but the spells on the walls interfere.”

“There aren’t any passages!” Tracey snapped, then pressed her lips together before she started to curse. As if anyone would compromise a vault’s security like that! If he were a member of an Old Family, he would have known that!

Her eyes widened. “They were on the first floor?” Where her family’s rooms were?

Potter nodded. “I chased her to the entrance hall, and she escaped with her accomplices.”

She? It didn’t matter. Not right now. Tracey had to check the rest of the manor. If the criminals had managed to plunder her family’s rooms… “Show me where you encountered her. Please,” she managed to add.

Potter nodded. “Follow me, please.”

*****

The hallway on the first floor was empty. She couldn’t see any sign of a fight. No debris. No scorch marks. No remains of transfigured or conjured creatures. And no furniture at all. “You fought her here?” Tracey Davis asked.

“She ran as soon as she saw me,” Potter said. “Quite athletic - didn’t manage to hit her.”

So, he had been using Stunners. Tracey pressed her lips together. Those thieves deserved much, much worse. “I see,” she said.

“She was very agile, and disillusioned,” Potter said, as if that would excuse him. He had beaten the Dark Lord, after all - how could a mere thief escape him?

And how had they stripped the manor bare in the time they had been inside? She went to her room, not caring if Potter followed her or not. It was bare. Everything gone. Her parents’ bedroom - everything gone. The library and her favourite salon on the first floor were empty as well. “How could they have taken everything that quickly?” she exclaimed.

“They didn’t.”

“What?” She turned. Potter had followed her.

“They didn’t take everything.” He shook his head. “They vanished everything. Or most of the furniture, at least.”

She blinked. Why would they do that? It was… senseless. It wouldn’t gain them even a Knut. This was pure malice.

“They didn’t quite get everything,” Potter went on. “Most of the other rooms are untouched, as far as we can tell.”

She wasn’t listening any more, though. Not really. Her room, everything she owned, everything for which she had cared, was gone. Her family had lost most of their gold. They were ruined. Like the Bulstrodes.

Her life was ruined. Her peers would ostracise her. Like the Bulstrodes. Even Daphne… no, Daphne wouldn’t cut her off. She was a real friend. She wouldn’t abandon Tracey over this.

But Daphne would pity her. And Tracey wouldn’t be her friend’s equal any more.

She didn’t know which would be worse.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 25th, 1998**

Hermione Granger turned around as soon as she left the Vanishing Cabinet and jabbed her wand towards it.

“Reducto! Evanesco!”

The cabinet exploded, shards of it hitting her Shield Charm before her Vanishing Spell made the remains of the cabinet disappear. She raised her wand.

“Accio splinters!”

A small cloud of wood fragments flew towards her. She flicked her wand.

“Evanesco!”

With the last trace of the Vanishing Cabinet gone, she took a deep breath and tried to slow down her still racing pulse. That had been too close. Far too close.

_“Aurors have arrived! Get back, we have to leave!”_

_When she had heard Sirius, she had been in the library, dealing with the spells on the shelves. Her first impulse had been to leave at once. But she had been so close… and the books she had seen on the shelves were far too precious. “Are they coming through the wards?” she had asked instead, flicking her wand as she unravelled another protection on the library._

_“No. They are waiting outside the_ wardline _. But it’s Harry. And Ron.”_

_She had frozen for a moment. Harry. She had expected him - they had faked a Death Eater attack with Fiendfyre, after all. But so soon? “Keep an eye on him.”_

_Another spell down. Two, no three to go. The Aurors - Harry - couldn’t get through the wards. They would need the Davises for that. And they had hit Davis with a strong Confundus Charm - he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he was treated. And his wife and daughter? She had scoffed. They would be too afraid of Death Eaters to rush to help the Aurors._

_She had focused on the shelves again. Quite a tricky curse there. Nothing fatal, but she would end up stuck to the floor as soon as she touched a book. Fortunately, she was very familiar with such defences, thanks to Sirius’s library, and knew how to disable them._

_Two spells left. One would keep the books stuck to the shelves unless someone of Davis’s blood touched them. How fitting for blood bigots. But ultimately, just a variation of the trap she had already disarmed._

_“More Aurors have arrived. Looks like everyone they could spare. They’re surrounding the manor.”_

_That hadn’t been any reason to worry - they hadn’t been planning to leave that way. Hermione had ignored it and concentrated on her task._

_One spell left. It had looked like a variant of an Alarm Charm. She could have ignored that, of course - no one had been left in the manor to react to an alarm. But the spell was an archaic one. Far older than the shelves, or so she had guessed, based on its complexity. So why would… Ah! She had clenched her teeth when she had realised that it hadn’t been an Alarm Charm, but another trap - a curse which would overwhelm an intruder by hitting them with a scream so loud, it would burst their eardrums and disorient them. No wonder the library had a powerful Silencing Charm on it!_

_But once she had identified it, she had dealt with the trap in less than a minute, and the tomes had been hers._

_“Bloody hell! Moody’s returned - and he’s dragged Davis with him! They’re coming through the wards!”_

_No! Hermione’s eyes had widened. Not now! She had flicked her wand, summoning and shrinking the most important - and expensive - books she wanted in quick sequence._

_“Get down here! They’re coming!”_

_“I’m coming! Hold them off!”_

_She had stuffed the last handful of books into her enchanted pocket, then had hesitated for just a second. To vanish books, any books, was wrong. But to leave them with the Davises would have been worse. She had quickly vanished the shelves and the remaining books, feeling like a murderer, before rushing into the hallway._

_Where Harry had been charging towards her on his broom._

_Hermione had acted without thinking, diving to the floor before she had seen him move. A red flash had passed over her head - a Stunner - and she had flicked her wand as she rolled to the side, conjuring a wall in Harry’s way. And then she had disillusioned herself, scrambled to her feet and rushed towards the wall._

_He had acted as she had expected, vanishing the wall right before she had reached it, and she had thrown herself into a roll, passing him as he shot down the hallway, before running all out towards the corner to the entrance hall. A second later, she had conjured a wall behind her and had kept going. Never use the same trick twice, Mr Fletcher had taught her._

_She hadn’t managed to reach the corner in time - she knew how fast Harry was - and had thrown herself to the side a moment before more Stunners had flown towards the corner. She had rolled over her shoulder, ended on her feet and had jumped, running up the wall before pushing herself off with both legs and diving towards the corner as more curses missed her._

_As soon as she had hit the floor, she had changed, racing down the floor to the stairs on all fours as fast as her paws could propel her. One. Two. She had changed back before Harry turned the corner and had thrown herself over the balustrade. Spells had flashed below her as she had cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor below her an instant before her packet of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder had burst, plunging the entire entrance hall into darkness._

_She had gripped the Hand of Glory, rolling to the side, then had darted towards the entrance to the vault. “I’m here, get down!”_

_“Bloody hell!”_

_She had seen the two men move, Mr Fletcher stumbling and Sirius touching the_ wall, _and had reached out, pushing them towards the entrance. “Run!”_

_They had stumbled more than ran down the stairs until they had left the area covered in darkness and stepped into the vault. She had worried that the Aurors - Harry and Ron! - would charge blindly after them, but they hadn’t._

_“Go through!” she had yelled, setting the fire bomb’s fuse, then had leapt into the cabinet after them, a few seconds before the bomb went off._

Yes, it had been too damn close. She opened her eyes, then gasped through clenched teeth. “Are you alright? Did you get hurt?” she asked them, feeling ashamed for not doing so earlier.

“Yes,” Sirius said, grinning - although it looked a little forced to her. More than a little; she knew him well, after all. “Even Moody couldn’t get past us.”

“He almost bloody did!” Mr Fletcher snapped. “Got through our obstacles without trying! The curses were already flying when you finally arrived.”

She bit her lower lip, grateful that she had still her mask on. She should have been quicker. Less greedy. Better prepared. “Harry cut me off with his broom,” she said, finally pulling her mask off and shaking out her sweaty hair. It was still blonde - and straight. She’d have to fix that before returning.

“Shouldn’t have risked it,” Mr Fletcher muttered, glaring at her.

“I underestimated the Davises,” she admitted. She had been arrogant and stupid.

Sirius snorted. “Or you overestimated them - Moody might have forced the witch to let them inside.” He shrugged. “But it all worked out well. We laid waste to their manor and emptied their vault.”

“And their library,” Hermione added.

“And we almost got caught,” Mr Fletcher spat. “Took too many damn risks.”

She nodded. “I know. It won’t happen again.”

She’d have to plan the next heist better. But, she reminded herself with a small, satisfied smile, they had pulled off the heist. And they had pulled one over the Aurors.

And Harry, who had trounced her so often in training.

That felt good. Really good.

*****

**Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 25th, 1998**

The manor’s vault had been cleaned out thoroughly, as far as Harry Potter could tell. Only ashes remained - and some charred wooden fragments. He knelt down next to one and studied it, but he couldn’t even tell if it had been part of a trunk or a strongbox. “Why did they leave these and set them on fire? They took everything else.”

“Good question, Potter,” Moody answered, turning his head to look at him with his good eye. “Could be that they had to break curses on those, and left the remains.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think so.”

The old Auror chuckled. “No, I don’t. They vanished half the manor’s furniture.” He pointed at the ashes. “These were left behind by design. Might be just a distraction, to confuse us. Or our criminals might have made a mistake.” He suddenly frowned and blinked with one eye. “Look alive, lads! Bones is coming down.”

The Head of the DMLE? Harry hadn’t even known she was present. He drew a hissing breath and stood up.

“Great,” he heard Ron mutter.

And there she was. Bones strode into the vault, Scrimgeour, Shacklebolt and Dawlish following in her wake, with Bathilda trailing behind. “What do you have, Alastor?” she barked more than asked.

Moody groaned slightly as he slowly stood up - for show, Harry knew; the old Auror could move far more quickly when he needed to - then faced the witch. “We’ve got a merry band of very clever thieves,” Moody said. “We saw three of them, two wizards and one witch.”

“And you let them escape,” Scrimgeour spat.

“They escaped all by themselves,” Moody said, snorting. “The wizards were waiting for us - as soon as we showed up, the curses were flying. And they had traps and obstacles prepared as well. All to slow us down so their accomplice could rejoin them.”

“The witch Auror Potter couldn’t stop.” Bones turned her head slightly and stared at Harry.

He pressed his lips together for a moment. “She was very quick and very skilled. I didn’t expect her to charge past me instead of fleeing when I attacked her,” he defended himself. “She used conjured walls to delay me until she vanished in some darkness spell.”

“You let a few walls stop you?” Scrimgeour asked.

“I didn’t expect her to be that quick,” Harry admitted. “I should have used Blasting Curses on the walls instead of casting Stunners at her, but she wasn’t trying to hurt me.”

“The two wizards in the entrance hall used non-lethal spells as well,” Ron added.

“Aye,” Moody confirmed. “They either don’t want to hurt us, or they think this’ll make us hold back.” It was clear what Moody thought was the reason.

“Well, we won’t be holding back any longer,” Scrimgeour said. “This is the second manor they’ve plundered. Malfoy is calling for an emergency session of the Wizengamot. He’ll probably push for a curse on sight order.”

Moody snorted. “Afraid for his gold, is he?”

Bones, who had been frowning at Scrimgeour, glared at the old Auror. “We’re not taking orders from the Wizengamot. The rules of engagement for the Auror Corps won’t change. No lethal curses unless lives are at stake.”

Which wouldn’t mean anything, Harry thought, when half the Corps would follow the lead from their relatives in the Wizengamot, with Fudge’s backing. And while the Wizengamot might not - technically - be allowed to give orders to the Auror Corps, they could change the laws and rules according to which the DMLE operated. Only if they didn’t want to go through Fudge instead, of course.

“Malfoy will be arguing that lives are at stake. Twice some of the strongest wards in Britain have been breached. If those thieves work with Crouch and the Lestranges…” Scrimgeour shook his head. “They were wearing Death Eater robes, weren’t they?”

“We don’t actually know,” Moody said. “We only have the testimony of two confused wizards. And it’s clear that they wanted the Davises to think that this was a Death Eater attack so they could loot the manor.”

“Good enough for me,” Scrimgeour said. “You act like a Death Eater and you’ll get treated as a Death Eater.”

“Aye,” Moody said. “We were only here because it was reported as a Death Eater attack.”

“And yet you bungled it after you realised that it was my case,” Dawlish said.

“I’d like to see you do better, Dawlish,” Moody said, sneering. “These aren’t Knockturn Alley scum. They’re highly trained and experienced.”

“I had overall command,” Shacklebolt spoke up for the first time. “I agreed with Alastor entering first. I do not think anyone else would have had more success.”

“The Wizengamot will disagree,” Scrimgeour said.

“Then it’s a good thing that this isn’t my case,” Moody replied. “You won’t have to replace me.”

Dawlish clenched his teeth - apparently, he had just realised that he’d catch the blame the next time the thieves struck. Harry almost snorted. The witch who managed to escape him certainly wouldn’t be caught by the likes of Dawlish.

“Enough.” Bones frowned. “How did they escape from the vault?”

“If they actually were in the vault, and didn’t take another route in the dark,” Dawlish added, then flinched when Bones glared at him.

“I kept an eye on the entire area - they entered the vault,” Moody said. “And they didn’t leave through the door. Which means they left from inside the vault.”

“How? The whole area was locked down with Anti-Apparition and Portkey Jinxes,” Bones said.

“And the Floo connection was shut down as well,” Shacklebolt added.

“That’s the question,” Moody said, grinning. He pointed at the charred remains on the ground. “And there’s the answer.”

“Don’t play bloody games,” Scrimgeour spat.

“I’ve found traces of a few distinctive spells. A Switching Spell and the Protean Charm aren’t exactly standard for extended trunks,” Moody said.

Harry didn’t know what that meant, and neither did Scrimgeour or Dawlish, he noticed. But Shacklebolt jerked. “A Vanishing Cabinet? The Davises let someone deposit a Vanishing Cabinet in their vault?”

Moody shrugged. “The Unspeakables will have to verify it, but it’s my best guess. Apart from treason among the family, of course.”

But, Harry knew, that explanation was becoming more and more improbable with each heist. The thieves couldn’t have had inside help in every manor they struck. They were simply very skilled.

But they weren’t invincible. They had failed once already, at Longbottom Manor. And Harry almost caught the witch. Next time, she wouldn’t escape him.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 25th, 1998**

When he heard the knocking at the door to their office, Harry Potter turned slightly on his seat and aimed his wand at the door. You never knew, after all. “Yes?”

The door was opened, and Bathilda entered. “Good, I was afraid that you had already left.”

Ron snorted. “Left? We’re still writing reports about today’s ‘incident’.”

Harry waved his wand and conjured a seat for her. “Did Dawlish leave that to you?”

“I’m not his secretary,” Bathilda retorted.

“But I bet he’s already gone home.” Ron smirked. “You wouldn’t sneak into our office otherwise, would you?”

She glared at him. “John’s not that bad. But your attitude isn’t helping.”

Harry cleared his throat. Dawlish certainly was that bad, in his opinion. He wasn’t as bad as Nott, though. “So, what brings you to our humble abode?”

She stared him for a moment with narrowed eyes. He smiled at her, and she snorted before sighing. “I need to know everything you know about the thieves.”

“That’s why we’re writing these reports.” Ron pointed at the scroll on his desk.

“Yes. But it’ll be some time until we get those reports, and I can’t exactly ask a sheet of parchment questions,” she replied.

“Well, you could, but the sheet wouldn’t answer.” Ron grinned.

Harry cleared his throat and drew her attention back to himself before Ron could make a joke about getting questioned. Sometimes his friend acted a little too much like Fred and George. “I understand that. And you want all the information in your report as well.”

She blushed slightly but nodded. “John’s worried that he’ll get the blame for not catching the thieves today.”

Harry was sure that Dawlish wouldn’t be any happier if they had actually caught the thieves. Dawlish would blame them anyway - for everything - in Harry’s opinion. But that wasn’t Bathilda’s fault. He nodded. “He’ll get blamed when they escape from him.”

She frowned at him. “You sound as if that’s a given.”

Ron chuckled. “No offence, but if they can get away from Moody and us, then Dawlish won’t be able to catch them. They’re good.”

Harry nodded. “I couldn’t hit the female one with a Stunner.”

“But you said that you could have hit her with a Blasting Curse.”

“Caught her in the blast, yes,” Harry said. He hesitated a moment, then sighed. “But I wouldn’t recommend that, actually.”

“Why?” She frowned at him. “If it would work…”

He grimaced. “They’ve stuck to Stunners and other non-lethal curses themselves. If we start to escalate, they might match us.”

Ron made a noise of agreement. “And since they can fake Fiendfyre and pass through the wards on manors, this could get ugly.”

Bathilda winced and took a deep breath. But then she raised her chin. “But we can’t let them escape because we fear their reaction! We’re the Auror Corps! We enforce the law!”

She was right, and yet… “But we shouldn’t treat them as if they were Death Eaters,” Harry told her. “Despite what Scrimgeour said.”

“Especially since that’s what Malfoy wants,” Ron added. “Dad said that the git was even paler than normal today when he went to Fudge’s office.”

“The thieves have to be stopped! By any means necessary!” she retorted. “And if you couldn’t stop them with Stunners, then we will have to try something else.”

“Preferably something that doesn’t get you killed,” Ron said.

“Get more Aurors. No matter how good you are, if half a dozen Stunners are flying at you, you’re bound to get hit,” Harry said.

“And hope they don’t mess up,” Ron cut in. “Although if they do, you’ve got scapegoats ready.”

She huffed at that. “It’s not my decision anyway.”

Which was true, of course. Even though it should have been hers, in Harry’s opinion. Dawlish cared too much about his career.

“So what do you know?” she asked.

Harry sighed. This would be the third time today he’d be repeating his view of the morning’s events.

*****

“...and we discovered that they had vanished a lot of the furniture,” Harry Potter finished his tale.

“Why would they do that?” Bathilda asked. “That wouldn’t earn them any gold. Do you think they were paid by a rival family to deprive the Davises of their wealth?”

That sounded like a theory Dawlish would come up with. “If that were the case, they could have used real Fiendfyre to burn the manor to the ground with everything inside as soon as they saw we were coming at them. It would certainly have kept us from rushing inside. They didn’t do that, though,” Harry replied. “So they either have a grudge against the family - or they were stealing something specific, and wanted to hide that by stealing and vanishing a lot of other things.”

“There are plenty of people who have a grudge against the family,” Ron added. “And since they opened their vaults for their relatives, who knows what was stored in there?”

“Davis doesn’t,” Bathilda said. “He ‘didn’t pry’, in his own words.”

“He’s back from St Mungo’s then?” Harry asked.

“Yes. Wasn’t much of a curse - a simple Confundus Charm.” Bathilda must have noticed his reaction since she frowned at him. “Don’t say it.”

Harry didn’t. But he grinned.

*****

**Paris, Quartier Magique, Magical France, November 25th, 1998**

Hermione Granger waited with Sirius in a café outside the travel office in the Quartier Magique in Paris while Jeanne was inside arranging their trip back to Britain. She looked around, taking in the sights. Compared to Diagon Alley, the main street of Paris’s magical quarter looked like a boulevard, even if it fell short of an actual Parisian boulevard. There were more people in the streets than there would be at home, though, and far more diverse, too; she could see Arabian and Mediterranean wizards mingling with French ones - at least judging by their robes and the few snippets of conversation she caught as they passed. The robes looked more stylish than British fashion, too - but that might be her own bias. And Jeanne’s influence, of course.

She took a sip of her tea and frowned. Magical France might have better fashion and a bigger shopping district, but they couldn’t brew proper tea. She put the cup down and nibbled on the patisserie from the small plate that had come with the tea. That, at least, was perfect - a small treat on their round-trip to France and back. One of several they would have to make so their ‘absences’ wouldn’t correlate with the dates of their heists.

She checked that their privacy charm was still working and joked: “You know, if we have to travel to France so often to keep our cover, we might buy a house here so we can at least have tea.”

Sirius turned towards her with a broad smile. “That’s a great idea! I’ll buy us a nice house to stay in during our cover trips.”

She stared at him. “I wasn’t serious.”

“But I am serious!” He grinned at her.

“If you buy a house in France, then Harry will expect us to be there when we claim to be visiting, and he might even visit,” she pointed out.

“I could buy one without telling him,” he retorted. “It would certainly facilitate our trips if we found a house close enough that we could apparate to it after we’ve crossed the Channel.”

He was correct, but still… to buy an entire house just for that? Sirius had no sense when it came to money. A result of being filthy rich. Although, Hermione suddenly realised, after looting the manor of a second Old Family, even with everyone getting their cut, she was now also rich. Not in Sirius’s league, but not too far behind one of the less powerful Old Families.

Certainly rich enough to buy a vacation home in France - or anywhere else - without breaking her budget.

Hermione blinked and pondered this as Sirius went on about possible locations. She had become a professional thief to get revenge on the bigots who framed and ruined her. To see them ruined in turn, and cast down from their positions among the ruling class of Wizarding Britain. Somehow, she hadn’t really considered the fact that she would end up filthy rich herself in the process.

She would have to consider carefully what she should do with her newfound wealth.

And, of course, how to use it without revealing that she had stolen it.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 25th, 1998**

It was late in the evening when they returned to Grimmauld Place. Harry and Ron were waiting for them in the entrance hall, and Hermione Granger threw herself forward to hug Harry, running her hands over his back, inhaling his scent. She hadn’t cast a curse at him, but she was still relieved to find him whole.

“We told you that we were fine,” he muttered as he returned her hug.

She sniffed and released him. “You would say that as long as you were alive.” She turned to Ron and hugged him. “Right?”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Ron said, chuckling.

Harry huffed and greeted Sirius and Jeanne.

“I can’t leave you alone for a day or two without you getting into trouble, can I?” Sirius snorted and shook his head.

Harry scoffed, but he was smiling. “It wasn’t our fault that the thieves struck today.”

Hermione forced herself to smile even though she wanted to glare at the stupid dog. They went to all the trouble of setting up an alibi, and now his ‘joke’ all but pointed Harry at the fact that the thieves had struck in their absence? “What happened?” she asked, to distract her friends.

Harry winced. “I’ve told the story three times already today.”

“Not to us, you haven’t,” Jeanne pointed out.

He sighed. “Alright… but let’s sit down for it.”

*****

“...and then the entire entrance hall was covered in darkness.”

Hermione Granger had to struggle a little to keep from gloating when Harry told them how she had escaped him. That was what happened when she wasn’t holding back and acting as if she were hopeless at Defence!

“So they escaped you without problems?” she asked.

Harry scoffed. “They were lucky. I wouldn’t have tried to stun the witch if she had been Bellatrix Lestrange; I’d have used Blasting Curses on the walls.”

Hermione almost winced at that. Her Shield Charm wouldn’t have lasted long under such an attack. She nodded, though. “Still, they sound rather skilled.”

“Very skilled and very trained,” he said. “She moved like greased lightning in that leather suit of hers.”

So he had been paying attention! Hermione felt even better about today’s heist.

“We already knew that they were very sneaky,” Ron cut in. “After all, they managed to break into the manors of two Old Families. But now we also know that they are very slippery.”

“And underhanded,” Harry added. “Faking a Death Eater attack…” He shook his head.

Hermione mock-gasped. “Thieves not playing fair? Who would have thought!”

“Well, they’re Dawlish’s problem,” Harry said. “Not ours.”

“But if Dawlish catches them after they escaped from us, we’ll never hear the end of it,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione scoffed. That wouldn’t happen, of course. Dawlish wouldn’t even come close to catching them.

“Bathilda would make him shut up after a while,” Harry said. “She’s nice like that.”

Hermione literally bit her tongue. The last thing she wanted to hear about in her moment of triumph was how nice that Auror was.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 26th, 1998**

Harry Potter frowned when he spotted Nott in the break room, sitting with Bathilda at their usual table. He rarely saw the git these days, and that was just how he liked it. He and Ron could simply grab a cup of tea and head back to their office, but he wanted to talk to Bathilda without Dawlish, and their break was the best opportunity for that. So he grabbed a cup and then went over to the two other Aurors, followed by Ron.

He smiled at her. “Hello, Bathilda.” He stopped smiling when he nodded at the bigot. “Nott.”

“Potter. Weasley.” Nott sneered at them. “Let any criminals escape today? Or are you failing at finding them at all, as usual?”

“Theo!” Bathilda snapped.

“For someone who doesn’t risk anything worse than a paper cut in the archives, you really do talk a lot, Nott,” Harry shot back.

“Harry!” Bathilda glared at him.

“How unsurprising that you wouldn’t realise how important Filing is.” Nott scoffed. “Handling paperwork and ensuring that a case is properly documented before it goes to trial takes more than just casting a curse at someone.”

“Well, it’s not as if you would be able to tell - have you actually arrested anyone? Or do you compare actual Auror work to hexing Gryffindors from behind at Hogwarts?” Ron shook his head as he sat down at the table.

“Ron!” Bathilda stood and slammed her hand down on the table, rattling it slightly. “Stop acting like stupid students!” she spat, glaring at all three of them. “We need to work together if we want to capture those thieves and the Death Eaters!”

“And make the cases stick in the Wizengamot,” Nott added.

“As if paperwork mattered for that,” Harry muttered. When Bathilda narrowed her eyes at him, he quickly added: “The Wizengamot won’t care about paperwork and procedure. Not for the Lestranges and Crouch, and not for the thieves.”

“Yeah.” Ron nodded. “The Death Eaters were already sentenced to life in prison, and the thieves robbed two Old Families blind. The only question for those trials will be the Kiss or Azkaban for life?”

Bathilda looked taken aback at that, Harry noticed. “So,” he asked, “did the Unspeakables confirm Moody’s suspicion about the Vanishing Cabinet?”

She nodded. “Yes, they did. It’s not a hundred per cent certain, but it’s the best - the only - explanation for how the thieves managed to get into the vault.”

“Could they have used the same method to sneak into Bulstrode Manor as well?” Ron asked.

“Perhaps. We didn’t consider that.” Bathilda frowned. “But we are certain that they lost the Vanishing Cabinet this time.”

And those things weren’t cheap - or common.

“The goblins will be happy,” Ron said. “Many Old Families will throw out the trunks and strongboxes of their distant relatives from their manors’ vaults, forcing them to use Gringotts’ vaults again.”

“If the goblins want to risk that,” Nott said.

“We’re meeting them later today,” Harry said, not quite ignoring the git, but not addressing him either.

“Oh? I have to head to Diagon Alley as well. John wants to check with some of the shops there about Vanishing Cabinets,” Bathilda said. “Want to have lunch together?”

Harry glanced at Nott, who was glaring at him, then smiled at the witch. “Sure. We know a great fish and chips shop in muggle London.”

“Oh, nice.” Bathilda beamed at Ron and Harry. Then she turned to Nott. “Are you coming as well?”

Harry Potter grinned at the bigot when Bathilda couldn’t see his expression. Muggle London? Muggle food? He almost chuckled when he saw Nott struggling to keep smiling at the beaming witch.

“You know… I think I’ll come, yes.” Nott flashed his teeth at Harry.

“Great!” Bathilda beamed.

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron. They’d have to go to another fish and chips shop; he certainly didn’t want Nott to know their favourite one.

*****

**London, Greenwich, November 26th, 1998**

“So what do you think?” Harry Potter asked as he picked up another chip.

“I knew the muggles weren’t as advanced as us, but to think that they don’t even use plates and cutlery…” Nott shook his head.

Harry rolled his eyes as he chewed. “I wasn’t asking you,” he told him, scowling. “And muggles do use silverware; this dish, however, traditionally isn’t eaten from a plate.”

“Barbarians,” Nott muttered.

“It’s good,” Bathilda said. “Better than the Leaky Cauldron’s special.”

Ron scoffed. “Cardboard with ketchup would taste better than the Leaky Cauldron’s special.”

“But they have cutlery there,” Nott protested. “And you don’t have to wear weird clothes to eat there.” He sneered at the jumper, trousers and coat he was wearing.

“For muggles, our robes are weird clothes,” Harry pointed out.

“Well, we aren’t muggles,” Nott shot back.

“The food’s good, though,” Bathilda cut in. “And it’ll help us to fit in if we have to operate in muggle Britain.”

Nott wouldn’t have to operate in muggle Britain, of course. He wouldn’t have to leave the Ministry at all, working in Filing. But Bathilda was looking at them with that slightly disapproving frown again that meant she didn’t want them to argue. “Well, the muggles have a lot of dress codes. You won’t fit in everywhere if you dress like this.” He pointed at her turtleneck and long skirt. “Although most muggle Aurors dress like that. So, unless you want to pass as a member of the upper classes, you’ll be fine.”

“‘Muggle upper classes’,” Nott scoffed. “What an oxymoron!”

“Theo!” Bathilda snapped.

“What?”

“Shut up about muggles and eat your meal!” Bathilda didn’t look very friendly right then, Harry noticed.

And Nott shut up. He hadn’t stopped eating with gusto, though, Harry noticed.

“Next time, we’ll eat in Diagon Alley,” she announced. “Cameron’s is a good pub.”

She was planning to make this a regular occurrence, Harry realised with a sinking feeling. At least Nott looked as horrified as Harry felt.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, November 26th, 1998**

The goblins hadn’t changed their security, Harry Potter noticed as he and Ron followed one of the guards to Sharptooth’s office. At least not as far as he could tell. Same number of guards, same patrols. No new Thief’s Downfalls or other devices. And the manager’s office hadn’t changed either.

“Manager Sharptooth.” He nodded at the goblin.

“Mister Potter. Mister Weasley.”

“Aurors,” he corrected the goblin.

Sharptooth sneered in reply. “We expect Auror Moody if this is supposed to be Ministry business.”

Harry refrained from pointing out that if the goblins hadn’t known that this was an official visit, Sharptooth wouldn’t have received them. Moody’s absence was already an obvious slight - not that the old Auror’s presence would have made things much better. “Other duties require his presence,” he said instead. “We’re here to talk about the recent robbery of Davis Manor.”

“Ah, yes. What a tragedy.” Sharptooth smiled broadly. “To think that so many wizards and witches lost their gold to those thieves! If only they had put their trust in Gringotts…” He shook his head without bothering to sound or look as if he were sad.

Harry didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to his blatant gloating. “We found out how the thieves entered the vault in Davis Manor.”

Sharpooth’s smile vanished at once, and he leaned forward. “You did?”

“Yes. It was confirmed by the Unspeakables.” That wasn’t quite true - they didn’t ‘confirm’ the theory, but the result of their analysis was close enough. Harry smiled. “Of course, such information is valuable. If you could claim - and have it confirmed by the Ministry - that your own vaults are protected against such a threat…”

“What do you want?” Sharptooth snarled.

Harry grinned. “Everything you know about Crouch and the Lestranges. All your records.”

Sharptooth’s mouth snapped shut, and Harry thought he heard the goblin growl. “Gringotts has a tradition of discretion.”

“I hope that that tradition doesn’t include protecting the privacy of your enemies,” Ron said.

The goblin glared at them. “Would you risk the gold of your people for such petty posturing?”

Harry scoffed in response. “Crouch and the Lestranges are the bigger threat to Wizarding Britain.” He didn’t have to tell the goblins that if the Death Eaters managed to start a war, the gold would be gone anyway. “But if more people start to worry about the security of the vaults in Gringotts…” He spread his hands. “Do you really want to risk that for criminals?”

Sharptooth muttered something in his own language. Harry was sure it wasn’t complimentary and had to refrain from grinning. After a few moments, Sharptooth growled and reached into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a stack of files. “Here are the records you want.”

Harry held out his hand, and after another moment of hesitation, the goblin handed the files over. Harry checked if they were the records they wanted, although, of course, he couldn’t tell if they were correct, or complete. He couldn’t do anything about that, though. “Alright. The thieves used a Vanishing Cabinet to enter the vault in Davis Manor.”

Sharptooth’s eyes widened for a moment. Then he snarled. “That’s worthless. Gringotts doesn’t have to worry about that, and you knew that!”

“Oh?” Harry tilted his head slightly. “Because your vaults are protected against such devices, or because you aren’t liable for any damage to your clients’ goods caused by something they’ve deposited in their vaults?”

Sharptooth couldn’t entirely hide his snarl. “Gringotts’ security measures are confidential.” So they didn’t know how to stop a Vanishing Cabinet either. Well, the Unspeakables were - or should be - working on that.

“Well, as long as they work,” Ron said, shrugging. “If someone lost their gold because their vault was cracked from the outside by a thief who entered through a Vanishing Cabinet, that could be expensive.”

“Especially if you don’t know what was stolen from the vault,” Harry added. “But we wouldn’t want to tell you how to run your business.” He stood. “Nor do we want to take up more of your time.” He stashed the files in his enchanted pocket.

“Get out!”

They didn’t grin until they had left the office. That had gone just as planned.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 27th, 1998**

“...and since these vile criminals managed to evade two dozen Aurors, it’s patently obvious that the Auror Corps’ current rules of engagement are insufficient for dealing with such a threat. Therefore, and in order to prevent the ruin of another family, I propose authorising the Aurors to use the Killing Curse and the Imperius Curse against them.”

Hermione Granger hissed at hearing Malfoy’s proposal. The Unforgivable Curses? She hadn’t even hurt anyone on her heists! That was crossing a line! She glared at the wizard. Fortunately, she wasn’t the only one who reacted with obvious and vocal anger upon hearing this.

“Preposterous!” Sirius stood, not bothering to wait to be given the floor by the Chief Warlock. “You plan to have our Aurors use dark curses against mere thieves? How low can you sink? What’s next? Torturing Hogwarts students for breaking curfew?”

That brought some laughter, despite the topic. Not much, though - many members were glancing at Bulstrode and Davis.

“Desperate circumstances require desperate measures,” Malfoy retorted. “Thieves who can escape from our most experienced Auror and the Boy-Who-Lived, who defeated the Dark Lord himself, obviously aren’t ‘mere thieves’. Are you willing to risk the ruin of more families just to protect such vile criminals?”

Hermione saw a number of Wizengamot members who disliked Malfoy on principle nod at those words. This didn’t look good.

“I’m protecting our Aurors from stooping to the use of the Dark Arts,” Sirius replied. “And, having looked into the matter myself, I can assure you that the use of either curse wouldn’t have stopped the thieves from escaping.”

Malfoy sneered. “Oh? Do you have information about this crime that wasn’t shared with the DMLE?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. The dog had made a mistake.

Sirius scoffed at the insinuation. “I spoke with my godson, who was present at the manor. As one of his teachers, I was obviously interested in the confrontation he had with the thieves.”

“So the Boy-Who-Lived is sharing confidential information about criminal cases with you?” Malfoy’s sneer deepened.

“No. We were discussing a tactical question in an abstract manner. Perfectly legal.” Sirius showed his teeth. “Of course, I cannot help but wonder if _you_ are privy to any confidential information about this robbery - or if you made your proposal ignorant of the actual events you claim to be addressing.”

“I, at least, am not defending criminals,” Malfoy shot back without his usual air of polite superiority. He had to be rattled by the heists, Hermione realised - he wasn’t behaving as smoothly as he usually did.

She had to refrain from grinning gleefully as the Chief Warlock took several tries to restore order in the Wizengamot.

Malfoy was afraid of her.

*****

**Hogsmeade, November 28th, 1998**

It was cold and looked as if it might start snowing at any moment, but Harry Potter didn’t mind the weather. He was on another outing with Hermione! Technically, they were with Ron and Luna as it was the last Hogsmeade weekend of the year, but the happy couple had disappeared into Honeydukes ‘for a minute to try the new cakes’.

“Let’s go into Tomes and Scrolls,” Hermione said, nodding at the nearby bookshop. “You know Luna - she’ll take her time.”

“And Honeydukes is full of students, which will delay her further,” Harry added, nodding. Given the cold weather, most students would stay inside the shops, including the bookshop, of course.

“What are you looking for?” he asked as he held the door open for her.

“Nothing in particular. I just want to check their used book section. They won’t have anything new that Flourish and Blotts don’t have, but you never know what kind of treasures you can find in the used section. I once found a seventh edition of Hogwarts: A History in Urquhart’s Used Books!” She smiled at him, then turned and strode to the back of the shop, deftly passing through a throng of Ravenclaws gathered around the table with the new publications.

He followed at a slightly slower pace, enjoying the view. Hermione was an attractive witch under any circumstance, but when she was set on doing something, when she showed that drive and passion of hers, she was simply stunning.

And slightly scary, he added to himself with a smirk when he saw her glare at an older student blocking a shelf until the boy fled - which took less than ten seconds. When he reached her - he had to step to the side so the fleeing Ravenclaw didn’t run into him - she was already past the first shelf, her head cocked to the side as she read the titles of the books.

“Found anything?” he asked, leaning against the first shelf.

“Nothing that we don’t already have in the library,” she answered without tearing her attention away from the rows of books.

He didn’t mind - it allowed him to watch her without her noticing. The way her face lit up when she spotted a book, the way she pouted when she realised it wasn’t what she was looking for… even in her heavy winter robes, she was more attractive than girls in skimpy clothes. Or, he added with a frown, thieves in skin-tight leather.

He continued to watch her as she went through the used section picking up four books their library was apparently still missing. “You know, if you keep this up, we’ll have more books in our library than the Hogwarts library,” he joked.

“That’s the goal,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Sirius will have to extend the library a few times first, though.” When he blinked in surprise, she giggled. “I’m joking. It would take decades to get all those books.”

“Ah.”

“Of course, it would be different if the Hogwarts library wasn’t protected against Duplication Charms…” She sighed.

He chuckled. “If our master thieves ever plunder the Hogwarts library, I’ll know who hired them.”

She gasped. “I would never hire thieves!”

“I was joking.” He grinned at her. Of course, Hermione wouldn’t hire thieves. Not after getting framed for theft by Malfoy.

She was still frowning at him when she paid for her books - he didn’t even attempt to offer to pay for them. But when he saw her shiver when they stepped outside, back into the cold, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, she leaned into him.

Harry didn’t need to cast a Warming Charm even though they had to wait a quarter of an hour for Luna and Ron to leave Honeydukes.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 29th, 1998**

Sitting in her room, Hermione Granger studied the pictures taken of Greengrass Manor even though they were mostly useless for planning a heist. She couldn’t tell anything about the wards from them. Although she already knew that going through the wards wasn’t an option. The wardline would be heavily patrolled. They had to find another way to enter the manor.

In theory, she could try to sneak into the manor as a cat, but Daphne Greengrass knew Millicent Bulstrode, and the two witches might have talked about the robbery, even if the Bulstrodes were being ostracised - she knew that the Greengrass heir hadn’t cut off Tracey Davis; Mr Fletcher had spotted them in the gardens of the manor. So posing as another stray cat would be too dangerous. The Aurors might not have been authorised to use the Unforgivables - but Greengrass’s guards certainly wouldn’t hesitate to use lethal curses.

And using Vanishing Cabinets wasn’t an option, even if they still had a set of cabinets and the Aurors hadn’t found out about them - the Greengrass family hadn’t opened their vault for their poorer relatives.

She put the pictures down on her desk and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms and craning her neck. At least she didn’t have to worry about her friends catching her with suspicious pictures - Harry and Ron were at the Ministry, despite not having a shift scheduled. Something about the records from the goblins.

Of course, that also meant that she couldn’t clear her head with a pleasant stroll through London in Harry’s company. She sighed, remembering yesterday’s trip to Hogsmeade. Walking with his arm around her shoulders, feeling the warmth of his body - and his muscles...

Frowning, she shook her head. She had to focus on planning their next heist; she couldn’t daydream about Harry. And it would be rather embarrassing if their heist were foiled by an Auror’s distracting absence.

Chuckling, she stowed the pictures in her enchanted pocket and pulled out the latest issue of Witch Weekly, with the expanded section covering the Yule Ball Season. So far, the Yule Ball at Greengrass Manor looked like the best opportunity to enter the manor undetected, but such a plan brought problems of its own. Namely, that there would be close to a hundred witnesses in the manor, and security would be tight.

Crookshanks running into the room and miaowing loudly while pawing at her ankle interrupted her thoughts. “What’s wrong, Crookshanks?” she asked.

He miaowed again, then turned and dashed to the door, where he stopped and looked back at her.

“You want me to follow you?” she asked.

He vanished into the corridor. That was answer enough. She drew her wand and followed him. A minute later, they were in the entrance hall - in front of the door.

Hermione stiffened. “Is there an intruder?” But the wards had been checked this morning; you couldn’t break through them that quickly. “Is someone trying to break in?”

Crookshanks miaowed and scratched the door.

If her tomcat was just trying to make her open the front door for him instead of using the cat-flap in the back door, they’d have words, Hermione promised as she opened the door and peered outside. Words backed up by claws.

Then she spotted the figure watching the house from across the street and froze as a cold shiver ran down her spine and turned into a lump of ice in her stomach.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

*****


	47. Led Astray

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 29th, 1998**

There was her home. It didn’t look any different than the last time she had seen it. Ivy covered much of the walls, the windows were still enchanted not to let anyone outside see what was happening within, and the lawn was perfectly cut despite the season. Everything fit the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

But Bellatrix Lestrange knew this was but a facade - literally. Behind those walls, the noble ideals of her family had been corrupted by traitors. Her home had been desecrated. Violated! Once the home of Britain’s purest bloodline, a haven for those trying to save their beloved country, it had fallen into the hands of blood traitors and mudbloods. Its perfect appearance hid a rotten core.

She ground her teeth as she thought about the depths to which her vile cousin had sunk. Taking in the Boy-Who-Lived - she hissed at the thought that the Dark Lord had fallen to the whelp - was barely acceptable. Noblesse oblige, after all, and Sirius was the whelp’s godfather. No member of an Old Family would dare neglect the obligations of that relationship. And the whelp was a half-blood - his presence in the hallowed halls of her home was tolerable, if only just. Even the blood-traitors he welcomed as guests were, by and large, of good stock, if unfortunately deluded into opposing their own traditions. And he had picked a pureblood witch of good standing, heir to an Old Family, as his wife, albeit one with French blood.

But to invite a mudblood - and a criminal mudblood at that! - to come and live at the seat of House Black was unacceptable. Sirius had dishonoured their ancestors and spat in the face of tradition and custom, and then one-upped that and befouled himself by bedding the witch. To think that such depravity was going on in Bellatrix’s home! No wonder he had married a French witch - a British witch would have killed him and his mistress for dishonouring her like that.

Compared to his worst crime, his ultimate betrayal, though, this was mere scandal. Sirius had thrown himself and the family fortune behind Dumbledore’s plan to murder the Dark Lord. He had not only turned his back on all his family had stood for; he had cursed them from behind! His own brother had given his life for the Dark Lord! His mother had gone to the grave praying for the Dark Lord’s return!

She glared at the house. Its walls and wards sheltered one of the worst blood traitors in Britain. The only ones worse than Sirius were the Malfoys. Sirius, at least, had never sworn allegiance to him, but Malfoy and the witch who had once been her sister had. They had not only betrayed their heritage and blood but the Master himself.

And for that, they would pay. With their lives. Their very souls, even.

Once Barty’s plan came to fruition.

She sighed through clenched teeth. She hated waiting. Every day, every minute she did nothing felt as if she were betraying the Dark Lord’s cause. She understood that certain things couldn’t be rushed, but she didn’t like it. Couldn’t like it. She wanted to act! To strike at the enemies of the Dark Lord! To curse them where they stood until they fell! To fight until she was covered in the blood of her Lord’s enemies!

Not to wait and hide as if she were still a prisoner in Azkaban, languishing in a damp cell, tortured by the memories of her failure. She had forgotten, lost, so much. She couldn’t remember her mother’s face nor her father’s voice, but the moment of her failure, her capture and humiliation? That had burned itself into her mind even as those fiends had torn it apart.

She drew a hissing breath through her teeth, shivering in the sudden cold, and rubbed her arms. She was free, and yet she wasn’t. Armed and yet unable to fight. But she was with her family. With the only ones she had left. The Dark Lord’s most faithful. Those who had never abandoned, never betrayed him. And never would.

Rodolphus, her husband. Rabastan, her brother-in-law. And Barty, her saviour.

They would avenge their Lord. They would fulfil his plans. Tear down Britain, scour the rot from its soul, cleanse it with fire so a pure country could rise from the ashes. They would succeed or die trying. But they would never, ever be captured again. They had promised that to each other. Sworn a sacred oath. They would die rather than suffer once more as they had in the past.

She exhaled slowly, watching her breath dissipate in the air.

They would have their revenge. Britain would pay. For a decade of torture. For the Dark Lord’s death. For the betrayal of them all. Britain would pay for all of it.

She realised that she had drawn her wand without noticing it and drew a few shivering breaths. She could unleash Fiendfyre on the house. Scour the defiled building from the face of the earth. Cleanse it. See the blood traitors and the mudblood burn! Hear them scream!

All it would take was a flick of her wand.

And she wanted to do it. Wanted it so badly, she had to bite her lower lip until she tasted blood not to do so. Because it wouldn’t work. The wards would hold the fire back long enough for help to arrive. Not even Fiendfyre was unstoppable. And Bellatrix could cast Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes, but she couldn’t block the Floo Network. And in the face of resistance, she would only be able to keep up one set of Jinxes, not two.

But most importantly, such an attack would ruin Barty’s plans. He had told her so often enough.

If only the wards hadn’t been adjusted to keep her out… She licked her lips, tasting her own blood, as she glared at the house once more. Then she frowned. Was that movement? Was someone in the garden?

No. Just a fat, ugly cat wandering to the back of the garden. She snorted. Maybe she should drop a poisoned mouse at the wardline. See if the cat would eat it. Or lure it out, then curse it so the first person to touch it would die screaming…

But the wards would stop her curse. She snorted. Her family didn’t make the same mistakes twice. Not even her traitorous cousin.

Shaking her head, she was about to leave when the door was suddenly opened from the inside, and she saw the mudblood and the cat standing there. Facing her.

Bellatrix hissed as rage boiled inside her. The mudblood defiling her ancestral home was there, mocking her with her very presence. She could almost smell the stench of impure blood.

Her wand started to rise. Wards or no wards, she had to do something in the face of this insult. Her pride, her very soul, demanded it.

But no! She couldn’t. That would put Barty’s plan, her own revenge, the Dark Lord’s cause into jeopardy. Trembling, she lowered her wand, glared at the mudblood and apparated.

She appeared in a clearing in a small forest and immediately apparated again. To the backyard of a muggle home. And again. And again. Seven times, to throw off pursuit and Seers, until she returned to the safe house Barty had prepared.

“You’re late,” Rabastan greeted her as she entered the living room where he was reading the Prophet. “Was there any trouble?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head as she pulled out the bag containing bread and milk from her enchanted purse. “No. Just a line in the shop. Muggle filth.”

He nodded. “I wish we could go to a real bakery.”

She shrugged. “It’s only once a month.” The groceries would keep and be duplicated, after all. And their enemies would never suspect that they would stoop to eating muggle food. Sometimes, Bellatrix herself couldn’t believe it.

He nodded. “And we’ll be ready soon enough.”

She smiled. The day of reckoning was approaching, at last. The traitors would pay.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 29th, 1998**

Lestrange, here, on the corner across the street! Hermione Granger had barely aimed her wand when the dark witch disappeared. Apparated, she told herself, trembling as her pulse seemed to race. How had the Death Eater… Stupid! Of course, Lestrange would know where Grimmauld Place was located - she was a Black. Hermione shook her head.

At her feet, Crookshanks hissed. What a smart cat! She shook her head. She had to act. React. She couldn’t panic. First, alert the others. She quickly cast an Amplifying Charm. “Jeanne! Sirius! Bellatrix Lestrange was here!”

The two arrived faster than she thought possible - she had barely managed to check the front part of the garden for threats when she heard Sirius yell: “What? Bella was here? Hermione! Get inside!”

“Comment?”

“I’m inside the wards,” she snapped. “I’m perfectly safe.” Or as safe as she would be inside the house. Mostly. She still had to struggle not to dash inside and lock the door. “I don’t see any sign of Fiendfyre or any other threat,” she said as Sirius stepped outside himself, wand drawn. Crookshanks wasn’t hissing either - but his fur was still standing up.

“No one’s safe when Bella’s around,” Sirius muttered. “Where did you see her?”

“Crookshanks noticed her and called me. She was standing on the corner there.” She pointed with her wand. “As soon as she saw me, she apparated.”

“The wards haven’t been touched,” he replied. “She was probably spying.”

“Or trying to bait us. Or unnerve us - she wasn’t disillusioned,” Hermione retorted as she rounded the corner. “The back seems clear as well.” A quick glance told her that Crookshanks was trotting next to her, showing no sign of being agitated further.

She still felt like someone was going to curse her in the back at any moment.

Hermione shook her head. She had to focus. “We have to alert Harry. And we have to ensure that everything that could compromise us is hidden, even inside the basement. Just in case.” The DMLE wouldn’t dare search the house, but Harry and Ron lived here. They might insist on bringing that paranoid Moody inside to check for curses and traps.

“The other side is clear as well,” Jeanne reported.

Hermione saw that Sirius pressed his lips together and glared at his wife. He didn’t say anything, though. Neither did Jeanne - she simply raised her chin slightly.

“We need to move,” Hermione snapped. “We don’t have much time.” They couldn’t wait too long before calling Harry. That would be suspicious.

Fortunately, they had made plans for this eventuality.

*****

Bellatrix Lestrange had shown up at Grimmauld Place! Harry Potter clenched his teeth as he stepped out of the fireplace in the entrance hall, wand in hand. “What happened?” he snapped a moment before Ron arrived behind him.

Sirius was there. And Jeanne. But no Hermione. Where was she?

“Crookshanks noticed Bella watching the house from the corner across the street,” Sirius answered. “He alerted Hermione, who spotted her a moment before Bella apparated away.”

“We didn’t find any signs of an attempted break-in,” Jeanne added.

“You checked already?” Harry blurted out. Why hadn’t they waited for the Aurors?

“We’re not exactly helpless,” Jeanne said. She sounded a little annoyed. Apparently, she had guessed what he had been thinking.

“We checked for a Fiendfyre attack or an ambush before we alerted you,” Sirius said. “We didn’t want to play into their hands, in case this was a trap. Or a diversion by those thieves.”

Moody arrived behind them. A little later than Harry had expected.

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked as the old Auror looked around, his eye spinning madly in its socket.

“The lass’s coming down the stairs,” Moody answered before Sirius could.

Harry turned. Yes, there she was. Unharmed, as far as he could tell. Safe. He took a deep breath and refrained from running to her and patting her down. Or using his glasses to check for any wounds under her clothes.

“There was nothing suspicious on the first and second floor,” she said. “Crookshanks didn’t sense anything either,” she added with a smile aimed at her orange monster.

Apparently, the ugly furball had his uses. Harry hoped that this wouldn’t make him even more spoiled.

Moody scoffed, and Harry turned. Had the old Auror spotted something?

“Can’t see any Death Eater. But there’s a hidden area in the basement,” Moody growled.

Harry blinked. There was no hidden area in the basement. He gasped. “That’s the trap then!” He started towards the stairs. There was no telling what the Death Eaters - or Sirius’s parents, which was pretty much the same thing - might have done down there.

“No!” Sirius held up his hand. “That’s not a trap.”

“What?” Harry stared at his godfather. “You knew about this?” Why hadn’t he been told?

“Well…” Sirius cleared his throat. “It’s sort of… our playroom.” He smiled at Jeanne.

“Playroom?” Harry asked, then blinked. “Oh!” That sort of playroom. He had to suppress the images that caused.

Jeanne winked at him and wrapped her arms around Sirius. “If you want to use it you’ll need to tell us, so we won’t barge in on you.”

“We’re not here to talk about Potter’s love life. Where did you see the Death Eater?” Moody growled.

“Across the street,” Hermione answered. She seemed annoyed, in Harry’s opinion. “I can show you.” She walked past them to the door and opened it. Crookshanks followed her, sniffing at Harry as he passed them.

Moody stepped outside. “Alright. Looks safe enough,” he said after a minute. “Weasley, get the others from the Ministry. We’ll comb the area. But be ready to apparate at once - this might be a diversion to keep us from reacting to the real attack. Or the first of a series of fake attacks to make us complacent and tired when they attack for real. Which won’t work,” he added with a growl.

Harry didn’t quite sigh when he followed the Auror outside, but he wanted to. Until he felt Hermione’s hand on his arm, squeezing gently for a moment, and, as he passed her, heard her whisper: “Be careful.”

*****

The Aurors were taking a long time to comb the area around Grimmauld Place. Hermione Granger didn’t like waiting. And she disliked worrying even more. Harry and Ron were out there! Looking for traps and ambushes as much as for evidence and clues. She could only hope that Moody’s enchanted eye worked better on whatever the Death Eaters had planned than on the secret room hidden in the basement.

She bit her lower lip as she shifted on her seat in the entrance hall. Crookshanks, smart cat as he was, didn’t protest. He merely squirmed a little in her lap. She started to sigh, then caught herself.

“He’ll be fine,” Jeanne said.

Hermione glanced to her side, where the other witch was seated on the couch. “I’m worried about both of them,” she told her, frowning.

“Of course.” Jeanne smiled.

Hermione knew what she meant. And her friend was right - she was thinking more about Harry than Ron. A lot more. She sighed and petted Crookshanks. He was happy, at least. And didn’t have to struggle with the urge to pace and look out the windows every minute to see if something was happening outside.

Although, if Hermione were honest with herself, the main reason she wasn’t doing that was that Sirius was stalking from one window to the other and had been doing so for at least an hour.

“You should be telling him that,” Hermione said, pointing at the pacing wizard.

“I know that Harry’ll be fine,” Sirius replied, walking over to them and taking a seat next to Jeanne.

For a moment, no one said anything. Sirius wrapped his arm around Jeanne’s shoulders, and Hermione petted Crookshanks. Her bracelet - sporting a new coin - almost got caught in his fur, but she fixed that.

“Our plan worked,” Sirius said. “Harry completely understood why we didn’t tell him about the secret room.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “But our planning room is now a boudoir.”

“Nothing a little Transfiguration and Conjuration won’t be able to handle.” He grinned. “And Harry won’t even try to check our ‘toy chests’.”

“And what will he think if he sees me leaving the room?” Hermione asked. When she saw his grin grow wider, she quickly added: “Don’t answer that. It was a rhetorical question.”

He pouted, then shrugged. “Don’t get caught, then.”

“I’ll need an excuse to be in the basement,” she said.

“You are working on your own playroom?” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows.

He was just dealing with his own nervousness about Harry. She still wanted to hex the dog. “My own potion lab,” Hermione said in a firm voice.

“Good idea. He’ll understand that you don’t want to try potions in your room.”

She really wanted to hex him. She wasn’t bad at potions. Just not as good as she could be. Should be.

“Add a secret door to the playroom,” Jeanne suggested.

“That’s a good idea.” Hermione nodded. That would be very useful. Although if it would make the security of their base a little more complicated. She’d have to take care to hide the door in a way that would overlap with the playroom’s defences. And she had to stop thinking of it as a playroom.

“So, how are things going with you and Harry?” Sirius interrupted her planning. “That was a tender gesture when he went outside.”

She pressed her lips together and glared at him. That wasn’t something she wanted to discuss, and certainly not with him! As long as she couldn’t tell Harry what they were really doing, there was no future for them.

“Ah.” He nodded as if she had answered him.

She looked at Crookshanks as she petted him. She wouldn’t ask what the dog was thinking. She didn’t want to know.

Fortunately - for him - he didn’t push.

*****

When Harry finally returned, Hermione Granger wanted to pounce and hug him. And run her hands over his strong back. Press herself against his front. Rub her cheek against his, cover him with her scent… She bit her lower lip. This wasn’t the time. Not after Sirius’s question. “Did you find them?” she asked instead.

He shook his head. “We didn’t find anything.”

“No traps, no clues, no Death Eaters,” Ron said, closing the door behind them. “It looks like Lestrange just came to scout out the house.”

“Or that’s what they want us to think,” Harry said. “She let Hermione see her for a reason.”

“Which we don’t know,” Ron retorted. “She might just have wanted to unnerve us. Make us focus on an attack that never comes.”

“Or that’s what she wants us to think,” Harry said.

Hermione almost rolled her eyes. Moody wasn’t a good influence on her friends. “As long as you’re safe,” she said. “Do you have to go back to the Ministry?”

“Yes,” Harry answered.

“Shift’s not over yet, and we have to write reports about this,” Ron added.

“But don’t worry,” Harry said, smiling at her. “We’ll be just a trip through the Floo Network away. And the Death Eaters didn’t touch the wards.”

Hermione kept smiling even though Harry had completely misunderstood her question.

*****

Half an hour after dinner, Hermione Granger heard someone knocking on her door. “Yes?”

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

Harry. She had expected him. She still took a deep breath and quickly checked her appearance - everything was fine - before answering. “Come in.”

There he was, stepping into her room and closing the door, then looking around for a moment and hesitating before sitting down on her bed.

She turned her chair to face him, tilting her head slightly. “I was surprised you and Ron weren’t late for dinner,” she said when he didn’t start talking right away. “I expected you to be held up.”

“Ah.” He shook his head. “We had the whole afternoon to write our reports and no leads to check. Not even Moody had anything for us to do.” He smiled at her. “A good thing, too - the ‘cordon bleu servi avec frites’ was delicious. Like most French dishes.”

“It’s not a French dish, actually, but of Swiss origin,” she explained. “Veal wrapped around ham and cheese with chips.” She frowned. “After Kreacher tried to feed me fried calf’s brain when the rest of you were away, I started looking up any new dishes he was serving.”

“He tried to serve you fried brains?” He stared at her.

“‘Cervelle de veau’,” she replied, scoffing. “He still doesn’t like me.” She still didn’t know if the house-elf was aware of BSE.

Harry winced. “I didn’t know that.”

“He hides it well. And has been working for the Blacks for centuries.” She shrugged. “We manage.” And if Kreacher ever should cross a line, Sirius would take care of him.

He frowned but didn’t contradict her. “Well, I didn’t come to talk about food or house-elves.”

“I didn’t think you did,” she replied with a grin. She didn’t feel like grinning, though, and subtly rubbed her palms on her robes.

He frowned at her for a moment, then snorted before his expression turned serious. “When I heard that Bellatrix Lestrange was here, I just wanted to rush back. I didn’t think or care about anything else.”

She nodded. “You were afraid that she was attacking your family.”

“I was afraid that she was attacking you,” he corrected her with a faint smile.

“Ah.” Her own smile froze for a moment as she was lost for words.

He nodded. “If you had been hurt, or worse…”

“Well, I wasn’t,” she told him. “I was safe behind the wards.” As safe as that was, in any case.

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “But if you had been…” He sighed.

“Now you know how I feel when you go out, hunting Death Eaters,” Hermione said before he could say anything else. If only she could tell him the truth without exposing Sirius, Jeanne and Mr Fletcher!

He smiled in a rather wry way. “I guess you’re right. But when I go out, I’m with Ron, Moody and usually a few more Aurors if we think the Death Eaters are nearby.”

She huffed. That didn’t reassure her much - most of the Aurors weren’t really competent enough to matter against Death Eaters. Or professional thieves. “And I’m usually with Sirius and Jeanne. And behind wards.” And Hermione was no slouch either, despite Harry’s understandably low opinion of her skill in Defence. “And I’ve got Crookshanks!” Who was a much better and smarter guard than the animals Harry had wanted to get!

He sighed. “Yes. But as recent events showed, even old wards aren’t as safe as they should be.”

She sniffed. “Those were thieves, not Death Eaters.”

“If thieves can do it, so can Death Eaters,” he pointed out.

“I doubt that. They would have done something if they had the skills. And the thieves haven’t killed anyone, have they?”

“No, they haven’t,” he admitted. “But who knows if that will last?”

She swallowed her first response - of course, they wouldn’t kill anyone! Certainly not Harry! “They didn’t hurt you or Ron either,” she pointed out.

“Only our pride,” he said.

“Well, your pride survived.” She grinned at him. “And it could probably stand to get hurt a little.” Especially after all their Defence lessons. It had felt so good to finally show him what she could do when she stopped holding back!

He scowled. “They were lucky. We almost had them.”

“Really?” She tilted her head sideways. “I thought they escaped from you without trouble.”

Harry scoffed. “Next time, I’ll catch that thief. I’ve got her number now.”

No, he wouldn’t! “I thought the robberies weren’t your case.”

“They aren’t. But we might get called in if Dawlish can swallow his pride.”

“Still… you couldn’t touch her, could you?” She shouldn’t be pushing him, but he was talking as if the outcome of their next encounter were a foregone conclusion - well, it was, but not in the way he thought!

“I underestimated her. That won’t happen again.”

“So you’ll grapple with her?” she asked with a smirk.

He blushed. Just a little, but she noticed. “That would be difficult - she was wearing skin-tight leather.”

“I see.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“It’s not like that!” He shook his head. “It’s just… she was very quick and very agile. Athletic - she did one of those Kung Fu wall running moves, too. Grappling wouldn’t be the ideal tactic when facing her.”

“You mean she would beat you,” Hermione said with a grin.

He scowled. “If she’s as good at wrestling as she is at running away, maybe.”

“As long as she doesn’t bite you.” She blinked. Why had she said that? Just because he had implied that all she was good at was running away? Not getting caught was the most important thing for any thief!

He grinned. “Don’t worry. Only you are allowed to do that.”

“I should bite you again for that.” And maybe scratch him a little.

“As long as you don’t draw blood…” He grinned, then blushed again.

She was blushing as well; she could feel her cheeks heat up. She had scooted a little closer to him, too. Close enough that if she leaned forward a little, and he leaned forward some, they could… She cleared her throat and leaned back. “Please be careful anyway. Don’t risk your life. Not for mere stolen gold, at least.”

He nodded, a little shakily, too. And he still was a little flushed. Then he grinned. “But you’ll need a bodyguard when you’re going out.”

Ah. “Such as an Auror?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But they’re usually busy.”

“I know one who would take the time to accompany you.” He was smiling again.

For a moment, she was tempted to ask ‘Ron?’. It would be the kind of joke to keep this moment from becoming too intimate.

But she didn’t want that. Instead, she nodded with a smile.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, November 30th, 1998**

Harry Potter sighed as he put the sheet of parchment down on his desk. “I hate to say it, but the goblins pulled one over on us. These records are worthless.”

Ron looked up from the records he was going through. “You’ve finished your stack already?”

“Took me long enough, but yes,” Harry said.

“How did you manage that?” Ron asked. “I’m only halfway through mine. Cross-checking the entries with our own records is a pain.”

Harry shrugged. “Occlumency helps.”

“I thought it didn’t give you a perfect memory.” Ron narrowed his eyes.

“No, it doesn’t. But it makes it easier to remember things. Such as the cross-references.” If you were perfectly aware of your mind, you could follow memories, too, as they were made. Harry wouldn’t be able to easily recall what he had read tomorrow - but as he was reading something? He could do that easily.

“Lucky you,” Ron grumbled. “But you said that the records are worthless?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded. “None of the Lestranges visited their vaults since their arrest in 1981.”

“What about the vaults’ contents?”

Harry shrugged. “The goblins kept that pretty vague, outside the Galleons, Sickles and Knuts.” ‘Antique cup’ could mean anything. “But we know they don’t have a Vanishing Cabinet inside their vaults.” The goblins wouldn’t tolerate that. Which meant they had checked the extended chests and strongboxes as well.

“Ah.” Ron touched his stack. “I’m still going through the records for the Crouch vault, but it doesn’t look like Crouch Jr visited it at all since his arrest - or since he faked his death.”

“That would have tipped off his father,” Harry said. “He probably had money hidden away during his time as a Death Eater in the war. Or went to another country. Or faked his name.”

“Can we check with the goblins on the continent?” Ron asked.

“We have no leverage.” Harry sighed. “And you know how helpful goblins are.”

“Bloody buggers,” Ron spat. “We try to save them from the next Death Eater attack, and they don’t show even a smidgen of gratitude.”

“They might want the next attack to succeed,” Harry pointed out. “At least enough to give them a pretext to blame us for breaking the treaty.”

“Bloody idiots.” Ron shook his head. “They’re probably gloating about having fooled us with useless records.”

“Well, so did we.” Harry chuckled.

Ron huffed. “We’re trying to save them, though.” He sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Are you going to eat lunch with Hermione today?” he asked after a moment.

“You just want an excuse not to finish your work,” Harry said.

“I need to know so I can plan my lunch and my workday,” Ron retorted with a grin.

Harry snorted. “As if. But yes, we’ll eat lunch together again.”

“Ah.” Ron nodded. “And she didn’t hex you for telling her that she can’t go out by herself?”

“No, she didn’t.” Harry grinned.

“If that’s not a sign of true love, then I don’t know anything,” Ron said with a smirk. “For her, at least.”

Harry scoffed, but he wanted to smile. Ron was, after all, correct. Things were going very well with Hermione.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 30th, 1998**

“We need to work on our alibi,” Hermione Granger said as soon as Sirius and Jeanne had joined her and Mr Fletcher in the ‘playroom’. “We need another failed robbery as a diversion so the Aurors won’t connect our targets to Malfoy’s friends, and we need to be seen in our civilian identities during the attempted robbery.”

“We could hit another shop in Knockturn Alley,” Mr Fletcher said. “I know a few peeps who deserve to get robbed.”

It wouldn’t be a challenge, or very lucrative. But it would help their cover. “That’ll help. But we need a high-profile target, too. Like the Longbottoms. And we three need to be seen - in public, or by Aurors - while the thieves attempt to break in.”

Mr Fletcher was the first to understand her plan, as she had expected. “You want us to fake a robbery attempt on your home.”

“Yes.”

“And you want Harry to see us and the thieves at the same time,” Sirius added.

She nodded. “Harry, Ron and other Aurors.” Harry by himself might be dismissed as being biased.

“That sounds both tricky and very dangerous,” Mr Fletcher said. “You have to fool the people who know you the best. And they’ll be furious at their home - their family - being attacked.”

“Yes. But it’ll stop them from suspecting us in the future,” Hermione pointed out. And furious people made mistakes.

“And how do you plan to achieve this? We can’t be in two places at once,” Jeanne asked.

“Only Sirius and I need to do that,” Hermione said. “Polyjuice Potion will allow us to do it.” Polyjuice Potion and the Memory Charm.

*****

“...and then we travel to France and swap with our doubles, with no one the wiser,” explained Hermione Granger as she finished laying out her plan. But instead of nods of agreement - and impressed expressions - her friends and partners didn’t look like they approved.

“Your plan won’t work,” Mr Fletcher said. “You need two people to use Polyjuice Potion, and we don’t know anyone we can trust enough to do that.”

“We can obliviate them afterwards; we don’t have to trust them to keep our secret,” Hermione retorted.

“And anyone smart enough to pass for you or Black will take precautions against that if only to protect themselves and ensure they get paid.” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “I don’t know anyone who would be suitable for your plan. And even if we had someone, we would need to teach them how to act like you and Black or Potter and Weasley won’t be fooled.”

She pressed her lips together before answering. “That’s why we would simply have them pass by Harry and the other Aurors on the way to France. They’d see them long enough to recognise them, but not long enough to notice the deception.”

“Don’t underestimate Harry and Ron,” Sirius cut in. “Harry, especially, knows you very well.”

“He didn’t recognise me when he chased me in Davis Manor. And I’ve fooled him in disguise before,” she retorted.

“That’s true - but that doesn’t mean someone else will be able to fool him,” Sirius shot back.

“Harry will only see the double for a very short time.” She had considered that!

“We still don’t know anyone we can trust to play our roles.” Sirius shook his head.

“I could ask some of my friends from France, but…” Jeanne sighed. “I don’t think they would go along with this. They aren’t the sort of friends you can trust with such a secret. And they are smart enough to realise that we’re planning to obliviate them.”

Hermione suppressed a huff.

“Your plan’s a little too clever,” Mr Fletcher said.

“But we need to strengthen our alibi. Sooner or later, someone will notice that we’re always away when the thieves strike,” Hermione said. “And people might start to listen to Dawlish’s theories when most of the people who framed me have been ruined.” And she really wanted to outsmart Harry again.

“We’ll have to settle for having an alibi - like being seen in France - during a heist,” Sirius said.

“We still need Polyjuice Potion for that, though,” Hermione pointed out.

“Not necessarily,” Jeanne said. “I’ve looked into the spells on your mirror.” She smiled. “I think we can use that to fool Harry and Ron.”

*****

**London, Soho, November 30th, 1998**

“Harry! There you are!”

Harry Potter didn’t need his training as an Auror to notice that Hermione wasn’t in a good mood when they met at the muggle bus station. She had been frowning until she saw him, and her greeting was a little too cheerful - overcompensating. Not that he minded that - she was hugging him a little longer than usual, too.

“Hi.” He smiled at her and offered her his arm with an exaggerated flourish.

She pouted, as he had expected. “We’re just going for lunch, not dancing.”

“Alright. I’ll save such gestures for when we go dancing.” He grinned at her.

She huffed but didn’t tell him off.

“The restaurant is right around the corner,” he told her as they crossed the street. “Excellent pasta and pizzas.”

“And here I thought you’d take me out to a fish and chips shop.”

“Oh?” He turned to look at her. “Would you prefer that?” He hadn’t known that.

“No, no.” She shook her head. “Just teasing you a little.”

“Ah.” He nodded with a smile.

The restaurant was larger than he had expected - it was a family business according to the recommendation he had read - and it was filling up with the lunch crowd when they arrived. He had made reservations, though, and they were sat at a very nice table, tucked in the corner at the window, a solid wall behind his back with a good view of the entrance and the door to the kitchen. The tables were covered, but with a thick, felt-like paper, not cloth, which looked nice without looking too cheap. Just casual enough for a friendly outing.

They quickly ordered - spaghetti carbonara for him, gnocchi for Hermione - and started on the bread and olive oil on the table while the waiter went to get the salad. Harry cleared his throat. “So, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” She frowned at him.

“You seemed a little upset.”

“Ah.” Her frown deepened. “Just work. I had a great idea, though it turned out to be not so great.” She smiled. “But let’s not spoil our lunch with such things.”

“Alright.” He had wanted to ask about her work, but that apparently wasn’t a good topic. He knew that she was very proud, and that she had made a mistake would rankle for some time.

“How goes the search for Crouch and the Lestranges?” she asked before he could think of another subject.

“Ah, they’re still in hiding.” He shook his head. “We’re hoping that they’ll be pushed to resurface now that the thieves have been impersonating them.”

“Well, if you can’t find the thieves, I doubt that the Death Eaters will find them.,” she said.  
“No, but they might launch another attack in response.”

“Ah.”

She looked rather concerned, in his opinion. “Don’t worry,” he said, “sooner or later they’ll make a mistake, and then we’ll catch them.” Or kill them - no Auror would take any risks to arrest the Death Eaters, after all.

“Good.” She smiled, but it still looked a little forced to him.

“And don’t worry, we’ll get the thieves, too. Once we have the Death Eaters, we’ll be able to focus on them.”

Strangely, that didn’t seem to improve her mood either.

Grabbing and lightly squeezing her hand, however, did.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 1st, 1998**

“Potter, Weasley! There’s trouble at Gringotts!”

Hearing Moody’s yell, Harry Potter jumped up at once and rushed out of his office, Ron hot on his heels, before he realised that there was no general alert. The other Aurors on the floor were paying attention, most had stopped whatever they were working on, but no one else was rushing to the Apparition spot or the Floo connection.

He frowned as he slowed down from a sprint to a brisk walk. If Nott heard about this - and the git would, given the way gossip spread in the Corps - he’d needle them next time Bathilda dragged them to lunch.

Moody was waiting at the Floo connection. “Some idiots started a ruckus in Gringotts about their vaults and apparently some Aurors on a break got involved.”

“They fought?” Ron asked. “In Gringotts?”

Moody scoffed. “Fortunately, they had enough sense not to do that. But the guards threw them out, and the idiots won’t leave the entrance.”

“That doesn’t sound that… urgent,” Harry said. Or important enough to bother them.

Moody turned his head towards him, grinning. “No, it doesn’t. And that’s why we’re taking a closer look.” He threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire. “Diagon Alley!”

*****

Harry Potter noted that, by the time they had reached the entrance to the bank, the argument, or whatever you would call it, had drawn a lot of attention. There was a crowd watching from the foot of the steps, over two dozen people. At the entrance were four Aurors and two screaming wizards facing a dozen goblins.

“I want my gold! I know I had more in my vault! You bloody thieves!” One of the wizards shook his fist at the goblins. In response, they sneered at him.

The other wizard yelled: “Yes. And they stole my gold too! You can’t trust goblins!”

“Those idiots will start a fight,” Ron muttered. “Calling goblins thieves is the worst thing you can do.”

Harry agreed. “We need to get them away from there.” He started towards the stairs leading up to the entrance.

“No. We need to find out why Jenkins hasn’t done that already,” Moody snapped. “And we need to disperse the damn crowd before the curses start flying.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Moody was right - everyone in the Corps knew that they had to avoid any trouble with the goblins. So why hadn’t he dealt with the two wizards already?

Moody cast a Shield Charm followed by an Amplifying Charm. His loud voice filled the street. “DMLE. Everyone, go home! Right now! That is an or...” He suddenly flicked his wand, and a jet of water smashed into the crowd, bowling over half a dozen spectators. “Ambush!” he yelled, dropping to the ground as a green curse shot past him from the middle of the crowd.

Harry swore and conjured a wall between them and the crowd to provide Ron and himself with cover before casting a Shield Charm himself. His friend did the same - conjuring a low wall before Moody, who rolled behind it.

“Cover the area with Jinxes!” the old Auror yelled. A second later, the wall shattered under the impact of another curse.

“Anti-Apparition!” Harry yelled as he cast the first jinx. Ron would follow with Anti-Portkey Jinxes.

The crowd was panicking, wizards and witches running every which way. One slightly fat wizard was running straight at Harry, arms windmilling as he screamed in fear. Before Harry could yell at the man to drop to the ground, a curse struck him from behind, and his chest exploded in a cloud of blood, gore and bone.

Harry saw Moody get up behind the remains of the wall and send a curse at a witch. A cackling witch who slid behind another wizard in time to avoid the curse. She looked far too young, but… that laugh. Like in the memories Harry had watched. Bellatrix Lestrange.

He cast another couple jinxes as he changed position. If they could box the witch in…

Lestrange hit her unwilling shield with a spell from behind that launched the poor bastard in Moody’s direction. Harry raised his wand, but there were still too many civilians between himself and the dark witch. He had to either leave his cover and advance or flank the witch.

Unless, he thought, clenching his teeth as Lestrange cut down a witch with a curse that seemed to flay her alive, the crazy witch killed everyone around her before he could.

“Run you fools!” he yelled as he moved to his right, “Run!” Just a few metres more and he’d have a clear line of fire...

But a roar - guttural and alien - made him whirl around: The goblins were charging down the stairs, blades raised. One of them swung a halberd, decapitating a wizard who had fled up the stairs. Where was… Harry gasped when he saw Jenkins and another Auror behind the goblins, sending curses at him and Ron from their position up there.

“Traitors!” Ron yelled, ducking as their cover was shredded.

“Or Polyjuice,” Harry yelled, conjuring another wall to protect them.

Ron popped up and cast, then dropped to the ground, two yellow curses missing him by inches. “Bloody hell!”

The goblins would be almost upon them. Harry rolled to the side and jumped up. A flick of his wand covered the lower area of the stairs with big rolls of barbed wire. The goblins charged straight into it, entangling themselves. Harry ducked and rolled, back towards Ron, just in time to avoid the shrapnel from the wall where he had been exploding.

Harry got up again, sending a curse at Jenkins and his partner, then noticed that the goblins were cutting a path through the barbed wire. And Bellatrix and Moody were sending volleys of curses at each other in between filling the area with conjured animals and obstacles. Three versus three - but a dozen goblins tipped the scales. He conjured a solid wall in front of them just as the first of them cut himself free, then followed up with more barbed wire on top of them. Now the walls to the si…

The wall in front of him exploded, throwing him back and shredding his shield. He rolled over his shoulder, came up in a crouch and jumped to the side and forward, towards cover, narrowingly escaping Jenkins’s next two curses. He threw himself on to the ground and recast his Shield Charm.

Ron returned fire with a few quick curses, then had to duck and scramble away as more curses chipped at their cover.

Harry swore again - there was no choice. He sheathed his wand and drew the Elder Wand, scooting to his right one yard, two yards, three. Once more he rose, leading with his wand. His last wall had crumbled - spells or weapons; he couldn’t tell - and with a swish, Harry hit the front rank of the goblins with a volley of Bludgeoning Curses, bowling half of them over. He darted to the side as he sent a Blasting Curse at Jenkins. The entire upper area of the stairs blew up, a dust cloud rising, obscuring everything.

Harry whirled, the tip of his wand lining up with Lestrange, Ron replacing the wall that covered them, when a figure broke through the dust cloud. Jenkins! Harry whipped his wand around, but the other wizard was faster. He cast a yellow curse - at Moody! - a second before Harry’s Cutting Curse ripped his Shield Charm apart.

But the old Auror was quicker still, and the curse missed. Moody’s own curse didn’t, and Jenkins - or whoever was wearing his body - collapsed as a Piercing Curse punched through his gut.

Three against one now, Harry thought. Or two, if Jenkins’s partner had survived his Blasting Curse. Good odds.

But for the damned goblins, who were again advancing. “Ron, cover the witch!” Harry yelled, snarling as he aimed his wand at the stubborn creatures. They had left the stairs by now, and Harry turned the cobblestones beneath their feet into mud. Deep mud. He should just kill them, instead. That would be easier. And stick.

He shook his head. He couldn’t kill the goblins. Shouldn’t. But Lestrange... He turned around. The dark witch was on the defensive now; Ron and Moody were sending a hailstorm of spells at her, forcing her to dart around and conjure cover instead of attacking. Harry grinned as he lined up a curse of his own. Three versus one.

Movement on the stairs caught his attention. One of the civilians lying on the stairs was moving - moving his wand, from the goblins towards Moody. Before Harry could react, the man cast and Moody screamed.

Harry shot a Blasting Curse at the wizard, destroying another part of the stairs, but the man had moved in time, and his Shield Charm had weathered the storm of shrapnel. Harry glanced to his side. Moody was on the ground, twitching.

Two versus two. And a dozen bloody goblins.

Once more, curses ripped into the conjured wall as Harry and Ron dashed across the street, globs of acid and clouds of poison descending on them from the air. Harry rolled into the dubious cover provided by an abandoned food cart, panting as he recast his Shield Charm. Why hadn’t that wizard entered the fight earlier?

He blinked. The goblins! He must have been controlling them. Probably Confundus Charms… “Ron, cover me!” Harry yelled.

“Bloody hell!” his friend answered, but he got up behind another wall and started conjuring clouds of smoke on top of their enemies.

Harry rolled away from the cart - which had started burning without him noticing - and raised his wand at the struggling goblins.

“Finite! Finite! Finite!”

For a moment, the fight seemed to have stopped. No curses flew. The goblins were blinking, free of the mud and whatever spell had been cast on them. The Death Eaters were obscured and blinded by clouds of smoke.

Then the clouds were blown away by gusts of wind, revealing the disguised Death Eaters, and the goblins roared and charged at them.

Harry flicked his wand and summoned Moody’s robes - and the old Auror with them. Ron switched to Piercing Curses, stabbing his wand in rapid succession as he cast as quickly as he could.

Harry joined him as soon as Moody - still twitching and groaning - hit the ground at his feet. Two versus two, with a dozen enraged goblins on their side.

And more goblins were charging down from the entrance! Harry bared his teeth as he sent a volley of Bludgeoning Curses at the wizard on the stairs. The Death Eaters were trapped now! No way out.

Then Fiendfyre erupted on the stairs, engulfing both groups of goblins, and Harry gasped. Were they mad? This was suicide!

The goblins were beyond help. As was anyone else still on the stairs. “Get Moody out of here!” Harry yelled at Ron. “I’ll hold it back!”

“Are you crazy?” Ron yelled back, but he was already levitating Moody.

Harry didn’t answer, focusing on the cursed fire ravaging the stairs - and spreading. Procedure - revised after the last incident - called for a dozen Aurors to contain Fiendfyre with rolling casts of walls.

He could only hope that the Elder Wand would be enough for him to last until reinforcements arrived.

*****


	48. Close Calls

**London, Diagon Alley, December 1st, 1998**

Rufus Scrimgeour forced himself to appear calm and collected as he stepped out of the Floo connection in the Leaky Cauldron. The Head Auror had to be in control of the situation, or act as if he were, at all times; his wands depended on him. Especially the younger, inexperienced ones who were the majority of the Corps these days. “What’s the situation?” he snapped as soon as he saw John Dawlish standing there.

“There’s a Fiendfyre attack in progress at Gringotts. We’re trying to contain it. Several Aurors and goblins, as well as civilians, have been killed by it. Suspected Death Eater involvement.” Dawlish told him.

“Death Eaters?” Rufus asked as he proceeded to the entrance to Diagon Alley, Aurors trailing behind him as Dawlish walked at his side.

“Weasley reported a Death Eater attack when he dropped Moody off at St Mungo’s.”

Rufus almost gasped at hearing that. Moody was down? Mad-Eye was their best Auror. “Who’s in charge of the situation?” He tapped the brick wall in the yard with his wand.

“Shacklebolt moved to relieve Potter,” Dawlish said as the bricks flowed away, revealing Diagon Alley - and glimpses of the green fire ravaging it.

“Merlin’s arse!”

“Bloody hell!”

Rufus pressed his lips together to avoid joining in. They couldn’t afford to panic now. “Dawlish, take half the wands here and move to support Shacklebolt in containing the fire! Go!”

As Dawlish rounded up a dozen Aurors, Rufus looked around. He needed his best Aurors now, or this would turn into a catastrophe. If it hadn’t already. Kingsley was already on the job. That left… “Auror Tonks!” he barked. The young witch snapped to attention. “Go inform the Unspeakables that we need their help in suppressing Fiendfyre. At once!” Tonks’s report would ensure that the Unspeakables took this seriously.

“Yes, sir!” She sped off.

Rufus looked at the fire. It didn’t seem to be advancing, but he lacked a direct line of sight. Clenching his teeth, he pulled out his broom and unshrank it. “The rest of you, evacuate the civilians and wounded!” he yelled as he mounted his broom and rose into the air.

The air above the Alley was hot and full of smoke. A Bubble-Head Charm took care of the smoke, but even with a Cooling Charm he could feel the heat. From this vantage point, the situation looked dire, but not hopeless. He could see Potter and Weasley on their brooms, circling the cursed fire, and muttered a curse under his breath. Those two were too brave for their own good - they were so close, all it would take was one gust of wind, and the Fiendfyre would engulf them.

But as far as he could tell, the walls they were continually conjuring were all that kept the Fiendfyre from reaching Gringotts - he could see no Aurors on the ground in that area. Shacklebolt’s group was in the Alley, cut off from the bank by the fire.

And he could see goblins at the bank’s entrance. Waiting. What had Dawlish said? Goblins had been killed? He felt like cursing again as he guided his broom back down, towards the Leaky Cauldron.

Tonks was just stepping out of the pub when he landed. “The Unspeakables are on their way. They’ll arrive in a few minutes!” she reported, unprompted. Good witch.

“Good. Go back to the Ministry. Tell Bones that we need every Hit-Wizard we can spare.” Even if they would be useless in fighting the Fiendfyre.

*****

Half an hour later, the fire was under control - sealed off inside a veritable mountain of conjured rock and smothered in the Unspeakables’ latest concoction. They had lost two Aurors when a wall had burst unexpectedly during the containment, but otherwise the training he had ordered after the last Fiendfyre attack had obviously borne fruit - no other Aurors had been lost in the fire, and the Unspeakables had been even more effective.

But now they were facing another problem - probably more dangerous than the fire. Rufus pressed his lips together as he watched the row of goblins lined up at the entrance of Gringotts, just barely inside their territory. He was certain that the line of Hit-Wizards facing them behind conjured cover was the only reason that they weren’t charging the Aurors dealing with the aftermath of the fire.

Shaking his head, he cast an Amplifying Charm. “Potter! Weasley! To me!”

The two arrived, their robes covered in soot, with tears showing in several spots, but looking otherwise none the worse for wear. And they kept their attention on the goblins. Moody’s influence was showing.

“Sir!” They saluted him.

“What happened here?” Rufus snapped.

“Death Eater ambush, sir,” Potter reported. “They must have used Polyjuice Potion to disguise themselves. They replaced two of our Aurors and started a ruckus with the goblins, then struck once we’d arrived. Lestrange and another were hiding as civilians among the crowd. First, they caused a panic by attacking us and the civilians, then they sent the goblins after us. Moody was cursed during the battle, but we killed the Death Eater disguised as Auror Jenkins, and I think we got the other fake Auror as well. Couldn’t verify it, though. When I broke the spell on the goblins, they turned on the Death Eaters, and another force of goblins charged them from the entrance, at which point they used Fiendfyre.”

A concise report. Potter and Weasley would go far even without Black’s patronage. Not as far, of course, as with it. “Could they have been under the Imperius Curse?” he asked.

Weasley shook his head. “They were too skilled for that. Jenkins wouldn’t have lasted that long.”

As much as Rufus hated to admit it, Weasley wasn’t wrong about that. The current Aurors - with a few exceptions - weren’t as incompetent as Moody claimed, but they certainly weren’t on the level of the Lestranges. He nodded in agreement, then asked: “They burned themselves rather than get arrested?”

“We don’t know, sir,” Weasley answered. “We had the area locked down with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes, but I saw a hole in the ground when we started to contain the flames from the air.”

An underground escape tunnel? It would fit Crouch’s modus operandi; the damned Death Eater was very cunning.

Rufus grimaced as he looked at what was left of the area. Sorting out who was killed there would take the Unspeakables weeks - if they could manage it at all. “They killed the goblins?”

“Two dozen of them, yes,” Weasley confirmed.

“While they were disguised as Aurors.” Rufus shook his head. They’d need a miracle to avoid a war.

“We got at least one of the Death Eaters,” Potter said.

Rufus snorted. “That won’t matter to the goblins.”

And Fudge would blame him. Fortunately, Amelia would stand up for him. Rufus probably wouldn’t even have to find a scapegoat to save his career.

Provided he survived the coming crisis.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 1st, 1998**

Harry Potter felt exhausted when he returned to the Ministry. He looked the part, too, he knew - his robes were blackened, covered with soot and torn. And his hair might have been singed more than a little - he hadn’t noticed anything because of his Bubble-Head Charm, but after he ended it, the stench from his robes had been overpowering.

Not that anyone else was doing any better. Ron was in a similar condition as Harry, Bathilda looked like she’d collapse as soon as she stopped moving, and even Nott, who apparently had been called away from his hole in Filing, was covered in ash and soot and too tired to make any snide remarks.

“Where’s the boss?” Harry asked. Scrimgeour was still in Diagon Alley, staring down the goblins, he hadn’t seen Shacklebolt in a while and he was too tired to go around checking offices.

Bathilda turned around. “John’s the senior Auror in charge.”

Great. Harry kept his expression neutral and nodded at the witch. It wasn’t her fault. “Thanks.”

“Pleasure,” she mumbled, sitting down on a bench by the closest wall and sighing. “Why would anyone use Fiendfyre?” she asked with her eyes closed.

“Because they’re crazy dark wizards and witches,” Ron answered. “And because it’s damned effective if you don’t care about burning the world down. Or at least the city.”

“Or yourself,” Harry added.

Bathilda looked up. “Did they? Burn themselves up, I mean?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so.” If only.

Bathilda shook her head. “So many dead…” She wiped her face and eyes, and Harry looked away.

Turning to Ron, he said: “Let’s find Dawlish.”

The older Auror was in his office and didn’t look like he had just come from fighting a fire. His robes looked freshly cleaned, and his face and hair were spotless. Which was kind of impressive, since Harry knew the man had been sent back to the Ministry not more than fifteen minutes before Ron and himself.

“Potter. Weasley.” Dawlish snapped before they could say anything. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re reporting in,” Harry told him.

“Reporting in?” The Auror scoffed. “Didn’t you hear Scrimgeour? You’re to rest.”

“We can still work,” Harry said. They weren’t as badly off as the other Aurors involved in containing the fire. Moody’s harsh training had paid off again.

Ron nodded. “Others need to rest more than us.”

Dawlish scowled. “Don’t act like bloody fools! All that’s keeping me going is a couple of Pepper-Ups. I’ll collapse in a few hours. But Shacklebolt or Scrimgeour will take over by then. You idiots get some rest - that’s an order - and return in eight hours.”

Harry was about to protest, but Dawlish cut him off. “Merlin’s balls, Potter! Haven’t you noticed the goblins? They’re waiting for us to show weakness, and we can’t afford that. We’ll need the bloody Vanquisher of the Dark Lord showing his face in Diagon Alley while we set up a strong deterrent there, and you need to be well-rested for that. Now get the hell out of here and get some rest! I need to organise the shifts so we can cover Diagon Alley with enough warm bodies to deter the goblins.”

The idiot had a point, as much as Harry loathed admitting it. “How’s Moody doing?” he asked.

Dawlish blinked, then scoffed again. “Last I heard, he’ll live. Unlike a dozen others.”

“Alright. We’ll be back in eight hours,” Harry said.

After a visit to St Mungo’s.

*****

**London, St Mungo’s, December 1st, 1998**

Moody looked bad. Harry Potter had to clench his teeth to refrain from cursing when he saw the old Auror twitch and tremble on the bed in St Mungo’s. Usually, the man’s scarred face looked imposing - even scary - with his spinning eye and cynical attitude, but now the scars on his face and the empty socket just made him look even more hurt than he actually was.

“When will he be healthy again?” he asked.

The young Healer standing at the foot of the bed hesitated. “That is difficult to say at this point. Our counter-curse wasn’t strong enough to remove all the effects of the original curse. That is why he is still twitching,” she added, wincing. “We expect him to recover over time, but a precise prognosis cannot be made at this point. We are keeping him sedated so he won’t hurt himself.”

“And a not so precise prognosis?” Ron asked. “Weeks? Months?”

The witch drew a deep breath before answering. “Months at least.”

Harry once again clenched his teeth. They needed Moody. More than ever, with the goblins breathing down their necks and Lestrange and Crouch still at large. Still threatening his family. Hermione.

“Bloody hell,” he heard Ron mutter.

“He was lucky to reach us in time to get treated,” the Healer said as if that would change anything.

“What about his eye and leg?” Harry asked, nodding at Moody.

“We removed his artificial eye and leg since we couldn’t tell if they were affected by the curse,” the young Healer standing at their side explained.

Harry looked at him. “Where are they?” Those prosthetics, especially the eye, were very valuable. If someone stole them…

“In the box containing his other belongings.”

“We’ll be taking that box,” Harry said.

“But recovering patients are often very dependent on their wands…” she started to protest, then faltered when he narrowed his eyes.

“He told us to keep them for him,” Harry said. Moody hadn’t done so, not explicitly at least, but Harry knew the Auror wouldn’t trust the Healers to keep his belongings safe.

And with good cause. “We’ll need guards here,” he told Ron. If the Death Eaters struck at St Mungo’s…

“Can we spare them?” his friend asked.

“We’ll have to,” Harry replied. Or they’d have to find another solution.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 1st, 1998**

“They told us they were fine and that they’ll be home soon - they’re just visiting Moody.”

Hermione Granger pressed her lips together and glared at Sirius. “I know that,” she spat. “You don’t have to keep telling me. But you know Harry. He’ll claim that he’s fine even if he’s hurt!” The damn fool! And what they had found out through various channels wasn’t helping Hermione to calm down. An ambush by Crouch and the Lestranges. Another Fiendfyre attack on Gringotts. And Mad-Eye Moody had been sent to St Mungo’s. “I won’t believe that he’s fine until I’ve verified it myself,” she whispered without moving her jaw.

“Well, just don’t tackle him before he’s out of the fireplace,” Sirius replied. “You might break him.”

She snorted, which caused him to smile as he sat down on next to her on the bench in their entrance hall.

“We should install a desk for you if you’re going to spend so much time here.”

“I’m not planning to turn this into a habit,” she retorted.

“That’s probably out of your hands - unless you plan to lock Harry up at home until the Death Eaters are caught.” Sirius sighed and leaned his head against the wall.

“You’re worried as well,” she said. He hadn’t left the entrance hall either since their return home to Jeanne from the Ministry. The French witch had taken the news about the ambush far better than either of them and was currently in the kitchen, picking the menu for the evening,

“Of course I’m worried,” he replied, scoffing. “I know just what kind of dark wizards Harry is hunting - I spent a decade in prison with them, and I grew up with Bellatrix. She’s worse than Voldemort - a cruel, crazy monster.”

Hermione bit her lower lip and took a deep breath. Perhaps… “If we told Harry the truth about us, he’d quit the Corps.”

He glared at her, but she didn’t flinch and met his eyes. That way, Harry would be safe. Safer, at least. And she wouldn’t have to lie to him.

He shook his head. “And he would abandon his dream. His career. Ron would follow. People would think they’re cowards, too scared to face the Death Eaters.”

“He would be safe,” she retorted. “And he could make his own decisions.” She raised her chin slightly.

He narrowed his eyes at her and almost sneered. “You know as well as I do that he’d quit the Aurors.”

“Would that be so bad? He could work with us.”

“He would have to; he wouldn’t let us take all the risks. You know he wouldn’t.” Sirius shook his head. “I told you before: I’m not going to do that to him. He deserves to make his own decisions.”

“He can’t really make a decision when he doesn’t know the truth,” she retorted.

He snorted. “He was a member of the Order. He knew that we weren’t following the law when it got in the way of fighting the Death Eaters. Hell, you know the kind of magic Dumbledore taught him.”

Hermione reluctantly nodded. Illegal blood magic. Almost as bad as the Unforgivables in the eyes of the law.

“See? And yet, he didn’t want to break the law to battle Malfoy and his ilk; he chose to enter the Ministry and reform it. And I respect that decision. I won’t force him to abandon his plans.”

“His plan isn’t working!” Hermione spat through clenched teeth. “As long as Malfoy and his allies have gold to spend, things won’t change.”

Sirius shrugged. “That’s why we’re robbing them blind. So Harry’s plan will work.”

Even without Malfoy’s corrupting influence, it wouldn’t be easy to reform the Wizengamot. Hermione knew that. It might even be impossible without further robberies - even Sirius’s allies among the Old Families wouldn’t be happy to lose their power and position at the top of Wizarding Britain. “Do you think he’ll be happy to know that he only succeeded thanks to us breaking the law?”

“Who says he’ll ever know?” Sirius shook his head. “We finish Malfoy, and we can retire.”

Of course - he was going to be a father. And he wasn’t a professional thief. Hermione pressed her lips together. Could she stop being a thief after she achieved her goals? Forget everything she had learned? Abandon her career?

Or perhaps she should be asking herself whether she could continue being a thief when all she was doing was filling her own coffers? When Harry would be hunting her? When she had no excuses left?

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t certain whether or not she wanted to know the answer.

“Everything will work out,” he said after remaining silent for a while. “You’ll see.”

She snorted. If only. “Well…”

The sound of the fire flaring up in the fireplace interrupted her. Her eyes shot open, and she jumped to her feet. Harry!

There he was, walking - stumbling - out of the fireplace. He looked terrible. Exhausted. As if he could collapse at any moment and sleep for a day. But he also looked unhurt. Whole. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his shoulder, her front against his chest. He was alive. Unhurt. Safe.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Harry.”

“Hermione.” She felt his arms around her. His hands on her back, gently rubbing.

And she knew one thing: Whatever her future held, she wanted him in it. No matter the cost.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 1st, 1998**

The green flames roared as they shot up, tendrils of cursed fire weaving through the air as they reached for him. He gritted his teeth and pulled on the shaft of his Firebolt, rolling as he veered away, narrowly avoiding the closest flames as he flicked his wand to conjure another wall beneath him, stopping the Fiendfyre from approaching Gringotts for another precious quarter minute.

He felt the heat on his face and hands as he compensated for the sudden thermal updraft pushing against him from below. That was close. Perhaps a little too close. Ron was on the other side, replacing a wall that had already been burned to cinders.

Smoke billowed up in front of him and he banked - flying through smoke was a good way to miss another flame reaching for you. Where were the reinforcements? The Unspeakables? He and Ron had to have been fighting this cursed fire for minutes now - it didn’t take that long to reach Diagon Alley from the Ministry!

He panted as he circled the fire, looking for the next wall about to crumble. Breathing was difficult. Surprisingly so, despite his Bubble-Head Charm. It was as if he had a weight on his chest. And that needling sensation on his collarbone…

Harry Potter opened his eyes and gasped at the monster sitting on his chest. He almost jerked and rolled to throw it off - but he managed to control himself. That would have been a mistake. A bloody mistake. Instead, he clenched his teeth and addressed the beast. “Get off me, Crookshanks!”

The monster growled in return - Hermione called it purring, but Harry knew better - and flexed his claws, once again pricking his skin as if he was warning him what would happen if Harry tried to throw him off.

Harry bared his teeth at the blasted cat. “I said: Get off!” he snarled.

In response, Crookshanks started to lick his paw.

“You should eat him,” he heard Mr Biggles say. “He’s plump and fat, and just the right size for you.”

Harry turned his head. His snake was watching from his habitat. “I can’t eat him.”

“Why not? You humans can’t swallow well, but you can cut up your meals.”

“Hermione would kill me if I harmed her precious pet,” he explained. And the rest of the household would probably help her since the cat had managed to spot Lestrange. Crookshanks must have gained two pounds from all the treats. At least Harry’s chest felt like he had.

“Hmph. If she doesn’t want her pet to get eaten, she should build a habitat for it. Like you did for me! Anything outside is fair game.”

Mr Biggles had obviously misunderstood his explanation. He glanced at his owl. Hedwig was staring at him, then at the snake. Harry closed his eyes. And Crookshanks was snoring. “I need to get up, Crookshanks,” he mumbled. “I have to go to work.”

Someone giggled. Harry opened his eyes and grabbed his wand, then relaxed when he saw it was Hermione. She shook her head as she entered his room. “Honestly, Harry, you need to stop spoiling Crookshanks. If he doesn’t go away then you have to push him away.” She reached out and grabbed her cat.

“Wait!” Harry yelled, but Hermione had already lifted Crookshanks up.

“What?” she asked, frowning at him.

He patted his chest. No claw marks. Of course the ugly monster would play nice when Hermione was watching. “Nothing,” he said, glaring at the cat in her arms.

She huffed. “Don’t act as if you’re afraid of Crookshanks. Not when you’re about to go out and face goblins. Or hunt Death Eaters.”

He snorted. “That’s different. I’m allowed to curse those.”

She frowned at him. “He likes you so much he naps on your chest, and you want to curse him?”

“It’s not like that!” he protested.

“He probably thought you needed protection while you slept.” Hermione sighed, then cooed at the fat monster. “Don’t mind him, Crookshanks - he doesn’t understand cats.”

Harry understood cats just fine. He just wasn’t in love with them. Unlike Hermione. “He didn’t want to let me get up,” he explained.

“With good reason. I would also love to keep you in bed,” she said, then blinked. “To keep you safe, I mean,” she quickly clarified. He could see her blush, though.

But this wasn’t the time for flirting. He was expected at the Ministry - or in Diagon Alley. “No one would be safe if the goblins started a war,” he said.

“But you won’t be safe at all,” she retorted. “The goblins, the Death Eaters… why does it have to be you all the time?”

He shrugged. “It’s the same for every Auror.”

She scoffed. “Not all of them go out in the field.”

“In this sort of crisis, they do.” He chuckled. “Even Nott was in the Alley. They probably had to drag him out of his office in the archives.”

She pursed her lips - as he well knew, she didn’t like to be proven wrong. “Not all of them fly around Fiendfyre on their brooms, though.”

“If we hadn’t done that then Gringotts and Diagon Alley would have burned.”

She closed her eyes and sat down on his bed. “I know. I hate it.”

He wanted to hug her, but she was still holding her cat. He sighed. “We got half the Death Eaters today.” Probably. “We’ll get the rest soon. And the goblins will calm down.”

“Until the next crisis.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Are you going to keep doing this?”

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked. “Leave it to others?”

He could see her clench her teeth. “I want you to be safe,” she whispered.

He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”

She tilted her head, resting her cheek on his hand for a moment. “You better,” she whispered with her eyes closed.

Harry really wanted to hug her. Reassure her that he would be fine. Kiss her.

But Crookshanks was staring at him.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, December 2nd, 1998**

When Harry Potter and Ron arrived in Diagon Alley after midnight, the massive conjured rock that contained the remains of the Fiendfyre still occupied most of the area in front of Gringotts. “Is it still burning inside?” he asked the closest Auror, Brown, nodding at the rock.

Brown shook his head. “The Unspeakables said that the fire must have been extinguished. But Shacklebolt said not to remove the rock until tomorrow morning. Just to be certain.”

“Ah.” A sensible precaution, in Harry’s opinion.

“Where is Hit-Wizard Leader Smith?” Ron asked. “We need to report in.”

“Leaky Cauldron.”

Harry frowned. “He should be here. He can’t command from there if anything happens.”

Brown shrugged. “Probably better if he’s not here if anything happens. You know how Hit-Wizards are,” he added with a grin.

“Bones will have his head,” Harry said. Ineptitude, or dereliction of duty - either way, Smith was done for.

“No, she won’t.” Brown scoffed. “He’s a cousin of Eleonora Smith.” The Head of the Smith family.

“Bones won’t care,” Harry retorted.

“She won’t antagonise Smith unless something actually happens,” Brown said. “Even Bones doesn’t like making enemies for no reason.”

“No reason?” Harry scoffed. “We’re staring down the goblins to prevent a war, and Smith is putting everything at risk just so he can stay out of the cold!”

“Bones knows as well as you do that we are all better off without Smith actually being in charge.” Brown grinned. “And if something does happen, she can get rid of him.”

Ron snorted. “At least he’ll be useful as a scapegoat.”

It still wasn’t right, in Harry’s opinion. “Bones would fire anyone in Smith’s place without his family ties.”

“Not many of those around,” Brown said. “So, you’re in charge?”

Harry stared at him, then snorted. “Might as well be.” He was certainly a better choice than Smith.

*****

The goblins were still ready for a war, as far as Harry Potter could tell after his quick inspection of the ‘front’, as the Hit-Wizards called the entrance to the bank. Two dozen of them were standing there, weapons drawn, sneering at him as he flew by on his broom.

The second shift of the Hit-WIzards had taken up their positions in the area as well, with half a dozen Aurors - mostly younger ones - reinforcing them. If the goblins tried anything, they wouldn’t get far - the wizards had good cover and overlapping fields of fire.

He looked at Ron, flying next to him, and pointed down. Half a minute later, both were standing next to Brown again, a little behind the front. “Who’s covering the tunnels?”

“Fawley,” the Auror answered. “Shacklebolt sent her down there to monitor the tunnel. It leads to the muggle sewers, actually.” He frowned. “Tunnels?”

“If the goblins try something, I don’t think they’ll charge straight at us,” Harry explained. “They’ll try to use tunnels to flank us.”

Brown gasped. “But…” He looked at the ground. “You think they’re burrowing beneath us?”

“I think they’ve got a number of tunnels already prepared,” Harry said.

“Since the last rebellion,” Ron added.

“Merlin’s arse! They could have tunnels to anywhere!”

Harry inclined his head. “They won’t risk travelling through the muggle areas.” Such a threat to the Statute of Secrecy would certainly bring in the ICW. “But the Alley?” He shook his head. “They won’t have many tunnels ready.”

“Too much risk of being discovered by accident,” Ron cut in. “But they’ll have prepared some, and dug others halfway. Which is why we need to monitor the entire underground area.”

“Fawley won’t like it,” Brown said. “She was angry enough at having to pass through a muggle sewer.”

“Tough,” Harry said. He didn’t care how closely related to the Fawley family the witch was - this was too important.

*****

“...and make sure that your relief continues where you stopped,” Harry Potter said. “We need to map all the tunnels beneath the Alley.”

Fawley glared at him. “Who put you in charge? Shacklebolt said Smith from the Hit-Wizards would take over as commander.”

“Smith decided to hide from the cold and holed up in the Cauldron.” Harry scoffed. “This needs to be done, and it’s your task.”

“My task is to map and monitor the Death Eaters’ escape tunnel. No one said anything about other tunnels.” The witch scowled.

“An obvious oversight.” Harry shrugged. “This is important. We have to be aware of any attempt by the goblins to outflank us.”

“You’re not in charge of me!” she spat. “You’re a rookie!”

“I don’t see anyone else taking charge of this mess,” Harry retorted. “Do you want to be responsible for a pack of goblins attacking us from behind?”

“Why don’t you go and check if it’s so important?” She scoffed.

“Because someone has to keep an eye on the situation here,” he responded. And it certainly wouldn’t be her. He narrowed his eyes at her. “So get the rest of your group and start doing your duty! You can complain to Bones later - and explain to her why you refused to secure our position.”

“I most certainly shall!” She huffed, but she turned around and started to walk towards the tunnel entrance.

Harry sighed. “Why the hell are we surrounded by idiots?”

Ron shrugged. “It’s the graveyard shift. That means it’s staffed by rookies and those who screwed up or annoyed their superiors.”

Harry would have thought that in this sort of crisis, people wouldn’t keep following such policies, but he feared that Ron was correct.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 2nd, 1998**

“Harry! Ron! Bones wants to see you.”

Harry Potter struggled not to roll his eyes and curse at Bathilda. She was just the messenger.

Ron, though, didn’t try to hide his annoyance. “Now? Bloody hell, we just spent eight hours staring goblins down at night! Can’t this wait?”

The witch winced. “I didn’t ask her. She did sound annoyed, though.”

“That’s normal for her,” Ron retorted. “Ah, well, let’s go. I want to go home and sleep as soon as possible.”

“Yeah,” Harry echoed the sentiment as he got up. Their reports would have to wait. He smiled at Bathilda. “Not your fault.”

“I know,” she replied, smiling slightly. “Everyone’s on edge.”

“Understandably.” Harry nodded as they left their office. Bones probably wanted a first-hand report on the situation in Diagon Alley. She’d be under pressure from the Minister and the Wizengamot.

Bathilda excused herself halfway to Bones’s office - apparently, Dawlish was burying her in his paperwork. Of course, she didn’t word it quite as bluntly, but Harry knew the man.

*****

Bones was angry, Harry Potter could tell at a glance when he and Ron entered her office. She was frowning far more than usual, and her lips were tightly pressed together.

“Madam Bones,” he greeted her. Ron nodded.

“Auror Potter. Auror Weasley. Take a seat.” Bones barely moved her head, just glancing at the two chairs in front of her desk. “I want to know what happened in Diagon Alley.”

“We were called in because there was an incident in Gringotts,” Harry started.

She shook her head, interrupting him. “Not that. The last shift.” She leaned forward. “The Hit-Wizards aren’t happy with you.”

Ron snorted. “When are they ever happy?”

Bones glared at him. “Neither are Smith and Fawley.”

Ah. Harry shrugged. “Someone had to take charge, and Smith was hiding in the Cauldron. Fawley didn’t see the bigger picture.”

“And you did.” Bones sounded rather flat.

“Yes.” Harry nodded.

“They didn’t find any goblin tunnels under Diagon Alley,” the witch went on.

“They found several tunnels that are close enough to Gringotts that the goblins could reach them after just a little digging,” Harry retorted. “They’re now under observation.”

“On your orders.” She was still frowning.

“Yes.” Harry refrained from adding that someone had to give those orders.

“You didn’t have the authority to give such orders.” Bones shook her head. “You didn’t clear them with Smith.”

“There was no time to check. We had to secure the tunnels,” Harry replied.

“And Smith is useless anyway,” Ron added. “He probably would have caved when Fawley started complaining.”

Bones’s frown turned into a glare. “You had ample time to clear your order to patrol the tunnels with Smith.”

“I informed Shacklebolt when we were relieved,” Harry said. “He had no problem with the order.”

Bones shook her head. “And you told him that you gave the order?”

“Yes.” Of course he had told Shacklebolt.

“And that it wasn’t cleared with Smith?”

“We told him that Smith hadn’t left the Cauldron during the entire time we were in the Alley, and so we had to run things,” Ron said.

“We didn’t mention Fawley, though,” Harry admitted. “I thought she’d complain to him anyway.”

Bones scoffed. “She complained to Oliver Fawley. And Smith complained to Eleanor Smith.”

“Aren’t they supposed to go to through the chain of command instead of going to their families?” Harry pointed out.

“They sound as bad as Draco Malfoy.” Ron shook his head.

“The chain of command you ignored?” Bones raised an eyebrow.

“Dealing with a threat is more important than following procedure,” Harry retorted.

“Moody.” Bones shook her head. “If you plan for a successful career in the Ministry, he isn’t the best example to follow.”

“Because he doesn’t do politics?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Yes.” Bones met his eyes. “Even the Boy-Who-Lived can’t afford to make too many enemies in the Wizengamot.”

“I’m not about to let the goblins storm Diagon Alley just so Smith and Fawley don’t go running to their families,” Harry shot back.

“You don’t have to. But you have to be more diplomatic if you plan to be more than a paranoid old Auror.” Bones shook her head. “Your godfather’s gold won’t be enough to help you. The Old Families value their pride very highly and have long memories. With Moody out of action for months, you can’t use him to deflect their ire.”

“I’m not planning to,” Harry spat. “I didn’t become an Auror to curry favour with the Old Families.”

“Antagonising the Wizengamot won’t do anyone any good,” Bones retorted. “They might not be able to get the Boy-Who-Lived fired, but they can make life very difficult for you and your godfather. And that means your work will suffer.” She leaned forward. “And if you don’t follow the rules and procedures, you better have a very good reason or I’ll fire you myself. I won’t tolerate loose cannons in the Corps.”

“I understand,” Harry said through clenched teeth.

She sighed. “I’m not completely happy with the way the system works either. But ignoring it isn’t the answer. We have a duty towards our country, and we can’t neglect it just because we’re unhappy with its politics.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Or they could change the bloody system.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 2nd, 1998**

Hermione Granger knew that she shouldn’t have gone along with Sirius’s idea of a cover for their secret basement area. Or, at least, should have prevented him and Jeanne from decorating the room. “‘Nothing a little Transfiguration and Conjuration won’t be able to handle’, hah!” she muttered, glaring at the ‘device’ in the corner. She was tempted to transfigure it into something less distracting, but she had already done so to half a dozen contraptions, and the more she did, the more time it would take to revert the room to what Harry thought was normal.

Vanishing was no solution either - she’d have to replace anything she vanished through Conjuration, which would require the same amount of time. And she would have to study something in detail to replicate it. Which, in this case, would be even more distracting, she thought as she felt her cheeks grow warm again.

And she couldn’t afford any distractions - she had to plan both a heist and a believable distraction of her own. A distraction that wouldn’t reveal - and therefore ruin - any of her plans for the other manors.

That ruled out an attempt at disguising herself; the last thing she wanted was for the guards at Greengrass Manor to be aware of such a ploy. Although a double-bluff… no. That wouldn’t work for that sort of setup. A tunnel was a possibility - but would it be believable, with one such plan having apparently already failed at Longbottom Manor? Would it be plausible to make an attempt on Grimmauld Place, with the ruckus of Bellatrix Lestrange’s visit barely over? Though it would, of course, fit a group of thieves reckless enough to fake a Death Eater attack as cover for a heist.

A tunnel would be easy to arrange and hard, but not impossible, to detect. For Harry, at least. It would also draw attention to the basement, but that could be handled. And the muggle sewers would provide ample opportunities to retreat in safety. A fake trap would slow pursuit, the labyrinth of tunnels beneath London offered many hiding spots and all it took was one Apparition to escape.

And yet she didn’t like that plan. Too obvious. Too blatant. Too boring, too. It didn’t fit the daring band of thieves who had twice, thus far, made the Old Families and the Aurors look like fools. And yet, she couldn’t afford to reveal a working plan for a mere diversion. Not when each successive heist would already be more difficult.

Hermione blinked. She couldn’t use one of her future plans. But a past plan? She could easily adapt that without hamstringing her plans for future heists.

And she had just the ploy in mind.

Smiling, she started to make plans.

*****

Hermione Granger was barely halfway through her planning - their escape had to be assured, this time; she wouldn’t repeat her near-fatal mistake - when Jeanne disturbed her.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” Hermione forced herself to hide her lingering annoyance at the room’s furniture and decor; Jeanne should have reined in Sirius, instead of helping him turn the room into a boudoir. Or a dungeon.

“Harry and Ron will be back soon.”

Hermione didn’t gasp, but she whipped her head round to check the clock on the wall. Had she already spent two hours planning? She should have known better than to lose track of time; that was how thieves were caught. She nodded slowly, ignoring Jeanne’s faint smile. “Alright. I’ll move to the library and act as if I’ve been reading and researching.”

“And worrying for Harry.”

“That, too,” she admitted with a wry smile. It wasn’t as if that were a secret. Frowning, she added: “He still won’t quit the Aurors.”

“Did you expect him to?” Jeanne asked, leaning against the doorframe as Hermione quickly stashed her notes in her enchanted pocket.

She sighed. “Not really.” But she had had a little hope. “I just want him to be safe. He and Ron don’t have to do everything.” There were lots of other Aurors who could risk their lives as well. Like that idiot Dawlish. If he caught a curse in lieu of Harry, that would at least make up for his attempts to frame Hermione.

“They’re among the best Aurors Britain has,” Jeanne pointed out. “So Sirius tells me.”

“He’s right.” Hermione sighed again. “And that says a lot about the skills of the average British Auror.”

“It also makes our work easier,” Jeanne pointed out as they left the boudoir.

“Not for long,” Hermione retorted. “They’ll send Harry and Ron after us as soon as the Death Eaters are dealt with.”

“That could take a while, though,” Jeanne said. “As long as we don’t try to fake a Death Eater attack as a diversion we shouldn’t encounter Harry and Ron.”

Hermione glared at her. “The plan worked.”

“You were lucky.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not particularly. If I had been lucky, they wouldn’t have rushed in before we were done. And it doesn’t matter anyway since we won’t be repeating that.” The Greengrass heist would go perfectly.

Jeanne smirked. “You liked when he chased after you, though.”

“I liked beating him,” Hermione corrected her friend. All those lessons playing the helpless witch, but she won as soon as she stopped holding back.

Jeanne smiled. “I see.”

Hermione glanced at the French witch, but refrained from asking what exactly Jeanne thought she had seen.

*****

It felt good to return home, Harry Potter thought as he and Ron arrived in Grimmauld Place. And it felt better to see his family safe and sound. Well, Jeanne. He looked around.

“Sirius is at the Ministry. An emergency session of the Wizengamot,” she explained.

“Hermione as well, then,” he nodded, feeling slightly disappointed. He should have expected that.

“No, she’s in the library doing some research for him,” Jeanne said.

“Oh.” He looked at the hallway leading to the library and ignored Ron’s chuckle.

“She told me to inform her as soon as you arrived, but maybe you want to go to her instead?” Jeanne asked with a sly smile.

He nodded. “She’ll have questions anyway.”

“I’ll call Luna,” Ron said as Harry left the entrance hall and went to the library.

There she was. Sitting in her usual seat, the table overloaded with books of all kinds and several scrolls and sheets of parchment. “Harry?” She blinked, then jumped up and walked towards him. “You’re back! Jeanne was supposed to tell me… How are you?” she asked as she hugged him.

“I’m fine,” he said, then grinned when she pulled her head back and scowled before releasing him. “No, really. There was no fighting. All we did was wait and stand guard. And a few Aurors patrolled the sewers, in case the goblins were trying to tunnel underneath us.”

“Ah.” She slowly nodded. “Sensible. They are quite adept at tunnelling.”

He snorted. “I wish everyone realised that. Bones was angry that I told the other Aurors to watch the tunnels, instead of asking the Hit-Wizard nominally in charge to do it. Order them to patrol, I mean.”

Hermione shook her head. “And she took offence at that?”

He shrugged. “Smith - the Hit-Wizard - and Fawley complained to their families, who complained to Bones. She wasn’t happy with us. ”

She scoffed. “Typical.”

Harry shrugged again. “She didn’t punish us, but she warned us that if we ignored procedure and chain of command again, we’d better have a damned good reason.”

“She should be rewarding you for your initiative and insight, not condoning such nepotism!” Hermione snarled. “Keeping everyone safe is more important than catering to some Old Family’s pride.”

He smiled. She understood. “Yes. But until the Ministry’s reformed, we’ll have to deal with that. I just wish Moody were healed already - he knew how to deal with this kind of stupidity.”

She nodded as she leaned against the table. “They can’t fire the Boy-Who-Lived, though.”

“No, but Bones warned me that any waves I make might harm Sirius’s efforts in the Wizengamot.” He moved a little closer to her. “Speaking of which, what are you researching?”

“Gringotts’ history,” she answered. “Sirius needs a good grounding in it to be able to deal with the goblins.”

“Binns went into quite a lot of detail,” Harry said, then winced - he hadn’t wanted to remind Hermione that she had only had one and a half years of the ghost as a teacher.

She shrugged, though. “It’s been decades for him, and his memory isn’t the best.”

“That could be bad in today’s session.” If the Wizengamot made the situation worse…

She shook her head. “It’ll mostly be focused on finding out what happened. Unless the goblins start a war, the Wizengamot won’t decide anything today. Or tomorrow. They’ll need more time to make up their minds. Or let others make up their minds for them,” she added with a sneer.

“Ah.” That was reassuring and worrying at the same time. “Business as usual then.”

“More or less. Did you confirm the deaths of two of the Death Eaters?”

“Not yet. The Unspeakables are still working on that. Fiendfyre doesn’t leave many traces that can be used to identify a victim.” He saw her shudder at that and reached out to hold her shoulder. “I think we did get them, though I’ll have to study the scene in the Pensieve to be sure.”

She nodded. “When do you need to return to the Ministry?”

“Well…” He grinned. “Technically, with Moody in St Mungo’s, Ron and I are in charge of the Death Eater case, and we haven’t been assigned another shift in Diagon Alley, so… we can decide when we work, more or less.”

“Wasn’t the entire team on that case just Moody and you two?” Hermione asked.

“Yes.” He nodded with a smirk. “I don’t know if this will last. They might have Shacklebolt replace Moody - but he’s needed for other duties as well. Until someone tells me otherwise, we’ll go on as usual.”

“Just be careful. I don’t want to lose you.” She was biting her lower lip.

He gently squeezed her shoulder. “We already got two of them. Halfway done.”

“I won’t stop worrying until all of them are gone,” she retorted.

There wasn’t much he could say to that, so he took a step forward and hugged her in place of a response. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed in his arms. They remained like that for a little, then he released her. “You know, I’ve been thinking…” he said. Almost dying to Death Eaters and Fiendfyre had that effect.

“Hm? About what?”

Harry wet his lips with his tongue before answering. “About us.”

She stiffened again, slowly nodding. He couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing - her expression seemed to be more wary than anything else.

He pressed on anyway. “I like you. A lot. You probably noticed.”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“And, well, I’d like it if there was an us, you know?” Not his best line. Rather awkward, actually. But it told her enough.

She took a deep breath - he saw her chest expand. “I’d like that as well.”

Yes! He started to smile.

“But…” She bit her lower lip as she crushed his hopes. “I’d really like that, but there’s… I can’t have a relationship with you right now.”

He frowned. That sounded bad. Ominous. “Why not?” She wasn’t pregnant with Paul’s child, was she? No, the dates didn’t add up. And she would have told him if she had been seeing the guy again. Did her parents hate wizards after their experiences? He hadn’t had that impression when he had met them last time.

She clenched her teeth. “I’m not ready for a serious relationship. Or any relationship. With all the troubles, and my work...” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She blinked again, then rubbed her eyes. Or wiped tears from them. “I wish I were ready for a relationship.”

“I understand.” He forced himself to smile. It wasn’t her work. Or the crisis. It had to be Paul’s fault. He should have a talk with that git. Find out what the bastard had done to her. He reached out to pat her shoulder. She didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

Harry nodded. He took a deep breath. “It’s… Paul didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“What?” She blinked. “No, no.” She scoffed. “I would have cursed him if he had tried anything. But the breakup with him taught me that I’m not ready for a serious relationship.”

He believed her - about Paul, anyway. But he wasn’t willing to give up on her. She liked him too; she had admitted that. “It doesn’t have to be, you know, too serious. We can just go out together and see how things develop.” Baby steps. Show her that he wasn’t Paul.

She frowned and he was about to reassure her when he felt something in his pocket vibrate.

What the… His eyes widened when he pulled out a small coin.

It was the alert from the spells they had placed on the hunting lodge in Herefordshire.

The Death Eaters were there!

*****


	49. Breaking Point

**South-West of Hereford, Herefordshire, Britain, December 2nd, 1998**

Barty Crouch Jr forced himself to remain seated on his conjured chair. He had to stay calm. In control. He couldn’t vent his rage, or things would go wrong. Worse than they already had. He had to keep Bellatrix from repeating the same mistake she, and all of them, had made so long ago. “We have lost a battle, but we haven’t lost the war,” he quoted the Dark Lord.

“We’ve lost more than a battle!” Bellatrix hissed, stopping her pacing to glare at him. “We’ve lost my husband and my brother-in-law!” she screamed, causing the scabbed-over wound on the side of her face to break open and bleed again.

“We can still execute my plan,” Barty said without flinching. He had to stay in control. Someone had to.

“How can we win if we couldn’t win a battle against three outnumbered and surprised Aurors?” she spat. “Three Aurors against four of us! And we lost two to their one!”

Their enemies hadn’t been surprised because Bellatrix had been too eager. Barty knew this, but he couldn’t say it. Not to his friend. And, in any case, he should have known better than to assume that she would be able to control herself - the main goal of the whole ambush had been to let his friends vent their anger and frustration. The fact that it would further weaken the Ministry and egg the goblins on would have been merely a bonus. But now… He shook his head. “We can still do it, trust me.” Provided that Bellatrix could control herself. Which didn’t seem very likely at the moment.

She slowly raised her chin, and he could see that she was trembling with barely controlled rage. Blood was seeping into her torn robes. “How? How can we avenge our Master? Our friends? My family? Tell me how!” she screamed. “But don’t tell me to have patience! I can’t wait any longer!”

Barty drew a hissing breath through clenched teeth. The Ministry wasn’t yet weakened enough. The goblins were not angry enough. He wasn’t ready to execute his plan. He needed more information. Today’s debacle had proved that Fiendfyre wouldn’t be enough to achieve his goal - the damned Unspeakables had become too skilled at dealing with it. “We cannot rush this! We saw today what happens if we rush things!” He pressed his lips together as soon as he finished - he shouldn’t have said that.

“Rushed? It was your plan!” she screeched. “Your plan, your orders, caused all this.” She spread her arms, gesturing wildly, almost knocking over the old-fashioned lamp on the table next to her.

“Yes,” he growled. “It was my plan. And it failed. And that proves that we need to prepare better. We cannot fail the Dark Lord. Or our friends. We owe it to them to succeed.”

She stared at him, her chest heaving. She wiped the blood off her cheek with a jerky motion, ripping more scabs away and worsening the wound. He didn’t think she noticed. For a moment, the only sounds in the lodge were their heavy breathing. Then she slowly nodded. “You’re right,” she whispered.

He almost closed his eyes in relief and had to stop himself from smiling. “Good.” He nodded, then stepped up to her. “I’m sorry,” he said as he hugged her. The stench of smoke and burning flesh clung to her, still. And the blood running down her cheek would stain his robes. He didn’t care.

She didn’t cry in his arms. She didn’t make any sound, other than her breathing. But he could feel her starting to relax just a little. They would get through this. They would avenge the Dark Lord. And their friends. They had to - they had nothing else left.

After a few minutes, she pulled away. “If we’re to stay here for a while, we should ensure that the lodge is more suited to our needs,” she said, her face no longer betraying any emotion.

“Yes,” he agreed - they wouldn’t have travelled to this lodge of hers if they didn’t plan to stay. He didn’t think Rabastan or Rodolphus had survived, but it wouldn’t hurt to move anyway, just in case their old safe house were to be compromised.

He looked around the room. Bellatrix had said that she had used the lodge as a safe house in the last war, but it had been before Barty had joined the Dark Lord. He had never been here before. “A few cleaning charms, more furniture… does the ice box still work?” The food they had brought with them would keep for a while, but an ice box would make it easier.

“Yes,” she said.

He wanted to ask if she had checked - he didn’t remember her going into the kitchen - but decided against it. She was still too upset to argue with over such a detail. “I’ll make us something,” he said as he headed towards the kitchen.

“Good.” She waved her wand in a silent cleaning charm as he passed her.

He stopped and raised his wand in her direction. “Episkey.”

The wound on her cheek closed, and she nodded at him.

The ice box was still working, as he discovered in the kitchen. Perhaps a little too well - it felt too cold when he put his hand inside. That would ruin some of their food. Frowning, he cast a Detection Charm. He wasn’t a Curse-Breaker, but he could replace a mere Cooling Charm.

And he did. On a whim, he checked the stove - which was still in good condition. The sink, too, and the… What was that? He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the faint trace of a spell on the door. A kind of alarm charm? Recently cast? It had been almost twenty years since this lodge had last been used and neither he nor Bellatrix had cast any such spells…

He gasped. “Bellatrix! We need to move!” he yelled, rushing into the living room.

“What?” She whirled around.

“I’ve found traces of an alarm charm in the kitchen! Someone found this lodge!”

“But the wards haven’t been disturbed!” she protested.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Come!” he snapped, grabbing her arm to side-along-apparate her. It didn’t work. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “They’re here already!”

Bellatrix gasped. “How?”

“That doesn’t matter. We need to flee,” he said. Never try to stand and fight when ambushed. Your enemy had all the advantages. “Is there an escape tunnel… no, they would be aware of it. We need to fly.” The Aurors would be covering the air as well, but it was still their best chance. “Get your broom; we’ll blow the roof off and cover the area in smoke. We’ll meet up in Worcester.”

“No,” Bellatrix spoke softly.

“What?” He stared at her. “This is our best chance to escape.”

“This is my lodge. The last thing I’ve got left of my family. I’m not going to let mudbloods and blood traitors take it away from me.”

“You can’t stay!” He shook his head. Had she gone crazy again? “You’ll…” Of course, she would. And she knew it, he realised.

Her smile was wide, showing her teeth, and forced. “I’ll provide a distraction for you.”

“No.”

She wasn’t listening. “You can execute your plan. Avenge us all. I’ll cull their ranks for you as well.” She nodded, her smile seemingly frozen on her face. Then she reached out and patted his cheek, just as she had done when they had met for the first time, at Hogwarts.

“Goodbye, Barty.”

He stared at her back as she strode towards the door, twirling her wand between her fingers, a dozen words and pleas dying in his throat. Then he wiped his eyes and pulled out his broom.

*****

“Cover the area with Anti-Apparition Jinxes! And Anti-Portkey Jinxes!”

Harry Potter pressed his lips together. He and Ron had already done that, right after arriving near the hunting lodge. But Bertie Macmillan either hadn’t noticed or ignored it to appear more competent - Harry didn’t know which was true.

He did know, though, that Macmillan was a prick who shouldn’t be in charge of this. He glanced at where Ron was sitting on his broom, disillusioned, and muttering curses. Harry felt as angry as his friend sounded. This was their case. Moody had prepared this trap with them. And now some idiot ‘veteran Auror’ was messing it up.

Harry was tempted to take over, but Bones had been quite clear about the consequences of him ignoring the chain of command again, and Scrimgeour had appointed Macmillan as the leader of this operation. As long as Macmillan didn’t make an obvious blunder, they couldn’t sideline him.

No matter how obvious it was to Harry that the man wasn’t up to this.

“Done, Bertie!” Fawley’s voice sounded from Harry’s badge.

“Alright.” Macmillan took a deep breath, probably trying to steady his own nerves. “We’ll do this by the book. Half the force stays in the air, blocking any escape, the other half lands and surrounds the lodge. On my command, you’ll breach the doors.” Almost as an afterthought, he added: “I’ll be up in the air so I can keep an eye on the whole situation.”

Harry scoffed and shook his head. Macmillan wasn’t staying on his broom to better command; the man was simply afraid of facing Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. Not that the rest of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards sounded any more eager, either; most of them had been obviously nervous back at the Ministry. Harry doubted that they felt any more resolute now, but since they were disillusioned, he couldn’t tell - he only saw the floating markers indicating their position.

Harry hoped that none of them dropped their wands due to their fingers trembling so much. At least Moody’s friend Smith was here to deal with the wards.

“Alright,” Macmillan went on. “Clarissa, take half the wands and land, then have the Curse-Breaker tear down the wards.”

“I’ve got a name,” Harry heard Abigail through his badge. “It’s Smith. Abigail Smith.”

“Then have Curse-Breaker Smith tear down the wards, then,” Macmillan repeated himself. Harry could almost see the man rolling his eyes.

“Bloody circus,” Ron muttered next to him.

“Kindergarten,” Harry replied.

“Alright, you’ve got your orders! Go!” Macmillan ordered.

Fawley started to pick her half of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards. “Potter, Weasley - with me!”

Harry clenched his teeth. “We would be more useful on our brooms until we’ve spotted both Death Eaters.” He was certain that none of the other Aurors and Hit-Wizards was as good on a broom as he and Ron.

“Trying to stay back and safe, huh?” Fawley scoffed.

“No. Trying to ensure that the Death Eaters don’t escape,” Ron snapped. “We should stay up here, wait until the wards are down, then flush them out and jump on them from above.”

“You’ve got your orders!” Macmillan yelled. “We’re doing this according to standard procedure - cutting off all escape routes in the air and on the ground. If you refuse Bones’ll have your badges!”

“Bloody idiot!” Harry spat through clenched teeth, then shot down to the ground. This was already going wrong. The book wasn’t written for the likes of Lestrange and Crouch.

“We need to keep the brooms ready,” Ron said as soon as they had landed and ended their spells, now that they were hidden from view by trees and the remains of the underbrush. “The idiots above won’t be able to stop them if they try to flee.”

Harry nodded. “We should have taken charge at the start.” Now, though, it was too late to take over. That would only lead to more trouble.

Behind them, Abigail landed. She didn’t look happy either once she became visible. “Alastor picked the worst moment to get cursed,” she said, her half-numbed face twisting into a crooked smile.

“Very inconsiderate of him,” Harry agreed.

“I’ll be sure to tell him, once he wakes up,” Ron added.

Nearby, the rest of the force landed. They were still disillusioned - which was a mixed blessing, Harry thought. The Death Eaters might be less likely to spot them, but they might get confused about their positions on their way to surround the lodge.

Abigail snorted, then took a step towards the wardline. “Let’s get set up before the idiot messes things up further.”

Harry nodded and started conjuring cover to shield her while she worked on the wards.

A marker closed in on them. “Why aren’t you disillusioned?” Fawley’s voice asked.

“Standard procedure,” Harry answered.

“What?”

“We’re already hidden from view thanks to the terrain,” he explained. “Disillusioning ourselves would make it harder to fight together.”

“You’d know that if Moody had bothered to train you,” Ron added. He wasn’t looking at Fawley; his attention on the lodge.

“I’m almost done,” Abigail said.

“What?” Fawley gasped. She was probably gaping, too.

“I already know all the wards’ weaknesses from my last visit,” the Curse-Breaker explained.

“Merlin’s arse!” Fawley cursed. “My group won’t be ready!” A moment later, Harry heard her voice both from where she stood and from his badge. “Fawley to my group: Get ready! The wards will go down any moment!”

And, of course, that was the exact moment when Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out of the building.

The dark witch cackled as she flicked her wand and sent a curse against their position that shattered the wall in front of them. Harry quickly replaced it with another as several curses splashed against the wards of the lodge.

“Bloody idiots gave themselves away!” Ron muttered next to Harry as he reinforced their cover, conjuring a metal plate above them.

“If she unleashes Fiendfyre…” Harry muttered. That would threaten the Statue of Secrecy. But Bellatrix Lestrange was crazy; Sirius had been clear about that.

But instead of cursed fire, a Blasting Curse hit their shelter. Behind them, Abigail swore as the ground shook from the impact.

Harry reinforced the walls.

“How much longer?” Ron asked.

“Almost…” the Curse-Breaker answered, breathing heavily.

“Watch out!” screamed someone through their badges.

“N...Argh!” Another scream was suddenly cut off.

Harry gritted his teeth. Every curse sent at someone else was one not sent at their position. But he couldn’t let his comrades die senselessly. He touched his badge. “Don’t try to cast at her until the wards are down! Take cover!”

“Potter! You’re not in command!” Macmillan yelled. “Everyone, keep it up; the wards will fall any moment! Keep it...”

Someone yelling in pain and fear cut off the idiot’s order. Harry muttered a curse through clenched teeth, then ducked when their shelter shook under the impact of another Blasting Curse.

“I hope she gets Macmillan next,” he heard Ron mutter.

“Not with our luck,” he replied as he reinforced the walls again.

“Done!” Abigail yelled.

Harry glanced at her. “Get on your broom and get away! We’ll go after her.”

The Curse-Breaker didn’t hesitate. Harry hadn’t expected her to - Moody wouldn’t have called her if she were a fool. She disillusioned herself and mounted her broom.

Harry tapped his badge. “Curse-Breaker retiring from the field!” He didn’t want an idiot mistaking Abigail for a fleeing Death Eater.

The witch shot out the back of their shelter. He looked at Ron. “Alright, let’s go on three. One. Two.” He reached the back of their shelter. “Three!”

Harry jumped out of the shelter and started to sprint. The entire area around the lodge was covered in a cloud of smoke and dust. Spells kept vanishing into it and throwing up more dirt. The idiots were casting blindly. Worse, they were staying too far away to use a Human-presence-revealing Spell but were giving away their own positions through their casting. If Lestrange had a way to see through the smoke… He had to get a little closer for his own glasses to work.

The lodge’s roof suddenly blew up - from the inside. Harry muttered a curse as he touched his badge. “Watch out for any attempt to escape on brooms!”

“Potter!” Macmillan yelled.

“There she is!” another wizard yelled. “Merlin’s...Argh!”

Harry saw an Auror stagger between two trees, holding his stomach, then fall to his knees, vomiting a stream of blood.

Near the doomed Auror, a tree blew up, and Harry saw a grey-robed figure get thrown back from the blast. It didn’t look like they’d get up. He caught glimpses of the dark witch through the trees, but he didn’t have a clear line of fire. If the other Aurors weren’t in the area, disillusioned, he would have been able to risk it...

He pushed on and cleared a tangle of toppled trees near one of the Blasting Curse’s craters. There she was! And Ron was flanking her.

Harry’s Reductor Curse hit Lestrange’s Shield, shattering it, but she dropped to the ground, into a crater, and his next curse, as well as Ron’s, narrowly missed her. But she was pinned down now.

“Get her!” Macmillan screamed.

“No!” Harry yelled into his badge. “Keep watching for broom riders!”

“Shut up, Potter! I’ll have your badge for this!”

Curses started to rain down, though not many seemed well-aimed - Harry could see some missing the entire crater before the dust thrown up by the spells obscured the whole area.

“There’s someone in the air! They’re coming at us!”

“Stop them!” Macmillan yelled. “Cut them off! Don’t let them get away!”

Harry clenched his teeth as he saw one Hit-Wizard get blown off his broom by a disillusioned figure and another Auror veer away in obvious panic. Macmillan’s entire group had focused on Lestrange and had moved too far from where they should be - they had no chance of intercepting whoever was on that broom.

Just as Harry had feared.

And they hadn’t even hit Lestrange - at least not hard enough to take her out; the dark witch sent a few curses up at the flying Aurors, increasing their panic even though she didn’t seem to hit anyone.

Harry responded with a Blasting Curse that blew up part of the crater’s rim, then conjured several snakes just inside the slowly setting dust cloud and sent them searching for the witch while his wand rose to activate the enchantment on his glasses.

He shouldn’t have bothered, he realised a moment later - Lestrange, cackling like a madwoman, jumped out of the crater and came at him with her wand flashing. An Auror next to Harry toppled over, struck by a Killing Curse.

His first curse missed her when she dodged to the right just before he finished his spell. His next curse went wide because he was already ducking behind the tangled trees. A moment later, another Killing Curse flew overhead, followed by a spell that shredded half the wood protecting him into kindling and threw him to the ground.

“Potter!” she screamed. “Face me!”

He got up and turned to face her, only to see someone else’s curse splash ineffectively against her Shield Charm and, before he could cast himself, he was forced to duck as another curse set the remains of the trees on fire. He rapidly crawled to the left, sliding into the crater nearby, as his Shield Charm struggled to keep the wood fragments from shredding him. He rolled over the muddy ground, avoiding a dark cloud that splashed down behind him, until he was at the other side of the crater.

Raising his head, he saw the dark witch facing a barrage of Piercing Curses from Ron. Lestrange seemed to weave between the spells - she was an even better duellist than Harry had expected - and her Shield Charm held as she returned fire, driving Ron into cover.

But she was alone, and Harry and Ron had her in a crossfire. Harry’s own Piercing Curse caught her in the side, shattering her shield. She whirled to face him, leaving herself open to Ron’s next barrage.

Then the Aurors and Hit-Wizards left in the air sent another volley of curses at her, and once more the dark witch vanished in a cloud of dust. The spell on Harry’s glasses adjusted itself after a moment, allowing him to see through the smoke, and he spotted her on the ground, face down, her left arm torn and bleeding.

“She’s wounded!” he announced through his badge. “Moving in!” He sent a Stunner at her, but it was deflected by her Shield Charm - when had she recast the spell?

“No, Potter!” Macmillan yelled. “We’ll take her!”

“She’s not yet out!” Harry yelled. He cast a Piercing Curse at her, but Lestrange rolled to the side, and a low wall rose, hiding her from his sight for another instant before his enchantment could compensate.

Which was long enough for her to flick her wand. He saw her smile, a moment before she vanished in a pillar of Fiendfyre that shot into the air, consuming the dark witch and the half a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards who had been diving at her.

*****

Harry Potter stared at the conjured wall containing the Fiendfyre that had burned Lestrange and most of the lodge to ashes. He couldn’t see the flames, but the flickering light they gave off painted the top of the wall green. His attention was on the walls, though. They were holding - as he expected; this was the third time he was dealing with the cursed fire, after all.

He flicked his wand and reinforced the wall on his left side, then the one on the right side. Ron was doing the same on the other side.

“Potter! I’ll have your badge for this! A dozen fine wizards and witches died because of you!”

Harry tapped the frame of his glasses, adjusting the enchantment. The fire still wasn’t reaching the top of the walls, and there was no danger of it burning through the earth - not deep enough, at least, to threaten to break out.

He took a deep breath. If the lodge had been in a moor, and the Fiendfyre had been started above peat… This would have been a catastrophe.

“Potter! Didn’t you hear me?”

Harry didn’t look at the screaming Macmillan, keeping his attention on the rock separating him and the other Aurors from the cursed fire. “Shut up, Macmillan.”

“What? How dare you!”

Harry glanced at him. “Raise that wand, and I’ll stun you. We have to keep the Fiendfyre contained until the Unspeakables arrive, and you’re not helping.” And Harry would enjoy it, too.

“That’s your fault, Potter! You arrogant arse! Your insubordination caused this!”

Harry reinforced the left wall again - the enchantment on his glasses showed that the fire had burned through half the wall already. The right wall was faring better, for some reason. “Shut up, Macmillan. I followed your orders, which is what got us into this mess. Yours, and Fawley’s.” He should have sidelined the idiot right away.

“You!” He heard the Auror gasp. “How dare you! She died because of your mistakes!”

She was dead? Harry hadn’t known. Good riddance. No, that was uncalled for. Even if Fawley and Macmillan had got a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards killed. “She died because she didn’t want to listen to people who knew better. Just like you. Now stop bothering me while I’m keeping the Fiendfyre from killing us all!” he snarled. “And where are the damned Unspeakables?” He reinforced the walls again.

He glanced at Macmillan. “You called them, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The Auror glared at him.

Harry returned his attention to the conjured walls. “And keep the perimeter covered! If the Death Eater who got away returns, we’re in trouble.”

Macmillan gasped again. But he started barking orders and left Harry alone until the Unspeakables arrived to extinguish the cursed fire.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 2nd, 1998**

“...and then they, but mainly Potter, tried to countermand my order, creating confusion which led to the death of three Aurors and three Hit-Wizards when they hesitated and were caught in the Fiendfyre. He even threatened to stun me afterwards, when I was organising the containment of the fire!”

Harry Potter sighed loudly and closed his eyes as Macmillan finished his ‘report’ to Bones and Scrimgeour.

Ron, as usual, was a little more vocal, hissing “Bloody liar!” under his breath.

“Thank you, Auror Macmillan,” Bones said. “Auror Potter, Auror Weasley, what do you say to this?”

Harry cleared his throat. “We followed every order we were given, which is what led to this debacle. Our warnings were ignored, which not only led to one Death Eater - probably Crouch Jr - escaping the raid, but also to half a dozen people flying straight into the Fiendfyre Lestrange started. I told Macmillan that I’d stun him if he tried to attack me when I was containing the Fiendfyre.”

“You sowed confusion, and your hesitating, not to mention the delays due to that Curse-Breaker, caused the raid to fail!” Macmillan spat. “Clarissa died because of you!”

“She died because she gave away her position by casting stupidly before the wards went down, and then didn’t change her location under cover,” Ron retorted. “If you had listened to us, we’d have caught Crouch and Lestrange.”

“If you doubt our report, we can ask Sirius to show you our memories in his Pensieve,” Harry added.

Scrimgeour glared at him. “You would ask him to use the Pensieve for that, but not to help us with our cases?”

“My godfather will use his Pensieve to defend me against false accusations, but he doesn’t trust the Department with it,” Harry corrected him. “He really doesn’t like travesties of justice.”

Bones pressed her lips together and glared at everyone in her office. “Enough bickering. I want your reports on my desk as soon as possible, then I’ll decide how to handle this mess. A dozen dead Aurors and Hit-Wizards, and we don’t even have a body to show for it.” She shook her head.

“But Lestrange’s dead. We identified her before she killed herself,” Ron said. “Which means that only Crouch’s left.”

Bones’s glare didn’t lessen. “I doubt that that will impress the Minister. Crouch is the most dangerous dark wizard currently alive - he freed the Lestranges by himself.” She shook her head again. “Dismissed.”

*****

“Bloody git!” Ron spat as soon as they had returned to their office. “The nerve of him - blaming us for his own failure!”

Harry Potter snorted. “Did you expect anything else?”

“I didn’t think he would lie to Bones like that,” Ron said. “Even if he didn’t know about the Pensieve, everyone on the raid heard his orders.”

“Some would back him up anyway,” Harry replied. He knew that his and Ron’s rapid advancement had ruffled the feathers of more than one older Auror.

“Some. Not enough, I’d say. Certainly not everyone.” Ron shrugged. “So he’s either more stupid than I thought, or he has someone backing him.”

“Malfoy?” Harry asked.

Ron wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “I don’t think so. Malfoy wants the Death Eaters dealt with, and he knows we’re his best chance for that. He wouldn’t make a move like that until Crouch has been caught. Or killed.”

“But he might have tried to prepare the field with Macmillan,” Harry said. “And Macmillan misunderstood him - or jumped the gun, trying to save himself.”

“Well, it won’t help him.” Ron chuckled. “The offer to use the Pensieve should be enough to prove to Bones that we’re not lying.”

Harry nodded. “But it makes us look like we only care about ourselves or we’d let the Corps use the Pensieve for investigations.”

Ron muttered a curse under his breath. “Even though everyone would abuse it for personal gain if they had access to it. Bloody hypocrites.”

“We should get started on our reports,” Harry said. If they were late with them, that would look suspicious as well.

“Well, we won’t need that much time. Third Fiendfyre incident in less than two months - it’s kind of becoming routine, isn’t it?” Ron said with a grin.

It wasn’t routine. Facing cursed fire that burned even stone and acted as if it were alive - and wanted nothing else than to kill you - was terrifying no matter how often you did it. The slightest mistake, a mere instant of not paying attention, could mean your death. And the death of all your friends. The half a dozen people Lestrange had killed today with her last curse illustrated that nicely.

And yet, Harry nodded. In the Corps, you talked like that. It helped not talking about the fear. And the deaths. And the guilt. “Yes. I gather the Unspeakables have extinguishing it down to a standard procedure now, too.”

“Yeah.” Ron sighed and pulled out a scroll of parchment and his Dictaquill. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harry nodded and cast a privacy charm so his own Dictaquill wouldn’t get confused. And so he could inform his family, and Hermione, that he was alright.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 2nd, 1998**

Harry had said he’d be careful - well, he hadn’t said so explicitly, but he hadn’t denied her, either - and then he charged off to apprehend the Death Eaters. Hermione Granger pressed her lips together to refrain from cursing as she tapped her foot.

“Harry is safe. He called you personally, didn’t he?” Sirius asked from behind his desk.

“He called all of us,” she corrected him. It wasn’t as if she had a private Floo connection.

“I really should get you two a pair of mirrors,” Sirius mused. “Perhaps for Christmas.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she told him with a frown. “It’d be much harder to keep our secret if he expects to be able to call me any time he wants to.”

He blinked. “Right. I didn’t think of that.” After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll wait until we’re done with our plans, then.”

She drew a sharp breath. Who said she would stop being a thief once she had achieved her revenge? She hadn’t taken a decision, yet. But this wasn’t the time to bring that up. “And yes, he’s safe, but I don’t know if he got hurt. Or how he’s dealing with the deaths.” That news had spread very quickly - the Wizarding Wireless Network had already announced that, once again, Lestrange had killed a dozen Aurors before she was overcome.

Hermione snorted at the wording. ‘Overcome’! Harry had said the dark witch had killed herself and half a dozen Aurors with Fiendfyre. And Crouch had escaped. But the Ministry was trying to put the best spin they could on the debacle.

“He’ll be fine,” Sirius said. “It’s not the first time he fought in a bloody battle. And he won again.”

She scoffed. “I bet he’ll have nightmares again. And blame himself for not saving everyone.” The fool. The noble, stupid fool.

“Well, you’ll set him straight, won’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes at the dog. He was acting as if he didn’t mean anything other than the obvious with that, but she knew him too well to fall for that. And he was starting to grin.

She could set him straight. Explain that she couldn’t have a relationship with Harry while she was lying to him about her real career. That she couldn’t betray her friend’s trust like that. Even if she really wanted to have a relationship with him. Wanted him. Badly.

But she had tried that before, and the dog simply didn’t understand. Or didn’t want to understand - he wasn’t as dumb as he often acted, after all, and had to know that this was a problem. And mostly his doing. But she wasn’t feeling like talking. She wanted to be doing something, instead of waiting for Harry to return home. Anything to take her mind off this.

She shook her head and stood. There was one thing the dog would understand: a good swipe with her claws across his nose.

She changed and pounced.

*****

“My poor nose,” Sirius complained

Hermione Granger sniffed. “You were asking for it.”

“I wasn’t!” he lied, rubbing his nose as if he didn’t trust her to heal the tiny scratches she had left.

She shook her head as she checked whether she had missed any of furniture that the clumsy dog had broken or damaged during his pointless attempt to catch her. She didn’t find any. “You keep ‘teasing’ Harry and me, even though you know better.” Or should know.

He snorted. “Well, do you feel better now? Less tense, less stressed?”

She pressed her lips together. Yes, she did. Tussling with the dog had relieved a lot of tension. It had also broken a lot of furniture, but casting a dozen Mending Charms had been almost as good as a diversion as teaching the dog his place. As if a clumsy canine could ever catch a graceful cat! But she wouldn’t give Sirius the satisfaction of admitting that, or he’d get even worse. Instead of answering, she studied the antique flowerpot that the dog had broken when he had once again run into it.

He chuckled. “See? Of course, there are better ways to relieve stress. With Harry, at least,” he added with his insufferably sly grin.

“That would be a mistake,” she said. A mistake she’d love to make, of course. If only she could.

“You’re thinking about it.”

She rolled her eyes. As if she’d discuss her love life with him! Not that she currently had a love life to discuss anyway.

He chuckled. “It’s obvious that you two love each other.”

She clenched her teeth. “That’s not the problem.”

“Unless you let him catch and arrest you, he won’t ever know about our work.”

“I would know.” She turned her head to glare at him. “And no stupid jokes about Obliviation.”

He actually pouted for a moment, then shrugged. “Are you planning to tell him?”

She sighed. Even if she told him after they had robbed Malfoy of everything he owned and reformed Britain, it would hurt him. But not telling him would feel worse. Ignorance wasn’t bliss. “Not now.”

“Do you think it’d make a difference if you tell him afterwards, instead of now?” he asked.

Once more, she clenched her teeth instead of answering.

“See, you don’t have to tell your partner everything. Jeanne and I didn’t do that either,” he went on.

She was tempted to tell him that he probably couldn’t remember everything he had done in the past anyway. But that would be too cruel. And far too petty. “I don’t think a relationship would have a future with such a secret hanging over us.”

“Well, I know that a relationship doesn’t have a future if it’s never even started.”

“Some things are best done right from the start, or not at all,” she retorted.

He laughed. “But relationships aren’t among them. There is no perfect relationship. Every relationship is a collection of mistakes. But if you’re in love, you’ll forgive those.”

She scoffed in response. That only meant that during the breakup, all your mistakes would be dredged up and thrown into your face. Like with Paul. “Hiding such a secret goes beyond the usual mistakes.”

“Jeanne didn’t know about our plans either when we started seeing each other. And now we’re married, and she’s expecting.” He smiled.

“Jeanne didn’t know you since you were children and hadn’t lived with you for years while you kept this secret from her. And she wasn’t trying to catch you,” Hermione retorted. If only Harry were like Jeanne.

“Well, she was trying to catch me. She succeeded, too,” he said with a toothy grin.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the innuendo - if you could call the rather blunt remark that. Harry wasn’t like Jeanne. She knew him. He’d be hurt once he knew. His pride, but also his trust. Which was why starting anything serious with him would be a mistake.

Even though she really wanted to. She noticed that she was biting her lower lip and forced herself to stop. That Harry was risking his life every day - or so it seemed - made things worse. What if he died tomorrow, and she had never been able to tell him? Or kiss him? Or… She closed her eyes and sighed.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

She growled and gripped her wand. Maybe a series of Stinging Hexes would teach him when to stop. Or something a little bit more inventive…

He blinked before she could decide on the best course of action, cocking his head. “I think that was the fireplace.”

Hermione was out of the room in a second. Harry was back!

She raced down the hallway, turned the corner… There he was. Cleaning soot off his Auror robes. Soot from the Floo Network, she realised after a moment of surprise.

Then he turned towards her, and she saw him smile at her. Happy, but insecure - or hesitant. Hermione didn’t really care. She rushed to embrace him, wrap her arms around him and reassure herself that he was there, was alive, was fine.

“Harry, you’re finally back,” she managed to say when she took a step back - leaving her hands on his shoulders - so she could look into his eyes. She blinked when she felt her eyes suddenly growing wet.

He nodded and opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. He just stared at her for a moment. Just when she was about to worry if he had gotten hurt, he reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek. An instant later, he blinked. “Ah… Sorry, I just...” He trailed off with an awkward shrug.

Hermione knew she was blushing - her cheeks felt very hot. “Thanks,” she managed to whisper. They were so close. She just had to take a step forward and...

“Oh! Let’s give them some privacy, Ron!”

...and the dog ruined the moment.

*****

Harry Potter loved his godfather. Sirius was the kind of family he had dreamed of during his time with his relatives. Caring, generous, funny, smart and always ready to listen to him. And yet, there were times Harry wanted to hex Sirius. Like today.

He gritted his teeth as he thought of the moment with Hermione his godfather’s joke had ruined. He didn’t know what would have happened, but he knew that something would have. Something other than Hermione blushing, suddenly remembering her work and disappearing into her office for the twenty minutes until dinner was ready.

He glanced at her as he picked at the food on his plate. She wasn’t blushing any more, but he thought that she was still a little off. A little more than the fight with Lestrange could explain, at least in his opinion - she was glaring at Sirius, and she wasn’t looking at Harry. Not directly, at least - he had caught some furtive glances.

He wanted to talk to her, but not here. Not at the table, with Sirius, Jeanne and Ron present. They were smirking too much already. No, Harry would talk to her later. In private.

There were other things to talk about anyway. He cleared his throat. “Ah, Sirius. I might need to let Bones use the Pensieve.”

His godfather frowned. “Why?”

“Macmillan is trying to blame us for his blunders,” Harry replied. “And he’s lying about us not following orders.”

“Bloody git,” Ron added. “He gets half the raid force killed despite our advice and tries to use us as scapegoats!”

“Malfoy’s work?” Hermione asked. She was now looking straight at him, Harry noticed, and frowning.

“I don’t think he’d try to get rid of us before the Death Eaters are caught,” Harry said.

“And he’ll probably want us to deal with the thieves, too.” Ron snorted. “Before they rob his home. But he’ll certainly try to use this against us later if we don’t nip it in the bud.”

Harry nodded. “But since we didn’t disobey his orders - we only questioned them - a copy of our memories should suffice to disprove his claims. If Bones even wants to see the memories - the offer might be enough to prove that we’re telling the truth.”

“Oh, she’ll want to see the memories,” Sirius said, scoffing. “She wants proof for everything - unless it’s about a decision of the Wizengamot, as my own case and Hermione’s prove. And she’ll try to guilt you into letting the DMLE use it.”

“I told her that it’s yours. And I think she’s doing what she can about the Wizengamot,” Harry defended the witch. “Malfoy’s too influential there.”

He heard Hermione sniff. “I could say that if she built her cases better, the Wizengamot would be more hesitant about ignoring the law and evidence for political reasons, but I’d be lying.”

“To be fair,” Ron said, “even the Wizengamot rarely bends the law too much. Usually, they simply lessen the punishments for their own families.”

“That it could be worse doesn’t mean it’s acceptable,” Hermione said. “There’s an ingrained culture of nepotism in the Ministry, and it all comes down on the fact that the Wizengamot is the highest power in Wizarding Britain. There are no checks and balances - a member can do whatever they want, as long as they have a majority backing them.” She frowned at Harry. “Even if you root out all the corruption in the Ministry it won’t help much as long as the Wizengamot isn’t reformed.”

“But even if you reform the Wizengamot,” Harry retorted, “the corruption in the Ministry needs to be rooted out, or the Old Families will simply shift their influence to the bureaucracy to outmanoeuvre the Wizengamot.”

Hermione took a deep breath to argue, but Sirius spoke up with a wide smile. “That’s why we’re doing both. Harry’ll clean up the Ministry while we’re reforming the Wizengamot.”

Harry nodded, even though he was aware that neither of them had made much progress so far.

“How do you like the filets de perche?” Jeanne asked. “It’s a family recipe.” Her expression clearly told Harry - and everyone else - that she was changing the subject.

And neither Sirius nor Hermione were about to go against the French witch when she looked like that.

*****

Half an hour after dinner, Harry Potter was in his room, on his bed, trying to decide if he should go to Hermione’s room to talk to her or if that would be too pushy for his friend. At the end of the dinner, she had been, well, back to her usual self.

Of course, he could have imagined more than what had really happened, back when they had met in the entrance hall. He frowned. He didn’t think so, not really, but… it was possible. Or she might want to pretend that nothing had happened. And that would make it really awkward, at best, if he went to talk to her. Unless he had a good excuse, but… he didn’t have one. Perhaps...

A knock at the door interrupted his increasingly morose thoughts. “Harry?”

His eyes widened, and he sat up on his bed. “Hermione?”

“Yes.”

She opened the door without asking for an invitation to enter. Harry didn’t know if that was a good sign. She walked towards his chair, then hesitated a moment before changing direction and sitting on his bed.

As he was trying to think of what to say, she took a deep breath and addressed him: “You mentioned that half the people with you on the raid were killed. Because you followed orders and he didn’t listen.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.” He saw her flinch and quickly added: “Ron and I were fine - we wouldn’t have let him send us to our deaths. We guarded Moody’s friend, Abigail. She’s a Curse-Breaker.”

She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at him. “Breaking through wards is one of the most dangerous tasks.”

“We weren’t doing that,” he protested. “We were simply guarding her while she did it. And she had already analysed the wards when we were there the first time, so it really wasn’t that dangerous.” Well, it could have been more dangerous, at least.

She huffed. “You were still the focus of the Death Eaters, weren’t you?”

“Not really. Lestrange was busy killing the other Aurors and Hit-Wizards near us before we engaged her.”

She looked surprised. “She didn’t go straight for you, trying to kill the Curse-Breaker before the wards went down?”

Harry shook his head. “No.” He sighed. “To be honest, I think she was a distraction for Crouch. She drew our attention so he could escape on a broom.” He scowled. “And it worked because Macmillan’s a bloody idiot who didn’t keep our flyers ready to intercept Crouch.”

“She managed to kill half your force acting as a distraction?” Hermione was staring at him.

It did sound bad, worded like that. “Half of our losses happened when she cast Fiendfyre on her own position, immolating herself and half a dozen flyers diving at her,” he explained.

“Fiendfyre.” She was pressing her lips together.

“Yes.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t too difficult to handle - we have quite some experience, Ron and I.”

“A dozen people dead, Fiendfyre raging…” She shook her head. “And they want to blame you for this?”

“Macmillan tried to blame us. Bones and Scrimgeour didn’t seem to believe him,” he said. “And Fawley, his second in command, was killed by Lestrange.” He shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll be much trouble to deal with.”

She opened her mouth, then hesitated for a moment, before she raised her chin slightly. “And how are you dealing with this? The deaths and the fire?”

She was biting her lower lip, he saw, while he pondered his answer. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he didn’t want to have her worry too much either. Nor have her pity him. He shrugged. “I’ve been through similar situations, and worse.”

“Voldemort,” she whispered.

He nodded. The Atrium. Dumbledore’s death. His family and friends fighting for their lives. If Hermione had been there… He owed Dumbledore so much for having made her stay safe at home.

“I hoped that things would change after that battle, you know.” She wasn’t looking at him now, but at the window - or rather, the curtains in front of the window.

“I think all of us did,” he answered.

“I didn’t want to worry about you like that ever again.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure if she noticed. He understood, of course - he would hate to worry about her.

“And now, it’s even worse,” she said.

“Lestrange wasn’t Voldemort,” he retorted. “And neither is Crouch.”

“But you don’t have Dumbledore on your side, either,” she responded, turning her head to look at him. “And Moody’s cursed in St Mungo’s.”

He shifted closer to her. Close enough to wrap his arm around her shoulders. “But we got all of the Lestranges. Only Crouch is left. And he’s had to run from us twice so far.”

She put her hand on top of his on her shoulder. He wasn’t sure if she noticed. “He’s the most dangerous of them.”

“And we’ll get him.” He smiled at her, trying to reassure her.

“At what cost?” She was staring straight into his eyes. “What if he curses Ron next? Or you?”

“He won’t. Trust me.” Harry nodded slowly but firmly. She hadn’t released his hand, yet. He could smell the faint hint of her shampoo, now. And perhaps perfume.

She shook her head without breaking eye contact. “I couldn’t stand losing you.”

“You won’t,” he whispered. No matter how she meant it. There were no tears in her eyes this time, but he still raised his free hand, reaching up to cup her chin, his fingers on her cheek, before he realised what he was doing.

Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched.

He hesitated for a moment. Had he misread her? Misunderstood her? But she wasn’t pulling away. And she wasn’t glaring at him. She wasn’t doing anything but looking at him.

He leaned in, tilting his head slightly, and kissed her.

*****

Harry was kissing her. On the mouth. Hermione Granger could feel the tip of his tongue touching her lips. Hesitating. Just as she was.

Without thinking, she grabbed the back of his head with her right hand, holding him in place, and kissed him back. Properly, as Jeanne would say. Passionately. Without caring about anything else. And moaned as she did so.

When she pulled back, releasing his head, she was breathing heavily, and somehow had slipped into his lap, facing him, without noticing. She blinked. She shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong. Utterly wrong.

Even if she didn’t remember right now why it was wrong. She wanted him. And he wanted her. It was obvious. Especially in their current position.

“Hermione…” he managed to whisper while his chest heaved.

She could feel his breath on her face; they were so close. She smelled him. She felt him. And she didn’t want to let him go. She wanted more than a kiss. She needed more than a kiss. It had gone on for so long, this whole… whatever it was. Too long.

She growled and bared her teeth as she tore at his robes with her claws, no, her hands. Exposing his chest. Pushing him down on the bed. Straddling him.

She kissed him again, inhaling his scent, rubbing herself against him. He fumbled with her robes. She shrugged out of them. Or tore them off - it didn’t matter. She wanted him, he wanted her. That was all that mattered now.

And this had taken far too long.

*****


	50. Reflections

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 3rd, 1998**

Sometimes, Cornelius Fudge wished that he had retired years ago. Right after the death of the Dark Lord. Then he’d be known as the Minister who had defeated the Dark Lord for good. And people would think that if only he were still in charge, Wizarding Britain wouldn’t be facing a crisis. Or two, depending on your priorities.

Today was one of those times. A dozen Aurors lost, while the most dangerous Death Eater had escaped. Again. Right after Fiendfyre had ravaged Diagon Alley for the second time in two months, killing thirty people in the process. And everyone was blaming him - as if he had personally ordered the Death Eaters to strike! Even the Daily Prophet was talking about the weak response of the Ministry!

Huffing, he put the newspaper down. He’d have to talk to Barnabas and remind the man that the Daily Prophet was supposed to report current events in a responsible manner. Cornelius was the Minister for Magic, after all, and he was due some respect!

He refilled his teacup and bit into a fresh scone - he couldn’t deal with this affair without some sustenance, and it had been over an hour since his breakfast - as his door was opened and his secretary peered inside.

“Sir? Mr Malfoy is here, but he doesn’t have an appointment.”

Ah, of course. Cornelius should have expected this. Lucius was very concerned about the Death Eaters. Understandably so, of course - his heroic actions against the Dark Lord would have earned him the undying hatred of any Death Eater. He smiled. “Send him in. My door’s always open for my good friend Lucius.”

Half a minute later, Lucius entered his office. “Good morning, Cornelius.”

“Good morning, Lucius. Please, have a seat.” Cornelius gestured towards the chair across from his desk. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

A little curt. His friend was agitated, then, Cornelius noted. He looked as impeccable as ever, of course, but there was a slight tension to his usually more relaxed pose. Yes, his friend was concerned.

Which meant there was more trouble headed Cornelius’s way. But he didn’t know yet what kind of trouble. So he smiled and discreetly prompted his friend. “You are aware of yesterday’s tragic events, I assume.”

“That’s why I am here, yes.” Lucius nodded. “I’ve heard a rumour that concerns me.”

“Oh?” Cornelius tilted his head slightly.

“Several sources claim that if the DMLE had handled the raid on the Death Eater hideout more competently, Crouch wouldn’t have escaped.”

“Ah.” Well, of course, someone had bungled the raid. Someone was always at fault. The question was: Who’s fault had it been? And, more importantly, who did Lucius want to be at fault? Cornelius cleared his throat. “Indeed. I’ve already received Amelia’s preliminary report. She’s still investigating the issue, but either the Auror in charge of the raid, Bertie Macmillan, or Potter and Weasley caused this tragedy.” There was also Fawley, who, having had the grace to get herself killed, would have been the perfect scapegoat, but Macmillan was accusing Potter and Weasley of insubordination, and they, in turn, accused him of bungling the raid.

“That’s what I heard as well. Who’s right?”

Oh. Apparently, Lucius didn’t have his mind made up yet. That made the whole situation easier to deal with. Slightly easier - James Macmillan and Black had already requested appointments. “Bones hasn’t been able to find out the truth yet, but Potter has offered to let her watch his memories in the Black Pensieve,” he said.

Lucius slowly nodded. “That would indicate that he’s telling the truth.”

Or Potter expected Bones to believe that. Cornelius nodded anyway. If Lucius supported Potter in this affair, then Macmillan would have to accept that Cornelius couldn’t do anything for his relative. Not with Lucius and Black allied in this.

“Although after what I’ve heard about the Gringotts attack, I would have expected Potter to ignore Macmillan and do what he thinks is needed,” Lucius commented.

Cornelius gasped. “Do you think he let the disaster happen in order to get rid of Macmillan?” That would be… entirely expected of the heir of Black.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lucius said, which, of course, meant he was doing exactly that. “But the difference between Potter’s actions in Diagon Alley and on this raid is rather striking.”

Cornelius nodded. He knew that Potter was ambitious - his sudden promotion was proof of that - but to go as far as to deliberately sacrifice the lives of his fellow Aurors to advance his career… Amelia would crucify him for that. If she could prove it. On the other hand… “I am certain that Amelia will examine the memories very diligently and find out what happened.” Unless, of course, she was in on this? No, not Amelia. She was ruthless and inflexible, but she wouldn’t go that far. Not when she could promote Potter anyway.

“It’s not the first time a criminal escaped from Potter, is it?”

“The Davis robbery, yes.” Cornelius fought not to wince. Another debacle, that.

“Was that ever investigated?” Lucius leaned slightly forward, his hands resting on the handle of his cane.

“Yes, of course.”

“Potter’s actions as well? If his godfather is finally allowing the Ministry access to his Pensieve, this would be another incident deserving of closer scrutiny. If Potter has nothing to hide, he won’t object, would he?”

Cornelius nodded. “An excellent observation. I will mention it to Amelia.”

“Thank you.” Lucius smiled. “I have the utmost trust that the Ministry will get to the bottom of this.”

Cornelius smiled back. This was perfect. Lucius was satisfied, Cornelius could deflect whatever complaints Macmillan could raise, and Amelia would have to deal with Black and Potter.

“Now, is there any news about the investigation into those infamous thieves?” Lucius frowned. “I don’t think that we can dismiss the possibility that the thieves are connected to the Death Eaters. They represent a grave threat to the very foundations of our country, after all. If Old Families can be reduced to paupers by such insidious criminals, then everyone is at risk of losing all they hold dear.” He shook his head. “We cannot allow them to terrorise the good wizards and witches of Britain, Cornelius!”

Once again, Cornelius fought not to wince. “Well,” he began, “with the recent attacks, the hunt for the Death Eaters has, naturally, taken priority, and with the recent, tragic losses, the DMLE’s means are limited.”

“I’m sure that my fellow members of the Wizengamot will agree that the DMLE cannot afford to neglect this investigation. Sufficient funds shouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s not the gold, Lucius, that is the problem. Of course, we’re doing all we can. But there simply aren’t enough wizards and witches with the right qualifications to recruit. We’ve increased the salary twice already.” Cornelius spread his hands. He couldn’t conjure Aurors from thin air.

“Maybe the Ministry should be looking into hiring foreigners, then.”

“Foreigners?” Cornelius blinked. “As Aurors?”

“Well, mostly Hit-Wizards, I would think. It would free up our own wands from patrolling Gringotts.”

“I see.” Cornelius did. Hiring foreigners to hold the line against the goblins was a fine idea. They wouldn’t need to be able to speak much English for such a task, and if things went really wrong, it wouldn’t be British Aurors and Hit-Wizards who were killed by the goblins. “It would take a decision by the Wizengamot, though.” A Minister who hired foreign mercenaries on his own was as good as gone.

“I don’t think that that will be a problem.” Lucius was smiling again.

And so was Cornelius.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 3rd, 1998**

Hermione Granger woke when the sun’s rays touched her face and started to arch her back and stretch her arms out, as she usually did in the morning, with a contented sigh. Instead of on a soft pillow, though, the back of her head rested on something harder. And there was something on her chest. She blinked. It was an arm, holding her in place. And she was curled up against a warm body. And she wasn’t wearing her pyjamas.

Her eyes shot open as she remembered. Going to Harry’s room. Talking to him. Hugging him. Kissing him. And...

She drew a deep, shuddering breath at the memories of the night she had spent. Dear Lord, she had completely lost control! Not, she added to herself with a slight smirk, that Harry had seemed to mind, as she recalled.

Hermione sighed, turning her head to look at him. He was still sleeping, his messy hair spread over the pillow under his head. He looked happy, though - at least that was her impression. She snorted. He better be happy after last night! She certainly was, even if it had happened rather unexpectedly. Suddenly, all her worries hadn’t mattered any more, and all that had counted was that she wanted him. But even though she didn’t regret anything - other than, perhaps, waiting too long - this would have consequences.

She started to take stock of the situation. They’d need to cast a few cleaning charms. And Mending Charms, she added with a glance at the robes thrown to the floor. She was on the pill, had been ever since Paul, so there was nothing to worry about there. She pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to think of Paul. Not now. All she wanted was to stay where she was, next to Harry.

He made a good pillow, and the sun was warm. Sighing contentedly, she closed her eyes. It was still early, after all, and she could still nap a little until she had to deal with whatever came of this.

*****

Harry Potter woke up to the sensation of something tickling his nose. Hair, he realised, opening his eyes. Hermione’s hair, he added a moment later - even without his glasses, he would never mistake it. Especially so close to him.

He gasped, softly. He was holding a sleeping Hermione in his arms. Her head was resting on his chest. He could feel her body pressed against his, one of her legs draped over his thigh. And both of them were nude.

He smiled, broadly. Of course, they were both nude. They had torn their robes off yesterday evening. Mostly Hermione’s doing, too - and hadn’t that been a surprise? She hadn’t just taken the first step, she had pounced on him.

It’s always the quiet ones… No. Hermione was many things, but she wasn’t quiet. More like a screamer, to be honest. He chuckled, softly, so as not to wake her, at that memory. In hindsight, he should have expected it. Hermione was never one to do things halfway; she threw herself at anything with a passion few could match.

And yet, he couldn’t help worrying about how she would react once she woke up. Would she regret what they had done? Call it a mistake? Blame him for worrying her so much, she lost her mind? Curse him?

No, he told himself, she wouldn’t do that.

But a shred of doubt remained. He sighed as he reached over to the sideboard and grabbed his glasses - when had he managed to put them down there? He couldn’t remember. Moody would say that was a sign of someone messing with his memories and tell him to check in the Pensieve. He snorted.

With his glasses on, he looked around. Everything was as it should be. Hedwig was on her perch, but not looking at him. Probably mad that he hadn’t fed her before he went to sleep. Mr Biggles was in his habitat, basking in the sun on his favourite branch. And... He stiffened. It was already past nine in the morning.

Harry didn’t have a set time he had to be at work, not since they had started the Death Eater investigation and had been taken off patrols, and given yesterday’s events, he certainly had earned some rest, but it would look better if he didn’t take a day off… He blinked. Why hadn’t Ron come to wake him up? Or, perhaps, Ron had come and gone again - Harry didn’t remember locking the door yesterday.

He groaned. At least it hadn’t been Sirius. His godfather would have woken them both up with his gloating. And Hermione would have cursed him.

He felt her move, shifting her weight. She made a noise like a throaty growl, then her head rose, and she looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Don’t disturb me when I’m napping!” she said, pouting. Then her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh.”

“Good morning,” Harry said, smiling gently at her.

“Morning,” she said, rather quickly. She cleared her throat, then wet her lips. “So…” Instead of continuing, she bit her lower lip.

Well, she wasn’t screaming or cursing him. “So,” Harry replied.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Or moved.

She cleared her throat again. “So. I think we need to talk. About us.”

He managed not to wince as he nodded. “Yes.”

She took a deep breath; he could see her chest heave. “I don’t regret what happened. What we did, I mean. Quite the contrary, to be exact.”

That was good. He nodded, smiling slightly. “Yes. Me too. I mean, I feel the same.”

“However,” she went on, “I’m still not ready for a serious relationship.”

“Oh.” His smile vanished.

“So, as you said, we should let things develop. See what happens.”

He blinked. See what happens? He looked pointedly at her body, still sprawled on top of his, then back at her.

She blushed slightly but nodded. “Yes. See how things develop.”

“And no serious relationship?” He couldn’t quite keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice.

She nodded.

As insane as that sounded, he could live with it. For now. He nodded as well.

*****

Hermione Granger had spent the night with Harry. She had woken up in his arms and had discussed their relationship - their lack of it, to be precise - in the nude, on top of him. She would have expected that that was as intimate as it could get - and that nothing could embarrass her afterwards.

And yet, she blushed when she picked up her robes and saw that they had been almost torn apart. They were a stark reminder of how… impulsively she had acted the evening before. How could she have managed to lose control so completely? Probably hormones. And stress. For practical and emotional purposes, they were at war, faced with cruel and dangerous enemies who wanted to kill her, Harry and all their friends and family. A heightened sexual drive was quite normal for someone in her situation - especially someone her age - she was, technically, a teenager still, after all.

“It looks as if Crookshanks had a fight with it.”

She gasped as she whipped her head around to glare at Harry. “What?” Did he suspect? “Crookshanks wouldn’t do that!” Really, he was the best tomcat you could have - he had spotted Lestrange, too!

Harry snorted as he slid off the bed and picked up his own robes. “Well, he’d probably have done more damage. Probably.”

Hermione was briefly distracted by the view of his backside. And the scratches on his back. Had she done that? Probably. Then she huffed and quickly mended their robes with two charms.

“Thanks,” Harry said as they dressed. “I expected him to wake us up this morning so we’d feed him.”

She snorted. “He’s the soul of discretion.” And he knew not to bother her so early.

“Which can’t be said about the rest of the family,” Harry said with a sigh.

Oh. Hermione winced. She hadn’t thought of that. The dog would be insufferable. Jeanne would smile smugly. And Ron would beam at them.

And all of them would assume that she and Harry were a couple. A serious couple.

She muttered a curse under her breath.

Harry heard, though. “What’s wrong?” He frowned, glancing around.

She grimaced. “What do we tell the others?”

He frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it and took a breath. “What do you mean?”

She pressed her lips together in frustration before answering: “They’ll think that we’re in a serious relationship.”

His eyebrows rose a smidgen. “And you want them to think that we’re… just having sex?”

Put like that, it did sound bad. And she did want more. Far more. But it couldn’t be helped. Not with her secret. She sighed through clenched teeth. “I guess we’ll have to tell them that the exact nature of our relationship is our business, then, and none of theirs.”

“And let them make up their minds about our relationship?”

She glared at him. She was trying her best to keep this from becoming a problem, and he seemed to think it was funny. “They’ll do that anyway. You know Sirius.” The dog probably had spent an hour thinking up awful jokes and crude remarks. “I’d bet that he’ll offer us the use of their playroom.”

“Ah, yes, he probably will,” Harry answered after a slight but noticeable pause.

Perhaps she should try sneaking back to her room… no, their friends would already be aware that she hadn’t slept in her room when they had to feed Crookshanks. She sighed.

“Let’s get this over with.”

*****

They weren’t saying anything. They were just smiling far too broadly and exchanging glances that were far too obvious. Especially Sirius and Jeanne. Hermione Granger gritted her teeth as she buttered a scone. She knew what they were thinking, but they weren’t saying it. They weren’t even asking what had happened, so she and Harry couldn’t even tell them that this was none of their business.

In short, the bloody dog and the rest of their friends weren’t playing along! She lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her scowl. Not even Ron was saying anything. Not about her and Harry, at least - he was talking to Harry about work.

Not even Kreacher was muttering about inappropriate relationships; the house-elf was just his usual grumpy self as he placed another plate with sausages on the table.

This was the dog’s fault - she knew it. She glared at him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, acting as if he didn’t know what he was doing. The bloody dog!

“No,” she pressed out through clenched teeth. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good, good!” He beamed at her.

She looked at Crookshanks, but her trusted guard was obviously not on duty right now. He was focusing on eating; they must have forgotten to feed the poor cat!

And Harry was useless as well.

Hermione sighed - behind her teacup - and grabbed another scone. There would be a reckoning! As soon as Harry and Ron left for work.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 3rd, 1998**

“So… that was a rather big first step, wasn’t it?”

Harry Potter stopped checking the memos on his desk and glanced at Ron. His friend was smiling broadly at him.

Harry shook his head. “Took you long enough to ask, didn’t it?”

Ron shrugged, still smiling. “Sirius insisted on not saying anything. He said that he didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Scare me off?” Harry was confused.

“You and Hermione, from staying a couple,” Ron clarified.

“Ah.” Harry sighed.

“You are a couple, aren’t you?” Ron asked, suddenly looking serious.

“The exact nature of our relationship is no one’s business but our own,” Harry quoted Hermione.

Ron rolled his eyes. “You spent the night together, and she didn’t look like she regretted it this morning.”

“Yes.”

“So…?” Ron tilted his head.

“None of your business,” Harry said.

“Come on! You two have been dancing around each other for months! Maybe years! And you told me all your plans to ask her out - or make her ask you out. Spill!” Ron leaned forward, both hands on his desk.

Harry drew a slow breath. Hermione had been clear about her wish to keep the details of their relationship private, but Ron was his best friend. “It’s complicated.”

“What?”

Harry sighed. “Don’t tell this to anyone. Not even Luna.” Especially not Luna. He looked at Ron until his friend nodded. “She’s not ready for a serious relationship.”

“You slept with each other. How more serious can you get?” Ron shook his head, then blinked. “You did have sex, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Harry sighed. “I know.”

“Wait… is this like your affair with that sixth year, Diana? No commitment?”

“Daria,” Harry corrected him. “And no, it’s not like that.” At least Hermione hadn’t said anything about just having fun. And she certainly hadn’t acted like Daria. “We agreed to see how things develop.”

Ron shook his head and snorted. “I guess you’ll still be ‘seeing how things develop’ when you’re about to get married.”

If only. Harry frowned at his friend. “I’m certain that this is Paul’s fault.”

“Might be,” Ron answered after a moment. “Are you planning to talk to the git?”

Harry took a deep breath through his clenched teeth. “I want to, but… Hermione might not like me going to Paul behind her back.” In fact, he was sure she’d be upset. And he didn’t want to upset his not-quite-yet-girlfriend while they were still ‘waiting and seeing’, or whatever you might call the current state of their relationship.

“Yeah, mate. She wouldn’t like that.” Ron nodded. “So… it wasn’t a big step.”

“Well…” Harry fought not to grin as he remembered last night. “I wouldn’t say that.”

*****

“Madam Bones.” Harry Potter nodded, standing at attention in front of the witch’s desk.

“Aurors Potter and Weasley.” Bones returned the nod but didn’t tell them to take a seat. That wasn’t a good sign, was it? “I’ve read every report covering the Herefordshire raid.”

Harry nodded again and struggled not to exchange a glance with Ron.

Bones narrowed her eyes slightly, as if she were waiting for a comment, then sniffed once when both Harry and Ron remained silent. “There were significant differences, and not just between yours and Macmillan’s.”

That was to be expected. It was difficult to focus on anything other than your enemy when you were fighting.

“However,” Bones went on, “the gist of the events is clear. While you questioned orders, you didn’t disobey them. During the battle, at least.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry confirmed.

She glared at him. “But in the middle of a fight, the difference between questioning orders and insubordination is very hard to realise. Macmillan’s accusations weren’t without some justification.”

“His stupidity was going to ruin the raid, Ma’am,” Ron blurted out. “He was treating this as if it were a normal fight.”

“It was obvious that standard tactics wouldn’t work,” Harry added, “and he didn’t listen to advice.”

“And what should he have done instead?” Bones asked, raising one eyebrow - the one which wasn’t above her monocle.

Macmillan should have let them run the raid. Harry didn’t say that, of course. “He should have kept one of us in reserve in the air so they could intercept Crouch when he made his escape.”

“You told him to keep both of you in reserve,” Bones pointed out.

“With no enemy in sight, that would have been the best spot for us. One of us could have engaged Lestrange as soon as she attacked Abigail - the Curse-Breaker,” Harry retorted.

“Did you think of that when you questioned Macmillan’s orders?” Bones asked.

“It was obvious, Ma’am,” Harry said. “That’s how we would have done it.” If they had been in charge.

“Auror Fawley ordered you to protect the Curse-Breaker - the biggest weakness of the entire raid. And Lestrange did attack her, didn’t she?” Bones narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Yes, Ma’am. But either of us could have kept her at bay until the wards fell. Abigail had already prepared the wards during her first visit,” Ron explained.

Bones frowned. “Macmillan and Fawley weren’t aware of that.”

“We mentioned it in the briefing,” Harry protested.

“You mentioned that you had entered the lodge through the wards. You didn’t spell out that that meant the wards could be torn down much more quickly than expected. Neither Macmillan nor Fawley had any special Curse-Breaking knowledge or training.” Bones shook her head. “But they knew that a Curse-Breaker is very vulnerable when taking down wards and needs the best protection available.”

“One of us would have sufficed,” Harry said.

“It’s standard procedure not to split up partners,” Bones pointed out, “because they are used to fighting side by side. That makes them more effective in a battle.”

“We can fight together without having to stick together,” Ron said. “Moody made sure of that.”

Bones shook her head. “The average Auror wasn’t trained by Moody. We have standard procedures for a reason - in the middle of a fight, people usually can’t think too clearly and fall back on their training.”

Which meant they should be trained correctly, in Harry’s opinion. Yesterday’s mess wouldn’t have happened if that had been the case.

“The middle of a battle, or a hastily thrown-together raid, isn’t the right place to introduce new tactics.” Bones studied them. “Nor is it the place and time to argue orders.”

“Should we have let them get killed without even trying to stop it?” Ron asked.

“Would you have been able to stop it? Stop them from getting killed by Lestrange as soon as they attacked her?” Bones again raised one eyebrow. “Or flying at her and getting caught in Fiendfyre?”

“Perhaps,” Harry said. “We would have tried our best, at least.”

“As did Macmillan,” Bones retorted.

And his best wasn’t good enough.

Bones sighed. “I’ll watch your memories, and then I’ll decide how to sort out this mess. The Minister wants a scapegoat.” She had to have noticed Harry’s reaction since she added: “And Malfoy’s pressuring him to put the blame on Macmillan.”

Harry blinked. “He must be more afraid of the Death Eaters than I thought.”

Bones glared at him. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, Auror Potter.”

“Malfoy must share it,” Ron retorted, “or he’d be trying to blame us for this mess.”

That earned him a glare as well. Bones pressed her lips together. “And I’ll be seeing for myself who is to blame for this. Provided your godfather agreed to let us use his Pensieve.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, he said he’d make an exception.”

“Figures.” Bones shook her head and stood. “Let’s not keep the esteemed member of the Wizengamot waiting, then.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 3rd, 1998**

Hermione Granger had expected the dog to make crude jokes about her and Harry spending the night together. She had been bracing herself for lewd comments and embarrassing questions. Even bragging about having known this all along. If not during breakfast, then after Harry and Ron had left.

None of that had taken place. The stupid dog had kept smiling far too widely, and went to his office to pretend to work. He hadn’t even called her to him under some pretext.

She pressed her lips together and focused on her plans for the next diversion. And on her plans for Greengrass Manor. The timing would be tight, even if Jeanne managed to manipulate the enchanted mirrors. On the other hand, if they ran the diversionary heist late this month, the Aurors might not expect another heist so close on the heels of an - apparently - failed one. But too close, and they would all be worked up and more attentive...

She sighed. Since the date of the Greengrass heist was fixed already, she would have to guess in advance which time frame for the diversion would work out best. Which was a good thing - she wouldn’t be betraying Harry’s confidence by judging the timing according to his reaction.

“You don’t sound like a witch who just had a night of passion with the wizard she’s wanted for months.”

Hermione slowly turned her head and glanced at the witch standing in the doorway. “Sleeping with Harry didn’t do anything to make our next heists any easier.”

“So you did sleep with him.” Jeanne smiled and closed the door behind her. “I was starting to wonder whether Sirius had misinterpreted what he had seen.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What he had seen?” Had the dog spied on her and Harry?

“He went to wake up Harry this morning,” Jeanne said, “and saw you two in each other’s arms.”

So, they hadn’t locked the door. The dog had done it after barging in on them, and she hadn’t noticed. Sloppy. Hermione clenched her teeth. And he had caught an eyeful, seeing their state of undress in the morning. She drew a hissing breath through her teeth. “I see.”

“So it wasn’t some platonic comforting to ward off nightmares.”

“What?” Hermione stared at her friend.

Jeanne shrugged with a smirk. “That was my worst-case assumption.”

“Worst-case?” She was starting to sound like a broken record.

“Yes.” Jeanne scoffed. “You’ve been dragging your feet for far too long.”

“For good reasons!” Hermione protested. “Any relationship with Harry has no future as long as he doesn’t know about our heists.” She bit her lower lip. She wanted to come clean and tell Harry. Be completely honest. Get it out in the open. But she couldn’t, not without revealing her friends’ secrets as well. And she couldn’t do that to them.

“You think your relationship is doomed?”

“We’re not in a serious relationship. We’re still seeing how things develop.” At least Harry thought that.

Jeanne shook her head. “Neither of you is the kind to enjoy an open or casual relationship. Both of you are far too... serious for that.”

The slight pause before ‘serious’ told Hermione that Jeanne had had another word in mind. Probably ‘uptight’ or something similar. “I’m not going to enter a serious relationship with him under false pretences!” she snapped. She couldn’t do that to him.

Jeanne shook her head again and looked at Hermione as if she had just said something extremely foolish.

Hermione huffed and pointed at the parchment in front of her. “I have a question about your changes to the mirror,” she said, changing the subject.

The witch obviously had been listening to the stupid dog too much.

*****

Bones was taking her time watching their memories, Harry Potter thought as he waited for the Head of the DMLE to leave the Pensieve. More than double the time the fight had lasted for his memories, and now the same amount for Ron’s.

“She’s thorough,” Ron said.

Harry glanced at his friend. “Finished chatting with Luna?”

“She’s got her afternoon lessons.” Ron grinned. “She’s still trying to figure out a way to selectively silence the mirror so we can use it during her lessons.”

“That won’t help her grades,” Harry said.

Ron chuckled. “Limited to the uninteresting subjects. And it’ll help once she’s finished with Hogwarts and starts working full-time.”

“As a journalist for The Quibbler?” Harry asked. That had been her plan since before she started at Hogwarts, as far as he knew.

“Yes. Magizoologist and Naturalist, too.” Ron smiled.

“She’ll be travelling a lot, then.” And to places where she couldn’t return to Britain easily or quickly.

Harry’s friend shrugged. “Won’t be worse than now. Better, I think - we’ll have more time.”

“Ah.” Harry didn’t think he’d like that - being separated from your girlfriend for stretches of time…

Before he could say anything else, Bones, who had been standing frozen with her head in the faint cloud above the Pensieve, moved again and straightened.

“Are you finished, Ma’am?” Harry asked.

She frowned for a moment, then schooled her features. “Yes. I’ve seen all I need to deal with this incident. We’ll return to the Ministry.” She walked past them towards the door.

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, raising his eyebrows, as they followed the witch. Bones looked rather angry.

Sirius and Hermione were waiting for them in the entrance hall. Harry’s godfather probably had had Kreacher keep an eye on them and call him once Bones was finished. “Amelia! Finished already?” he said with a too-wide smile.

“Obviously.”

Sirius ignored her dry tone. “I hope it was helpful.”

Now she frowned. “The Pensieve would be very useful for our Department. Many cases could be solved with such a device.”

Sirius shrugged. “Undoubtedly.”

“For someone who suffered from a great injustice, you appear remarkably unconcerned about preventing similar miscarriages of justice.” Bones’s tone was growing sharper. “Unless it concerns your godson, of course.”

Hermione sniffed, and Harry tensed. “It would be a waste of a rare magical item,” she said, “since the Wizengamot is only concerned with politics, not justice.”

Bones glared at her. “It is to be expected that you would claim that.”

“Like Sirius, I have extensive personal experience with the Ministry’s sort of ‘justice’.” Hermione’s voice dripped with contempt.

“And with politically motivated pardons,” Bones retorted.

“Indeed. A pardon, not an exoneration,” Hermione said. “So Malfoy’s ‘good friends’ wouldn’t be revealed as having perjured themselves. Politics, in other words.”

“You could have proven your innocence by taking Veritaserum. You didn’t.” Bones’s face twisted into a slight sneer, clearly expressing her view of what this said about Hermione.

“I wasn’t about to help Voldemort and his followers by revealing our secrets to them.” Hermione scowled at the older witch. “And why should I have to take Veritaserum, instead of those who accuse me?” She scoffed. “Is ‘innocent until proven guilty’ too muggle for the Wizengamot?”

“There was plenty of evidence incriminating you,” Bones told her.

“Falsified evidence to frame me.” Hermione scoffed, again. “But at least I received a trial. Others weren’t as fortunate.”

“Indeed,” Sirius cut in. “What good is a Pensieve if you’re not even bothering with a trial? And we both know that it’d be misused by everyone in the Ministry for their personal business. Or simply to relive the last time they had sex with their spouse,” he added with a toothy grin.

Harry struggled but managed not to laugh at Bones’s expression. Ron coughed quite loudly.

“Those are excuses, and you know it,” Bones said. “Ultimately, you’re only interested in your personal power. Like your opponents in the Wizengamot.”

“No, Amelia.” Sirius kept smiling. “I’m just not interested in supporting a corrupt system.”

“And in denying us the means to do our duty to the best of our ability, you hazard that innocents might end up suffering as you suffered.” Bones stood her ground.

“A system where you have to prove your innocence is the last system I would want to support.” Sirius gestured towards the fireplace. “Have a nice day, Amelia.”

“Goodbye.”

Harry quickly followed Bones to the Floo connection. This wasn’t the moment to stay and talk to his family. The Head of the DMLE was angry enough already.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 3rd, 1998**

Bones’s mood hadn’t improved an hour later when Harry Potter and Ron were called to her office again. Once more, she didn’t offer them a seat. “I’ve watched your memories, Aurors Potter and Weasley. And I’m not impressed.”

Harry clenched his teeth and nodded. They hadn’t done anything wrong.

Bones shook her head. “This was worse than I suspected. I’ve told you before that the middle of a raid isn’t the place to question orders or introduce new tactics. You had your reasons for doing so, but you went about it in a very confrontational manner.”

Harry didn’t think Macmillan would have listened, no matter how politely they had phrased their criticism.

“However, your behaviour after Lestrange’s death…” Bones glared at him through her monocle. “Even taking into account that you were dealing with Fiendfyre, your actions were out of line. You threatened to stun Macmillan!”

“He was about to curse me!” Harry retorted.

“He was raising his wand.”

“That’s what I said.” Harry nodded.

“Never raise a wand at someone you don’t want to curse or heal,” Ron quoted Moody. “And never assume someone’s about to heal you unless you can trust them and you’re visibly hurt.”

“And you assume that Macmillan would have been so reckless as to attack you while you were containing Fiendfyre?” Bones sounded incredulous.

“We couldn’t risk it,” Harry said. Macmillan was an arrogant idiot.

She shook her head again. “Moody’s not the best role model.”

Harry pressed his lips together. Moody was the best Auror the Ministry had. And even in a coma in St Mungo’s, he was probably doing more for the Ministry than half the Aurors by not messing up!

“All of you - you two and Macmillan - were upset by the battle, the danger you were facing from the Fiendfyre and the loss of your comrades. That explains but doesn’t fully excuse your attitudes. I should reprimand all three of you.”

Harry tensed. He hadn’t done anything wrong!

“But the Minister wants someone to take responsibility for the mess, and Macmillan was in charge. Nominally, at least,” Bones went on with narrowed eyes. “And Malfoy and your godfather are both backing you.” She snorted. “So he’s out of luck.”

Harry wanted to ask what would happen to Macmillan but held his tongue. It wasn’t his fault that the other Auror hadn’t listened and had tried to blame Harry for his mistakes. Not really. He had no reason to feel guilty.

Bones glared at both of them. “That doesn’t mean I condone your attitude. If you act like this again, I’ll make you regret it, no matter what Malfoy and Black do. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry and Ron answered.

“Dismissed.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 3rd, 1998**

“So Bones wanted to punish you and Ron? Typical!” Hermione Granger huffed.

Harry, sitting on his bed, shrugged. “It was mostly due to our attitude.”

“You were stressed and under great pressure,” she retorted. “And saddled with an incompetent pureblood.” She shook her head, noting that she needed to cut her hair again. “And doesn’t this prove that Bones only cares for what the Wizengamot wants? Do you think if you and Ron were muggleborns she’d have reprimanded all three of you? Or do you think she’d have let Macmillan off because of his family?” That stupid hypocrite, talking about justice while defending corruption and nepotism! She felt angry just remembering their talk today.

Harry snorted.

“Exactly!” Hermione nodded sharply. “It’s all about power and influence. Of course, if you and Ron were muggleborns, you wouldn’t have become Aurors anyway.”

“That’s not true. After the losses we’ve suffered, they’re taking anyone.”

She clenched her teeth before answering. “Only because they lost so many - probably because inept purebloods got them killed.”

“Well, not many can face the likes of Lestrange and Crouch,” he said, sighing.

“All the more reason to let you and Ron handle them.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he admitted, grinning.

“Well,” she said, sighing, “perhaps this stupid affair will have something good come of it - all the inept purebloods who only reached their positions thanks to nepotism might think twice before trying to order you around after this.”

“Well, we can hope.”

He was looking at her with a strange expression as he said that. She frowned - why would he… Oh. She blinked, then smiled and sat down next to him.

“So, did Sirius tease you about us?” he asked with a smile.

She pouted. “No. He didn’t say anything. He just kept smiling at me.” The stupid dog.

“I talked to Ron. I told him about us.”

“You did?” She narrowed her eyes slightly. What had he told Ron?

“I just told him that we’re not in a serious relationship but still figuring things out.”

“Ah.” She nodded, mollified. “I told Jeanne the same.” More or less.

“Ah. But not Sirius.”

She scoffed. “He can ask Jeanne.” And the dog probably had, anyway.

He sighed. “Or me. I wonder why he hasn’t talked to me yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “He probably thinks it’s funnier to let us stew.”

“Or he’s afraid that we’ll break up if he teases us too much.”

Hermione laughed at that. The dog knew her better than that - as if she would break up with Harry over teasing!

Harry smiled a little lopsidedly. “It was just a thought.” He hesitated, taking a deep breath and licking his lips. “So…”

She knew what he was about to ask. And she answered him with a kiss. Which turned into a series of kisses. And to their robes ending up on the floor, again.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 4th, 1998**

“Morning, Bathilda.” Harry Potter nodded at the Auror as he and Ron entered the break room. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing great!” She beamed at them.

Harry cocked his head, surprised, as he filled his teacup. Even for the former Hufflepuff, that was surprisingly cheerful.

“We’ve caught a gang of thieves!” she said as he sat at their usual table.

Harry blinked. They had caught the master thieves? No. That was not possible. That sort of news would have spread like Fiendfyre.

“Not the ones behind the Bulstrode and Davis robberies, of course,” she went on. “But we arrested two thieves who had been robbing people at Quidditch matches.” She smiled widely. “We caught them thanks to me canvassing the shops in Diagon Alley for stolen brooms! I compared the results with the other thefts that had been reported and found matches. The shop owner agreed to call us next time he saw the people selling brooms again, and John and I caught them in the middle of haggling.”

“Great work,” Ron said. “People who steal from Quidditch fans are the worst!”

“Did they resist arrest?” Harry asked.

Bathilda scoffed. “They tried. Didn’t even get their wands half-way out before we stunned them.”

“Good.” Ron smiled.

“They weren’t the kind of thieves breaking into manors,” Bathilda said. “But still - two criminals caught is a good thing!”

“Yes.” Harry took a sip from his cup.

“We’re working on other cases, too.” She lowered her voice a little. “We’ve got no leads on the master thieves, but we’ve found leads to other thieves.”

Harry was about to ask for more details when Nott entered the break room.

“Hello, Bathilda. Good work with those thieves.” He smiled at Bathilda.

“Thank you, Theo.”

“Potter. Weasley.” Nott took a seat and summoned a teacup.

“Nott.” Harry didn’t quite growl but came close.

Nott filled his cup, then glanced at Harry. “Macmillan got demoted this morning. Lost his senior position,” the Auror said with his usual sneer.

“Oh.” Bathilda pressed her lips together, and Harry caught her glancing at him and Ron.

“Git deserved it,” Ron said. “Messed up the raid.”

“Really?” Nott scoffed. “According to what I heard, he simply didn’t have the kind of influence you two have. Both Black and Malfoy were pushing to blame Macmillan for the mess, no matter what actually happened.” He leaned forward. “I guess it’s not nepotism and corruption when it happens to benefit you, huh?”

Harry matched Nott’s sneer. “Macmillan tried to blame us for his mistakes. It backfired.”

“Thanks to your godfather’s gold.”

“No, because we could prove that we didn’t disobey his orders,” Harry shot back.

“Oh, yes - thanks to Black’s Pensieve. Which he won’t let the Corps use, just you two. Must be nice to have such privileges.”

“Jealous, Nott?” Ron scoffed.

Nott scoffed as well. “Hardly. I, at least, don’t rely on my family to bail me out of trouble.”

“You wouldn’t even be here if not for your family,” Harry retorted.

“What?”

“Stop it!” Bathilda yelled. “All of you, stop it!” She looked angry. “I’m sick of you attacking each other and ruining our breaks!” The witch stood, her chair getting pushed back and almost toppling over. “Tell me when you can take a break without bickering like idiots!” After a glare at everyone at the table, she stormed out of the room.

Harry watched her go, then glared at Nott. “Good work.”

Nott sneered at him. “Getting used to blaming others for your faults, huh?”

Harry bit down on his first response and stood. “Just keep telling yourself that,” he spat and walked away.

“Bloody git,” he heard Ron mutter as they left the break room.

*****

An hour later, Harry Potter still was mulling the scene over. Nott was a git, but… He sighed, put down the sheet at which he had been staring for five minutes without reading it and looked at Ron. “Do you think that Nott’s accusation was fair?”

His friend looked up, frowning. “Nott’s a git. Bloody snake.”

“But you know what Bones said. She wanted to reprimand all of us, not just Macmillan,” Harry said.

“So? She was wrong. Macmillan shouldn’t have been in charge. If we had been in charge, we wouldn’t have lost so many people, and Crouch wouldn’t have escaped.” Ron shook his head.

Harry sighed again. His friend was correct, but still… “It feels wrong to use Sirius’s influence. That’s how Macmillan and Nott and all the others corrupt the system.”

“Didn’t you become an Auror because as the Boy-Who-Lived, you’d have more influence than a normal rookie Auror and so wouldn’t be easily stopped like others?”

“Yes, I did. But this feels…” Harry shrugged. “I feel like a hypocrite, denouncing Nott and his friends for using their families’ influence while doing the same.”

“Well, what’s the alternative? Letting them drive us out? We can’t change the system if we’re sidelined or fired.” Ron sighed. “It’s not ideal, but what else can we do?”

“I know.” His friend was right. But Harry didn’t like it. “I wish there was another way.”

“Not in this Ministry. Dad and Percy use Sirius’s influence as well, you know. And others’, of course. It’s how things are - and why we’re working to change it.”

Harry nodded, even though it still felt wrong to him.

But he couldn’t think of any alternative that would work.

*****

**Argelès-sur** **-Mer, Pyrenées Orientales, France, December 7th, 1998**

Hermione Granger sighed as she looked around the old mansion. “When you said you wanted to buy a house in France, I expected something a little closer to Britain. Not a mansion practically on the border to Spain.”

Sirius acted surprised. “Why would I do that? Might as well stay in Britain then. The weather’s much better here!”

“We’re also much closer to the Barbary Coast,” Hermione pointed out. Granted, raids hadn’t happened since Dumbledore had had a word with the leaders of the various wizarding enclaves of the Barbary Coast in the 1950s, but there were still the occasional kidnappings.

“We’re not on the coast, and the wards are strong,” Sirius retorted.

“And if anyone is stupid enough to attack us, they’ll regret it,” Jeanne added.

Sometimes, Jeanne was too French. Hermione shook her head. It wasn’t her gold. And, if she was honest, it looked like a great place to spend a holiday. With Harry. They could enjoy the pool, travel the countryside, see the sights… They wouldn’t have to worry about Aurors, manors or Death Eaters either. Just the two of them, together, enjoying...

“You like it too!” Sirius was positively gloating.

She gave him a flat stare. “I’m trying to look at the bright side of this.”

“It’s a great holiday home, isn’t it?”

She gritted her teeth, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of hearing her admit that he was right. He still hadn’t said anything about her relationship with Harry. Not to her, at least. She turned to Jeanne. “How long will you need to calibrate the mirror?”

“A day, I think. Although we’ll need to furnish the house first,” her friend replied. “The background has to match.”

That would take a week, at least, Hermione thought. Well, there were still a few more preparations to do in London, anyway. “We’ll need to adapt the wards, too. Probably install a secret room as well. And an escape tunnel.” Just in case.

“There’s already an escape tunnel,” Jeanne said. “The mansion was built at a time when Barbary Coast raiders were a bigger threat, and you couldn’t trust your wards to hold them off until help arrived.”

“And we’ll need to install a playroom,” Sirius said, grinning. “To keep up appearances. Although I assume it’ll also be put to good use.”

It was clear what he meant - his grin grew even wider - but if she reacted to that, he’d claim he’d meant Jeanne and himself. Hermione sighed. “Harry and Ron will weigh in on the security as well.” Harry would probably try to get some guard animals again, no matter how impractical they’d be.

She narrowed her eyes. That reminded her of something. She nodded at Sirius and Jeanne. “I’ll be back in a bit. I need to check out the garden.”

She changed and headed out on soft paws. When she had inspected the garden, she had seen signs of another cat using it.

And that had to be remedied at once - this was her territory now!

*****


	51. Ripples

**London, Diagon Alley, December 7th, 1998**

“Good day, Madam Greengrass, and thank you for your patronage.” Liam Cavell’s smile was as wide as it was fake as he bowed to the witch.

The witch nodded in return with, Liam was certain, an equally false smile before she left his shop - Cavell’s Coveted Purses. A name the shop hadn’t really deserved until recently. And a shop Madam Greengrass - the wife of the Head of the Greengrass Family - and her peers would never have previously considered visiting.

But thanks to the increased fear of thieves skilled enough to burgle even Old Families’ manors, Liam’s talent for spells that foiled pickpockets was finally deemed more important than his muggle ancestry among Wizarding Britain’s ruling class.

And where the Old Families shopped, their distant relatives followed. Liam’s fake smile changed into a satisfied, honest one. Business was good. It hadn’t been bad before - he had managed to make a decent living - but the difference was striking.

He put the gold into the till and locked it, adding a protection spell - you never knew, after all. Then he stepped outside for a smoke.

He had barely taken a single drag when the door of the shop next to him opened.

“Hello, Liam,” his neighbour greeted him.

“Hello, Ewan.” Liam’s smile was not quite as wide as the one he reserved for the likes of Mrs Greengrass, but not any more honest. He didn’t really like Davis.

Davis briefly frowned, looking at Liam’s cigarette. Liam took another drag, almost as a challenge. Davis had been one of the - presumably well-meaning - people who had told him that taking a smoke break outside your flat or shop was ‘for muggles’. In Wizarding Britain there were easy charms to deal with the smoke and smell.

But Liam liked stepping out for fresh air and a smoke, no matter what the purebloods thought. He blew a smoke ring. “How’s it going, Ewan? Did Davis recompense you for the items lost in the family vault?”

“Not yet, but he’s promised me.” Davis’s smile slipped a little. “He’s a wizard of his word.”

“Ah. So your claims have been settled?” It was an open secret that the Head of the Davis Family, for all his assurances about fulfilling his obligations towards the wizards and witches who had trusted him with their valuables, wasn’t quite as trusting when it came to the amount of gold and goods people claimed had been stolen.

Davis’s smile turned into a thin-lipped scowl. “Not yet.”

Liam nodded. Apparently, Davis’s claims had encountered that difficulty as well. “Have you heard the latest?”

Davis frowned. “No?”

“According to the Prophet, the Ministry’s hiring foreign mercenaries as auxiliaries for the Hit-Wizards.”

“Auxiliaries?” Ewan’s frown deepened. “What for?”

“Looks like the Death Eaters killed so many, they have trouble making up the losses.” Liam shrugged. “I think they should simply focus everything on the Death Eaters and forget about the Manor Thieves for a while. They haven’t killed anyone, after all.”

Davis scoffed. “Of course you’d think that!”

Liam knew what Davis meant: as a muggleborn, Liam would consider arresting - or killing - the Death Eaters the Ministry’s priority. He wasn’t wrong, of course. “Indeed I do. Do you disagree?”

“We can’t afford to underestimate the thieves! If they can break into manors, then no one is safe from them!”

Liam took another drag from his cigarette and scoffed. “If they were interested in robbing people like us, they’d have done so already. Stealing from us would be much easier than robbing an Old Family’s manor.” And wouldn’t draw as much attention, either. “They haven’t, though.”

“And what will they do when they’re done with the manors?” Davis asked.

“Then they’ll be so rich they’ll have no need to rob the poor.” Liam grinned.

“And with the Old Families ruined, the Ministry will collapse!” Davis shook his head. “They have to be stopped!”

“Why would the Ministry collapse? Are they so dependent on bribes from the Old Families?” He shouldn’t be goading Davis like that, but he couldn’t help it. He had spent half a year and quite some gold to get all the permits for his shop while others, purebloods, had had everything handled by a visit from their Head of Family.

Davis glared at him. “Not the bribes, the taxes! How can the country function without gold? If the Old Families are ruined, the Ministry’s income will vanish!”

“We’d still be paying our taxes, wouldn’t we?” Liam cocked his head and flipped the stub through the air. He tried to vanish it with a flick of his wand, but missed and had to cast another Vanishing Spell once it was on the ground. “And so would every other business.”

“It wouldn’t be enough!” Davis said.

“Do you know how much tax the Old Families actually pay?” Liam asked.

“No, of course not. That’s their business.”

“Neither do I,” Liam smirked. “But I have a feeling that it’s not as much as you think it is.”

“How would you know?” Davis sneered.

Liam shrugged. “The Old Families control the Wizengamot - which passes the laws. Do you think they’ll tax themselves more than they tax us?”

Davis blinked, then scoffed. “You don’t know anything.”

“What I know is that I haven’t read anything about taxes in the Daily Prophet for years.” Which was telling, in his opinion. “Anyway, as long as the thieves go after manors and don’t kill anyone, I’m not worried.” Quite the contrary, actually - and not just because his business owed the thieves quite a lot.

After seven years at Hogwarts and ten years as a purse-maker, Liam really liked seeing the Old Families taken down a notch or two.

“You should be! Mark my words: Once they finish with the Old Families, they’ll come for us!” Davis said, then nodded sharply and disappeared into his shop.

Liam shook his head, sighed and entered his own. There was a reason he didn’t really like Davis. The man was, literally, too close to the Old Families to realise how bad the Old Families were for Britain.

And how many of Liam’s friends were looking forward to hearing about the next manor looted to its bedrock.

*****

**Argelès-sur-** **Mer, Pyrenées Orientales, France, December 11th, 1998**

“So, Harry, what do you think?” Sirius asked, smiling widely.

Harry Potter eyed the new holiday home, as his godfather had called the mansion he had bought in Southern France, with mixed feelings. It was a nice building - gorgeous, probably, if you cared about architecture. And the location was perfect for a holiday home. Even in December, it was pleasantly warm, and the pool could be heated easily anyway.

But its wards weren’t up to snuff, and the building didn’t look very defensible. The wall was not high enough to provide decent cover, and there were too many bushes and trees in the garden for clear lines of fire. And the windows were so big, they presented obvious weak spots even with several charms on them.

He glanced at Sirius, who was almost pacing, obviously expecting a rousing endorsement.

Harry wanted to sigh. “It looks great. I’m sure Ron will agree.” His friend had gone to Hogwarts to see Luna, instead of coming to France with them - even though it wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend. “But the wards need to be strengthened,” he said. “They cover the garden, but they don’t seem to be strong enough.”

Sirius frowned. “I didn’t know you were a Curse-Breaker.”

“I’m not,” Harry admitted, “but I can estimate a ward’s strength.” Most Aurors could - or should.

“Ah!” Sirius nodded. “Well, we’ll have some Curse-Breakers work on them, don’t worry.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know yet.” Sirius shrugged. “I’ll hire the best!”

“I want to investigate them first,” Harry said, “to find out if they can be trusted.”

“Ah. Alright. Though we might use French ones,” Sirius said.

Harry frowned. French Curse-Breakers would be less likely to harbour a grudge against Sirius or be compromised by the likes of Malfoy, but they would be harder to investigate.

“Jeanne grew up in France, you know,” Sirius said, grinning. “She knows people here.”

Harry coughed, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“So don’t go and slip Veritaserum into their tea - or coffee, alright?” Sirius chuckled.

Harry shook his head, snorting once. “Don’t let Hermione hear that.”

Sirius blinked, then rubbed his nose. “Oh, yes, I forgot.”

“Speaking of,” Harry said, “you haven’t asked me about her - us.”

“I respect your privacy!” Sirius protested.

Harry narrowed his eyes at him.

“She’ll get mad if I meddle in your relationship?” Sirius cocked his head sideways.

Harry frowned. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m joking, actually.” Sirius sighed. “Honestly, you two took so long to get together, I didn’t want to ruin it by meddling. Or teasing.” With a wide grin, he added: “And seeing you two waiting for me to ask and tease was too entertaining.”

Harry snorted, once, then sighed. “We’re not together yet. At least not in a serious relationship, as Hermione calls it.”

Sirius waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “She’s just fooling herself. Sooner or later, she’ll admit that you’re a couple - a serious couple!”

Harry nodded. “I’ hope you’re right.” He shook his head. “The breakup with Paul must have really hurt her if she still thinks she’s not ready for a relationship.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” Sirius shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, as long as you’re together, right?”

Harry huffed. It shouldn’t matter - but it did. Hermione wasn’t the kind of witch to do things by halves. As long as she was afraid of commitment, things weren’t really fine.

“But let’s talk about the house! It’s why you’re here, after all. Have you seen the swimming pool?” Sirius smiled. “It’s just like in the muggle magazines!”

Harry forced himself to smile as he followed his godfather to the other side of the garden. He knew what magazines Sirius was reading - and there was no bike at the pool.

Still, it would be nice to spend a holiday here. Especially in summer.

*****

The garden could do with a little pruning, Harry Potter thought as he walked through the front part. Too many bushes and trees. A nice environment for snakes - but any snake living in the garden would be in hibernation until March or April.

There were magical snakes, of course, which didn’t hibernate, but Harry was rather sure that Hermione wouldn’t let him use them as guard animals. Not as long as she had her fat cat.

Speak of the devil… Harry frowned at Crookshanks as the cat crossed his path. Crookshanks stopped for a moment and turned his head to stare at him with half-lidded eyes before disappearing into the next bush.

Harry shook his head. Some guard animal that cat was! He continued towards the front wall of the garden. Halfway there, he stopped. Were those tufts of hair? He knelt down and cast a few quick charms. No, it was fur. Brown and grey fur. Cat fur, probably.

He looked around. Scratch marks on the closest tree. And there was a paw print in a muddy patch under a bush. He nodded. Cats. Not Crookshanks, though.

“Harry?”

That was Hermione. He stood and spotted her a dozen yards away. “I’m here.”

“Ah. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” She joined him. “What are you doing?”

“Investigating a crime scene,” he said, smirking.

“What?” She looked both confused and alarmed.

Grinning, he nodded. “Yes. On this spot, a violent fight was fought. Between cats.”

“Oh.” She looked around. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. A grey cat with short fur, and a brown one with longer fur.” He held up the tufts he had gathered. “Crookshanks will have to fight if he wants to claim the garden as his territory.”

She sniffed. “Any French cats better stay out of our garden if they know what’s good for them.”

“Do you think he’ll fare well against a feral cat?” Crookshanks might have spotted Lestrange, but that didn’t mean he was a good fighter, in Harry’s opinion. He had the size, but he was too pampered.

“May I see the fur?” Hermione asked, holding her hand out.

“Ah… sure,” Harry replied, dropping the fur into her palm.

She peered at it. “Looks like a house cat. No threat to Crookshanks.”

“Both of them?”

“He hasn’t anything to fear from them.” She smirked. “Trust me.”

Harry nodded. Hermione was the cat owner and expert.

At least she wasn’t talking about adopting the strays here.

*****

“Ah, there you are! We were wondering if you had gotten lost!” Jeanne exclaimed when Hermione Granger and Harry entered the dining room - one of the already furnished rooms of the house.

“He was in the garden,” Hermione replied as she took her seat.

“And it took you fifteen minutes to find him?” Jeanne’s smile appeared rather sly.

Hermione didn’t blush. She sniffed and said primly: “We were exploring the gardens.” For about a minute. And they were on time for dinner!

“Yes,” Harry tried to support her. “I found traces of a cat fight.” He tried, at least.

The dog chuckled at that, as expected, and ignored both her glare and Harry’s puzzled look. Typical.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“Well...” Harry shrugged. “Crookshanks will probably scare them off. According to Hermione, they’re no threat to him.”

Of course, they weren’t! She had driven that intruder off with a lesson the pampered house cat wouldn’t forget for a while.

“Ah, well, she would know.” The dog’s grin showed all his teeth. “She’s the resident expert on cats, after all.”

And on stupid dogs who couldn’t behave! Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but he simply smirked in response.

“As long as no one got hurt,” Jeanne said with a shrug - and a not quite discreet glance at Hermione. As if she’d be hurt by another cat!

She changed the subject. “So, did you finish the bedrooms?”

The stupid dog’s grin grew even wider as Jeanne answered: “More or less. They still need more work, but they’re now ready to be used. The living room is passable, but the fireplace is not yet connected to the Floo Network.”

Sirius pouted. “I wanted to skip that and keep the house a secret,” Sirius said, pouting, “but apparently, the French Ministry was already informed by the former owner.”

“They don’t want to pay the taxes on the property any more,” Jeanne explained. “And it would defeat part of the reason we bought it if we cannot invite any friends.” With a frown, she added: “And if there’s an attack by raiders from the Barbary Coast, we’ll be very glad that we can call the Gendarmes.”

“As long as they’re any good.” Harry frowned.

“You can’t compare the Gendarmes with the Aurors,” Jeanne said. “The Gendarmes are trained to fight a war. They’ve proven their mettle against Grindelwald’s Storm Wizards.” She sneered. “A few Barbary Coast slavers won’t stand a chance.”

Harry smiled. “Good.”

Hermione didn’t share his opinion. The Aurors weren’t trained as soldiers - but they were meant to arrest criminals, not fight a war. That was what Hit-Wizards were for. In theory. “How often do Gendarmes kill suspects instead of arresting them?” Like thieves.

Jeanne shrugged, then frowned. “I don’t know.”

“I hope they don’t treat common criminals as enemies,” Hermione said. “That would be excessive.” And bloody.

“Unless they’re Death Eaters,” Harry said. “Can’t treat them as normal criminals. They’re far too dangerous.”

“That’s part of the reason for the Ministry treating Voldemort’s first campaign as a war.” Sirius scoffed. “They had fewer rules to follow that way. Granted, it was a war, but still...” Hermione saw him clenching his teeth. He might have received a trial if not for those ‘war measures’.

“Well, it’s not as if it is a big concern for us,” Harry said. “I doubt that anyone will mistake us for criminals.”

Hermione bit her lower lip for a second before replying. “But the Ministry is hiring foreign mercenaries. And Malfoy’s pushing to treat the Manor Thieves like Death Eaters.” They really needed a better name, too. Perhaps ‘Phantom Thieves’. Or ‘Midnight Phantoms’. Or ‘Cat Burglars’. Or ‘The Avengers’.

“Well, the thieves are dangerous,” Harry said, “but they haven’t killed anyone.”

“Nor have they seriously hurt anyone,” she added.

“That, too,” he admitted. “And we’re focusing on Crouch, not the thieves.”

“Unless you mistake one for the other.” Hermione could see such a thing happening easily.

Harry scowled. “Well, if they disguise themselves as Death Eaters, they can’t complain if they get treated as Death Eaters.”

She didn’t quite scowl at that. He was correct, in theory, but she had been mistaken for Lestrange in that diversionary attack on Longbottom Manor, and she hadn’t been disguised as a Death Eater then! “As long as the Aurors don’t start to curse on sight…” She shrugged. “I’ve been framed as a thief myself, after all.”

“And I’ve been mistaken for a Death Eater,” Sirius said.

Harry looked slightly uncomfortable at hearing that, and Hermione felt more than a little guilty for pushing him like that. But there was a reason bobbies didn’t carry guns.

*****

“You’re serious?” Half an hour after Harry had returned to England, the stupid dog was staring at Hermione Granger as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

She pressed her lips together and huffed. “What’s wrong with the names?” They were fine!

“They’re stupid,” he said.

“They’re not.” She looked at Jeanne, but her friend was shaking her head and apparently trying not to laugh either.

“Have you spoken about this with Mr Fletcher?” Jeanne asked.

“No.” The subject of fitting noms de guerre had never come up. An oversight, in her opinion. It wasn’t as if this were bragging, was it?

“Well, ask him. He’s the expert,” Jeanne said.

“But we’ll retain the right to veto any stupid name,” the dog cut in. “Like ‘Cat Burglars’.”

She rolled her eyes and tried to ignore him. “Let’s work on the mirror now,” she told Jeanne instead. They had to record Hermione and Sirius in various robes and in several rooms here - it had to look perfect to fool Harry, after all.

*****

**Paris, Quartier Magique, France, December 12th, 1998**

“Yes, I am from the New World,” Hermione Granger said, smiling politely at the seamstress taking her measurements. “Québec,” she added as the enchanted measuring tape wound itself around her body.

“Oh.” The young French witch stopped making notes for a moment to stare at her, then looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“Pas de problème.” Hermione nodded. She felt a little guilty at using this cover - the recent war between Magical Québec and the Free Republic of Maine and Vermont had devastated both enclaves and resulted in hundreds of wizards and witches being killed - but it assured that no one would be expecting ‘Marie Levesque’ to go into detail about her tragic past.

“Will you be wearing these robes for your introduction to the Court?” the seamstress asked after a minute spent scribbling and avoiding Hermione’s eyes.

Hermione shook her head, her currently black and straight hair brushing over her shoulders. “Oh, no! It’s for the ball season in Britain. I have friends and distant relatives there.” Which implied that she had no such ties - or no closer ones - to Magical France. “But I wanted to visit Paris first,” she added with a slightly sad undertone.

“Ah.” The French witch nodded in obvious sympathy. “It’s easy to travel to France from Britain,” she said.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed as the measuring tape flew back to the other witch.

“You’ll outshine everyone at the ball with your new robes! The finest silk - real silk.”

Hermione agreed, even though she knew it wasn’t true - and anyway, she couldn’t afford too much attention at the ball.

Though wearing expensive French robes would make it easier to get an invitation to the Greengrass Yule Ball.

*****

**London, Greenwich, December 12th, 1998**

“‘Phantom Thieves’. ‘Midnight Phantoms’. ‘Cat Burglars’. ‘The Avengers’...” Mr Fletcher shook his head as he dropped the note on the table in his living room. “What’s the third rule I taught you?”

Hermione Granger didn’t wince at his tone. “‘Keep mum about your profession’.”

“And?”

She bit her lower lip, then replied: “‘Don’t brag’. But this isn’t bragging. It’s psychological warfare!”

“It’s stupid is what it is!” he spat. “‘Cat Burglars’?‘The Avengers’? Might as well tell your boyfriend who’s behind the robberies!”

That still left ‘Phantom Thieves’ and ‘Midnight Phantoms’. But Hermione didn’t think that saying so would be well received. Her tutor sounded angry. She sighed. “‘Manor Thieves’ just sounds so…” She shrugged.

“Banal? Boring?” He tilted his head.

“Yes,” she spat. He didn’t have to sound so sarcastic.

“That’s a good thing.” He shook his head again. “We’re thieves, not revolutionaries.”

“There’s a certain overlap,” she retorted.

“Yes - Black is set on changing the country, through reform or revolution. And so are you. But,” he said, flashing his teeth, “having the group which is busy ruining most of Black’s political opponents be seen as being politically, not merely financially, motivated will do your cause more harm than good.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I just dislike letting the Prophet name me.”

He shrugged. “They’ve been slandering you for years. And once Skeeter’s out of Azkaban, they’ll continue.”

They’d be done by then, or at least Sirius and Jeanne would. And she might do something about the odious muckraker before that. But Hermione nodded. “Sending a note to the Prophet would help them sell issues anyway.” She changed the subject. “Did you manage to secure an invitation?”

“I have one lined up - provided you can catch the attention of my dear relative Michael Smith. His date for the ball has dumped him after a flower shop accidentally mixed up two orders, inadvertently revealing his affair with Amanda Parkinson.”

“You’ve been busy,” she said.

He shrugged, but she noted his sly grin. “They had no wards to speak of. Michael should have chosen a more respectable business, but he was too cheap and too bigoted.”

If only he’d see that this proved that the loss of his foot hadn’t ended his career as a professional thief! But Hermione knew better than to bring that up. “I shouldn’t have trouble catching his attention, then.” Smith would jump at the chance to save face after this embarrassment by showing up with a rich, young emigrée from Québec via Paris. One who wouldn’t be aware of his past.

“Just be careful. The bloke’s an idiot, but he’s shown a fascination with the Dark Arts.”

“I’ll have to prepare some war stories then.”

“Be careful.”

“Of course.” But it would take more than some spoiled pureblood prat to cause trouble for her. She pulled a case out of her enchanted pocket, unshrank it and slid it over to him. “We’ve bought new brooms, too, for the diversion. This is yours.”

He opened the case and stiffened. “A Firebolt?”

She nodded. “We’ll need them, in case Harry and Ron come after us. Sirius bought them in Bavaria.” Disguised, of course. Sturmwinds would have been cheaper and more manoeuvrable, but they were slightly slower than Firebolts - and to escape Aurors, speed was more important. “Sirius said that you can give it back after the diversion if you want to,” she added before he could say anything.

He glared at her, then scoffed and muttered something she didn’t catch but which sounded uncomplimentary about Sirius. He did shrink the broom and stuff it into his pocket, though. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. “So, you decided to start a relationship with Potter.”

It wasn’t a serious relationship, but Mr Fletcher wouldn’t care about the difference, so she didn’t correct him. “It was more a spontaneous event.”

He snorted at that. “You’re not going to tell him, though.” It wasn’t a question. ‘Never tell anyone who is not directly involved about your heists’ was part of the second rule he had taught her, after all.

She nodded. Even though she wanted to tell Harry. But both Mr Fletcher and Sirius agreed on this. And she couldn’t reveal her friends’ secrets. That was the fourth rule he had taught her: never rat out your accomplices.

“Does that mean that you plan to retire after you’ve achieved your revenge?”

“I haven’t made any plans so far,” she said. Or, more precisely, she hadn’t been able to make any promising plans. She didn’t want to abandon her career, and she didn’t want to lose Harry.

But she couldn’t think of a good way to achieve both. Not yet, at least.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, December 12th, 1998**

Hermione Granger resisted the urge to check her appearance one more time before opening the door of the Leaky Cauldron. She knew that nothing was amiss - she had checked and double-checked in Mr Fletcher’s flat, and checking again would threaten her cover. ‘Marie Levesque’ wouldn’t bother with that before entering such a low-class pub.

She raised her chin slightly, then entered. A subtle glance confirmed that Michael Smith, heir of Eleonora Smith, was sitting at a table in the corner with a handful of friends, just as Mr Fletcher had said he’d be. All of them were dressed in robes that were too expensive for the pub - just like her.

She headed straight towards the bar, acting as if she hadn’t noticed Smith and his friends. “Ah, Monsieur…” she trailed off as the bartender turned towards her.

“Tom.”

“Mr Tom.” She nodded twice. “I was, ah, wondering…”

“Just Tom,” he interrupted her, flashing a smile that was probably meant to be friendly.

She let her own smile slip a little as if she were intimidated by him. “Tom then. I was wondering if a relative of mine, Sandra Levis, ’ad rented a room here. We were supposed to meet ’ere, but I arrived early.”

As expected, Tom told her that her ‘relative’ hadn’t arrived yet. ‘Sandra’ wouldn’t arrive until the next day, when Hermione would use Polyjuice Potion and explain the misunderstanding about the date of their meeting to Tom. Just in case.

She sighed, though, making every effort to look miserable but composed - as a good pureblood witch should when faced with adversity. She brushed her - currently long, straight and black - hair back with one hand and looked around, frowning slightly when her gaze wandered over the shady-looking wizards in the corner, widening when she spotted a hag talking to a witch, until she looked at Smith himself. As soon as she made eye contact, she took a breath, just deep enough to be noticeable - if one was looking at her chest - and looked away, as if embarrassed to be caught staring.

She saw in the mirror behind Tom that Smith was already raising from his seat, straightening his robes, as soon as she turned towards the bartender. As expected.

Half a minute later, he reached the bar, leaning against to her right while facing her. “Hello, Miss.”

She smiled politely with a hint of surprise. “Ah, hello.” Behind him, Tom was frowning, but she acted as if she hadn’t noticed.

He nodded, almost deep enough to pass as a bow. “Michael Smith, at your service. I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed to be slightly distressed, Miss…?”

“Ah, I’m Marie Levesque,” Hermione said, smiling shyly. “I was supposed to meet with a relative of mine ’ere, but she ’asn’t arrived yet.”

“Ah.” He looked at her robes - not ballroom quality, but clearly expensive, and more daringly cut than most British robes. With her accent, his conclusion was expected. “You’re French.”

“Québecois, actually,” she corrected him, then bit her lower lip. “Émigrée. The war…” She trailed off and took a deep breath.

His eyes seemed glued to her décolleté. Belatedly, he looked into her eyes and said: “I’m sorry. To hear that.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you. I’m moving to Britain since I ’ave family left ’ere. My only family, after those ’alf-breeds assaulted my country. The Levis originally lived in France, but moved to Britain.” Some three hundred years ago, after the edict of Nantes was revoked. Long enough to be established as purebloods and split into several distant cadet branches, far from long enough to be considered an Old Family. Perfect for her to pass as a very distant relative.

“Ah. And she hasn’t arrived yet?”

Hermione nodded. “She said that she might be late by a day - she’s working as a Curse-Breaker in Egypt, you know - but I ’oped…” She sighed again. “This restaurant was very easy to find, but I wish she ’ad chosen something a little more…” She faked a tiny gasp as if she had just realised that she might have insulted a regular patron of the pub.

Smith, though, laughed. “It’s a popular pub, but far from the best Britain can offer to a lady of discerning taste. My friends and I only visit out of tradition - it serves as a rite of passage for students, you know.”

It didn’t, but ‘Marie Levesque’ wouldn’t know that. “Ah, I understand.” She smiled widely at him. “I don’t know anything about Britain, you know, but I’m certain that I’ll learn quickly.”

His own smile grew wider - and, in her opinion, slightly lecherous. “I can help you with that if you want to.”

She forced herself to smile. Two weeks until Greengrass’s Yule Ball. Long enough to get an invitation, short enough to stall Smith’s amorous intentions without driving him away. Perfect.

She gracefully inclined her head. “I would be very grateful, Mr Smith.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 12th, 1998**

Sometimes, Harry Potter was tempted to abuse his fame. For personal reasons, that is - he knew very well, and had been counting on it, actually, that his fame and Sirius’s influence were the main reasons his and Ron’s careers were going so well, despite all the rot in the Ministry. But even though he knew that joining the other scions of Old Families in abusing their position and power would run counter to all his goals, he couldn’t help wishing that he didn’t have to work this Saturday.

Sighing, he put his quill down and leaned back in his chair. Technically, he and Ron didn’t actually have shifts any more but could work whenever they wanted on the Death Eater investigation. But that same status also meant, apparently, that Bones could call them to work as ‘senior Aurors’ on weekend shifts. Which she had done this weekend.

Harry was sure that this was an unofficial punishment for the lodge raid. But since it also affirmed his and Ron’s status, he couldn’t complain about it or he’d look arrogant and petty - and lazy.

He sighed again. Life wasn’t fair. Hermione was in France, enjoying the sights. And the warm weather. She might even use the pool - to test the Warming Charms. And Sirius and Jeanne were touring the country, meeting with Jeanne’s family. Her mother’s family.

“You’ll see her tomorrow,” Ron said. He was smirking, as Harry noted when he looked at his friend. “You’ll survive a day without her.”

“Says the wizard who snuck into Hogwarts to see his girlfriend,” Harry shot back.

“Whom I only see twice a month,” Ron said.

“Officially.” Harry snorted.

Ron grinned. “Seriously, you’ll live. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Luna told me, at the start of the school year.”

That sounded like Luna. Always looking at the bright side. Harry shook his head. “Let’s take a break.”

“Already?”

“It’s Saturday. We don’t have any leads on Crouch. There’s no emergency to deal with.”

“Right.” Ron grinned and stood. “Let’s take a break.”

On the way to the break room, Harry noticed that a few more desks were occupied than he had expected. “What’s Davis doing here?” he asked as he entered the break room. “He’s not on the roster.” And the wizard wasn’t known for doing overtime.

Ron shrugged. “Probably trying to get into Bones’s good graces since Eric Davis’s influence vanished together with his fortune.” He grabbed the teapot and filled two cups. “If he wants to get a new patron, he’ll need to improve his position first. No one will waste their favours on a middling Auror like him. Not when they have members of their own families to sponsor.”

Harry hadn’t heard that Davis had been ruined. Suspected, yes, but not confirmed. “I thought Davis hadn’t revealed the state of his finances.”

Ron shook his head. “He hasn’t, but Percy told me that it’s a done deal just by the number of claims against him that Davis wants the Ministry to check for veracity.” He scoffed. “Of course, Davis will still have more gold than my family, but he won’t be able to live like his former friends.”

Harry frowned. “I wonder how many families will try to empty their vaults of their relatives’ gold now.” That would force many people to use the goblins’ services again.

“They can’t. That would mean they had to admit that they don’t trust their vaults.”

“And with Gringotts still up in arms, there aren’t many alternatives,” Harry said. Muggle banking was not possible for purebloods without the right paper trail for all their valuables.

“Luna said Niffler poaching was rising. The Quibbler will publish an article about the conspiracy behind it.” Ron nodded. “Someone might be preparing to look for buried gold.”

“I bet Dawlish will think that’s the thieves’ master plan,” Harry commented.

“Don’t be too hard on the bloke,” Ron said. “Bathilda said he’s not that bad.”

Harry scoffed. “He suspected Hermione of attacking me with a dark curse.”

“Not his finest hour,” Ron replied. “But he’s hunting thieves who escaped from us.” He frowned. “They were prepared for us - they didn’t try to fight us, just delayed us with too many possible traps. We couldn’t rush them until we had dealt with the obstacles.”

At which point the witch of the group had already rejoined them, and the thieves had disappeared into the vault. “Not our finest hour,” Harry said. Certainly not his. “But next time, that witch won’t escape me. I’ve got her number now.” Harry pressed his lips together.

“It’s not our case,” Ron replied. “And don’t let Hermione hear about your plans to chase another witch. One in skin-tight leather,” he added with a grin.

Harry rolled his eyes. As if he were interested in some thief that way!

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, December 13th, 1998**

Disillusioned and leaning against a tall chimney, Hermione Granger studied the house next to her. It had strong wards - which was to be expected; the house’s owner made a living by installing and maintaining wards. Far stronger than the ones on his neighbours’. But they weren’t as powerful as the wards on Old Families’ manors, of course - Martin Greengrass, a distant relative of the Head of the Greengrass Family, had only been in business for a few decades, and, for all his skill, wards needed far more time to grow as powerful as those on most manors, and he was limited to legal spells as well.

Which meant a good Curse-Breaker, such as herself, would be able to crack them in a single night. A night she was supposedly spending in France with Jeanne and a few of her friends, as far as Harry knew.

She sighed. It felt wrong to deceive him like this, but it couldn’t be helped. Given how things currently were, she could no longer sneak out of the house at night for a quick heist; Harry would notice if she weren’t in his arms any more. And to slip him something to make him sleep through the night was out of the question; she wouldn’t betray him like that.

Hermione bit her lower lip and shook her head. She couldn’t dwell on her relationship - which wasn’t serious at the moment - in the middle of a heist. She had to focus on cracking these wards.

She tapped her mask. “I’m ready to move to the target. Status?”

“Auror patrol just passed through the back alley. Go.” Mr Fletcher answered.

She rose, quickly glanced around to check that the coast was clear, then slid to the edge of the roof. A quick Sticking Charm later, she was hanging upside down in front of the window on the second floor. She had cracked the weak wards protecting this house earlier; now all that was left was breaking in through the window. There were basic alarm charms on the pane and frame - pathetic, really. A flick of her wand and they were disarmed.

She could have simply opened the window with a spell now, but that would leave traces she’d rather avoid, no matter how minuscule the chance that anyone would notice them. Less than half a minute with her lockpicks achieved the same result anyway.

She pushed the window open - slowly, in case it creaked; which it didn’t - then gripped the edge of the roof with one hand, undid the Sticking Charm, and let herself tip over and swing through the window in one smooth movement.

She landed lightly on her feet inside the room - a reading room, as expected. The building’s tenants weren’t at home according to Mr Fletcher, but she quickly checked their bedroom anyway before returning to the reading room.

The wall facing Greengrass’s building was covered with shelves. Hermione approved, of course, and carefully moved the one in the middle aside with a Levitation Charm. A few Cutting Charms a variant of a Cleaning Charm let her roll up a strip of the wallpaper behind it, revealing the bricks forming the wall.

She tapped her mask again. “I’m starting to break through the wall.”

“Alright.”

A swish of her wand hit the wall with a Silencing Charm. Then she took a deep breath and licked her lips - this was the most critical part of the heist. The two buildings shared a wall, or rather, both walls were next to each other with no space between them. In theory, she should be able to make a hole in the wall on her side without triggering Greengrass’s wards. It was illegal to cast spells on your neighbour’s building, after all. But the Curse-Breaker could have done so anyway, claiming a simple mistake if anyone noticed.

She would have done it in his place. But she was a thief - Greengrass was a law-abiding ward specialist; he wouldn’t risk damaging his reputation with such an excuse. Probably.

She bit her lower lip and started to break through the wall with an animated and silenced chisel, vanishing the rocks and dust the tool produced with a few charms - it wouldn’t do to get dust on her suit or on the books.

She did the last half-inch of brick manually to avoid any chance of triggering the wards of the target building. It took her half an hour, but she managed to create a hole in the wall about a foot in diameter. Just large enough to be able to observe the wards covering the wall on the other side. Greengrass’s wall.

She lowered herself down on to her belly and started to analyse the wards. Greengrass was good. The ward scheme was clean, efficient, even elegant. But it wasn’t perfect, and it was a few decades old. Old enough for the scheme to have been become outdated, not old enough to compensate for that through sheer power. It took her an hour to find the weak spot where the various alarm charms overlapped too much, cancelling each other out. Two more hours to adapt the animal-repelling ward to exclude cats. And twenty minutes to break through the wall with her animated chisel.

In other words, pretty much on schedule.

A few Vanishing Spells dealt with the dust and gravel - it would be horrible if those got on her fur - then she changed and slipped through the hole.

On the other side was a guest room. Empty. She looked around, sniffed - no smell of any pets, not even a cat which any good household should have - then changed again. No, it wasn’t a guest room. It was a teenager’s room, but not in use anymore. Decades-old Quidditch Posters - Puddlemere United - covered the walls, though she could see a few blank spots. Greengrass’s child probably took those posters with them when they moved out.

The books left on the shelves were all children’s books, too. She scoffed - you didn’t leave any books behind when you moved - then headed to the door. She wasn’t here to judge the man’s family.

She needed his ward schemes. And they would be in Greengrass’s office or workroom. She opened the door slowly, then peered out. The hallway was dark and empty but for a few potted plants. She wished that Mr Fletcher or herself had been able to case the building, but Greengrass didn’t invite prospective customers into his workroom. Especially not when he was already very busy.

So she had to sneak around until she found where he kept his notes. She quickly listened outside each door on this floor - snoring from the room facing the back alley. That would be the bedroom, then. The other rooms were silent - another children’s room and the bathroom. She changed and padded down the stairs to the first floor, checking for witnesses before changing back.

The first door she tried was his library - a well-stocked one. She licked her lips when she saw the selection on Curse-Breaking. There were a number of works her own library was lacking. Classics. It wouldn’t take long to...

She shook her head. The ward schemes took priority. She would have to return here afterwards. She would return.

But if there were books on Curse-Breaking in the library, then the man’s workroom or office shouldn’t be far. There were two more rooms, back and front. One turned out to be the living room, the other a large kitchen.

Which meant Greengrass’s workroom would be on the ground floor. She changed once more and sneaked down. As with many in his business, Greengrass had the windows on the ground floor spelled so passers-by couldn’t look in. She still checked, just to be sure. Assuming instead of verifying was what got thieves caught.

The ground floor was split in two. One half was the lounge - Greengrass would receive his clients there. And he wouldn’t keep anything of importance there. But the back room…

Hermione smiled as she spotted a large desk and a painting she just knew was hiding a safe. A quick flick sprinkled a pinch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder over it - it was a landscape, but it wouldn’t do for some nosy portrait to visit. She levitated the picture away and there was indeed a safe. It could be a decoy, of course, but she didn’t think so. Greengrass would trust his own work.

She checked the desk’s drawers first, though. The spells securing them weren’t as strong or complicated as the ones on the safe, and it only took her a few minutes to open and sift through all the drawers. No schemes, just a book with notes and sketches. She copied it anyway - it never hurt a thief to know what the opposition was planning.

The safe was a harder nut to crack - especially to crack it in a way that wouldn’t leave any traces. Harder, but still not as hard as the building’s wards. And she had a feel for the man’s style now. An hour later, she had dealt with the spells protecting it. Cracking the safe muggle-style would take too long - or be impossible to hide, so she used a few charms Mr Fletcher had taught her years ago, and gently pulled the door open.

There they were! Inside the extended safe, she could see dozens of scrolls - ward schemes - and boxes. Hermione smiled widely. With those schemes, every building the man had worked on would be far easier to break into!

But she didn’t have enough time to duplicate everything. She had to erase all traces of her presence before leaving - and she was on a tight schedule. Hissing with frustration, she quickly started searching for the notes on Greengrass Manor.

If only the man didn’t have half the Greengrasses in Britain - or more - as clients! It took her over twenty minutes to find the box with the right documents, and another fifteen to circumvent the protections on it. But - she flashed her teeth in triumph - the schemes covered the wards on the manor’s vault! Just what she had been looking for! Although if the man had been working on the manor’s wards as well… she duplicated the schemes and put them back, then stashed the duplicates in her pocket.

Hermione spent a little more time checking if there were any schemes related to Parkinson or Malfoy but found nothing but distant relatives of those Old Families.

Well, she had what she wanted. Now there was only a quick return to the library left, and then she would depart from the premises and repair the holes in the walls.

Another successful heist!

*****

**Hogsmeade, December 15th, 1998**

It was a good thing that Michael Smith was the heir of Eleonora Smith and too lazy to get an actual job. Otherwise, Hermione Granger - or rather, Marie Levesque - would have had trouble meeting with him while Harry was working.

She checked her appearance a last time, more for show and witnesses, before entering Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. She was ten minutes early - Marie wouldn’t have known how long it would take to find and reach the teashop and so would have erred on the side of caution - but Smith was already seated in one of the booths.

He stood as she approached the table. “Miss Levesque.” He nodded at her.

“’Ello, Mr Smith,” she said with a smile and a short bow. Then she looked around. “This is the most famous tea shop in Britain?”

“Indeed.” Smith gestured at the bench, and Hermione took a seat. “It’s the dating spot for couples at Hogwarts.”

Hermione nodded, not letting her smile slip when she remembered her expulsion from Hogwarts. She had chosen not to return to the school after her pardon, anyway. “I see. So this is a student’s shop?” The teashop wasn’t packed, to say the least.

Smith’s smile grew a little forced. “Only on the weekends.”

“Ah.”

The waitress arrived and took their orders. Hermione went with the witch’s recommendations - tea and treacle tart - while Smith ordered coffee and pumpkin pie.

“Where did you go to school?” he asked as soon as the witch had turned away.

“Oh, I was homeschooled by a tutor,” Hermione said, looking past him as if remembering a tragic past, With a sigh, she lied: “But when the war reached my home…” She shook her head. “My tutor went to do his duty and never returned. My mother took over teaching me. She did her best, but times were dire. My father died protecting us…” She rubbed her eyes and looked out of the window. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t have brought up such sad memories,” he said, but a glance showed her that he didn’t look as if he regretted it - quite the contrary.

She took a deep breath. “It’s in the past.”

He nodded, almost solemnly. “The Dark Arts are terrible. We had a recent war here as well, you know. The Dark Lord himself attacked the Ministry and killed a cousin of mine with a dark curse. A horrible fate.”

Not as horrible as his expression when he looked at her, Hermione thought. Mr Fletcher had warned her about the man’s fascination with tales of dark curses. And she was prepared for it. Nodding slowly, she said: “Oh, yes. My father...” She shook her head. “He lost ’is skin...” She shuddered and took a long sip from her cup. “But it’s in the past.”

When she set her cup down, he reached out and patted her hand. “I understand. Although if you wish to talk, I will listen. Talking helps.”

Hermione doubted that talking to Smith would help anyone but him, but hints of her imaginary family’s cruel fate would let her string him along until the Yule Ball at Greengrass Manor. And without flirting with him too much - or worse; she was a thief, not a whore. “I’m not sure if I’m ready yet…” She took a deep breath - he was staring at her slightly padded chest rising under her robes. “I wanted to forget my past. Start a new life in a country not ravaged by war and the Dark Arts…”

“Britain is perfect for that,” he said as his eyes snapped back up to meet hers.

She briefly hesitated, then decided that too much subtlety would be wasted on him. “I remember debuting in our home, at the summer ball, with all my friends and family. But everyone is gone.” She rubbed her eyes again and sniffled. “What good is saving the family fortune if I have no family left?”

He patted her hand, a little clumsily. “Ah… we have balls here, too, you know?”

“Really?” She perked up, slightly.

He nodded. “Friends of my family are having a Yule Ball…”

Hook, line and sinker. This time, Hermione didn’t have to fake her smile.

*****


	52. Dangerous Deceptions

**London, City of Westminster, December 15th, 1998**

_... and you are hereby invited to our Christmas party..._

Dr Sean Rodney sighed and put the letter - the invitation - down. An invitation to a party, in the middle of the holidays, and not even two weeks beforehand? Of course he already had plans! As anyone with breeding would have known. But what the Smiths lacked in breeding, they made up in money, and Mrs Smith was only halfway through her ‘makeover’. So he would have to politely decline with a personal letter, otherwise he’d lose the lucrative liposuction and lifting procedures to a competitor. What a bother!

He briefly toyed with the idea of not answering. He didn’t need the money. His own wife wasn’t ‘high-maintenance’, as a Yankee colleague had put it at a convention two years ago, and his children were finishing their studies on schedule. And the Smiths certainly weren’t part of his core group of clients - they were neither prominent nor old money, and certainly didn’t need the complete discretion his clinic offered. Not that such discretion would benefit Mrs Smith - unlike with liftings, no one would believe that gaining two cup sizes was the result of a new organic anti-aging skin ointment.

On the other hand, not answering their invitation would be rude, and Sean wasn’t rude. His parents had raised him better than that. In any case, the Smiths couldn’t help it - they were nouveau riche. And perhaps they’d take the hint and would send the next invitation, probably for a summer party after Mrs Smith’s next two procedures, a little earlier.

Not that Sean would attend their parties in any case.

He put the matter out of his mind and skimmed the reports for Finch-Fletchley and Easton. Nothing unusual there ... recovery was progressing on schedule - or ahead of schedule in Finch-Fletchley’s case. Must have very good genes, that woman - scarring was less than he had expected as well. Well, Sean wasn’t the best-paid plastic surgeon in Britain for nothing.

His intercom chimed. He pushed the talk button. “Yes, Anna?”

“Mr Brown has arrived for his appointment, Doctor.”

Mr Brown? Sean frowned. He didn’t remember that name. He checked his day planner - yes, there was the entry in Anna’s neat handwriting. He didn’t remember making the appointment, but his secretary wouldn’t mix up dates. It was a good thing the holidays were starting soon - he was obviously overworked if he was forgetting about appointments and would need the break from work.

“Send him in, please,” he told her.

Long experience with prominent but difficult clients allowed him to refrain from frowning when he saw Mr Brown. The man was wearing an outdated and frankly awful suit, although one that fit him as only a hand-tailored suit would. That meant Mr Brown was eccentric and rich - and probably unwilling to listen to professionals since no tailor worth paying would have made such a suit without trying to change the client’s order into something more fashionable and classy.

In other words, another Mrs Smith.

“Good afternoon, Mr Brown. Please have a seat.”

The man nodded at him in return as he took his seat.

Arrogant too, then. Sean kept his reaction to himself, of course, but he wouldn’t waste time making pleasant conversation with the man - he hadn’t heard of Brown until today, so the man had to be a nobody. “How can I help you?”

“I need to change my face.”

That was a surprise - the man was handsome enough, in Sean’s professional opinion, and since he had gone past Anna, he had to be rich enough that his looks wouldn’t matter anyway. “Oh?” Sean replied in a neutral voice. Maybe he had issues with his face or body?

“I want to look like this man.” Brown pulled out a picture and flicked it over to him. It came to rest right in front of Sean. The man had to be a professional gambler or a dealer - or very lucky.

Sean glanced at the picture, though inwardly, he was tensing up. This wasn’t the kind of procedure his clients asked for. He catered to the rich and well-bred, not to the kind of people who wanted to look like someone else - the mentally ill or the criminal. How had Anna not spotted him? She usually was very good at screening.

But now was not the time to waste on wondering about that. Sean didn’t want to anger either a criminal or someone who was mentally ill by flat-out refusing them. That could result in an altercation. “You’re surely aware that such a procedure will only rarely result in a duplicated face, and that restoring your original face afterwards would be nigh-impossible, I trust?” That should ensure that any criminal wanting to scam a family would have second thoughts.

“That is not a concern,” Brown said with a rather cold grin. “I just need to look like this man. Especially in the nose area.”

That didn’t make any sense. Or, to be precise, it only made sense if Brown was a criminal - if he were a secret agent, he wouldn’t be here by himself. Sean sighed and put on his most convincing sad smile. He didn’t need a violent criminal attacking him in his own office. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you,” he lied. “From what I can tell, the facial bone structures of this man and your own are too different to achieve what you want.”

Brown scoffed. “You’re the best plastic surgeon in Britain.”

Of course he was! “But I’m no miracle worker. I cannot turn you into a duplicate of this person. This is not like the movies.” God help him should the man ask whether he could transplant a face!

“I see.” Brown’s smile turned rather nasty, in Sean’s opinion. The man reached into his jacket, and Sean froze. Was this criminal armed? When he saw that the man was holding a thin stick, he relaxed. “Fortunately,” Brown went on as he waved the stick around, “I can work miracles. Imperio!”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 15th, 1998**

Entering his room after another boring day at work, Harry Potter found his bed occupied. Unfortunately, not by Hermione taking a nap while waiting for him, a stack of books next to her, but by her fat monster of a cat. Crookshanks covered most of his pillow, too, and Harry knew that he’d find enough orange hair on the linen to fill the pillow.

Nothing a quick cleaning charm couldn’t take care of, but it was the principle of the thing - this was his bed. His pillow. Not Crookshanks’s. Harry scoffed and stood next to the bed, glaring at the cat. “Get off, Crookshanks!” he spat. “You’ve got your own bed!”

The cat raised his head and slowly turned to look at him through half-lidded eyes.

“I mean it. Get off!”

The cat made a sound that was remarkably close to scoffing and laid his head down on his forepaws again. A second later, he was snoring.

The damn beast had to be faking it, Harry was sure. And he was fed up. “Last warning, Crookshanks!” He twirled his wand between his fingers. A quick Levitation Charm would dump the animal outside his room without any risk of his skin getting scratched.

He was startled by a gasp from behind. “Are you planning to hex my Crookshanks?”

He whirled around and winced. Hermione was staring at him as if she had caught him casting the Torture Curse! “Of course not!” he protested. “I was merely about to levitate him off the bed.” His bed, and increasingly hers, too.

She sniffed as she entered the room. “Really! He’s just lonely and confused. He’s used to sleeping on my bed, and since I’m sleeping in your bed so often, it probably smells like me.” She petted the ugly cat’s head. “Yes, Crookshanks, you’re the best and most adorable cat a witch could have!”

He was the laziest cat Harry knew, that was certain. “He’s also the hairiest cat,” Harry said. “Look at the pillow!”

“Nothing a simple cleaning charm won’t deal with,” she replied with another sniff. “Besides, he can’t help it - he didn’t choose his fur!” With that, she picked the cat up and hugged him. Harry had the distinct impression that the cat was sneering at him behind Hermione’s back.

“At least he’s not as bushy as your stray,” he muttered as he cleaned an excess of orange hairs from the pillow. Now that cat had had bushy fur.

“What did you say?” Hermione glared at him.

“Nothing,” he quickly replied. “But I don’t think he’s lonely. I think he’s just jealous.”

“Oh!” She cooed at her pet. “Don’t be jealous, Crookshanks! Harry’s no cat; he could never replace you!”

Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. Before he could make up his mind, the fat monster actually started to purr. Harry clenched his teeth. That stupid, spoiled cat…

A pecking noise interrupted his thoughts. Hedwig sat on the windowsill. She must have finished her evening hunt. Harry stood and went to open the window to let her in. Ah, yes - she had finished her hunt indeed: There was a dead rat next to her claws.

Hedwig barked at him, then grabbed the rat and flew to her perch to feed. But even as Harry was closing the window, his owl changed course and landed on his headboard. “Hedwig!”

The owl ignored him and started to eat the rat.

Hermione turned to frown at him. “Can’t you teach your bird not to eat on our bed? I don’t want Crookshanks to pick up any bad habits.”

He stared at her.

“It’s also unsanitary,” Hermione went on.

“Unsanitary? She’s not moulting on the pillow!” Harry shook his head.

“But she’s eating a rat. Rats aren’t the most sanitary prey.” Hermione sniffed.

Harry sighed. A spoiled cat, a jealous owl and Hermione. At least Mr Biggles wasn’t adding his comments. But that was only because the snake was still sleeping in his habitat after Harry had fed him a mouse that morning. The little one had been quite vocal about his satisfaction that Harry had ‘finally followed his advice’ to ‘mate with the female’.

“Hedwig, no eating on the bed,” he said.

Hedwig swallowed the last part of the rat, then barked. It didn’t sound like she agreed with the order.

“You really need to train your pet better,” Hermione said, shaking her head.

Harry blinked. “She’s not doing anything Crookshanks doesn’t do as well!”

“He’s not eating rats on the bed,” she shot back. “And he’s a cat, not a bird.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Crookshanks would be able to catch a rat in the first place. The cat certainly acted as if he’d starve if Harry didn’t feed him each morning. He shook his head and addressed his own pet. “Go to your perch, Hedwig.”

The owl barked again. Hermione growled something, and Hedwig turned her head. For a moment, it looked like a staring contest. Then Hedwig launched herself into the air and flew to her perch - turning her back on the bed.

“Smart owl,” Hermione said, with a rather toothy grin.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you just threaten my pet?”

She huffed in response. “Certainly not! But as long as I’m sleeping in this bed, there won’t be any birds in it.” She blinked. “You know what I mean!”

Harry chuckled and sat down next to her. “Yes, I know.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and ignored the orange furball in her lap. “So, how was your day?”

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “The usual.”

He wondered what she didn’t want to talk about, but decided against pushing her. There was something else he needed to talk about before their pets derailed their conversation. “Did you hear about the Yule Ball at Greengrass Manor?” He could feel her tense up.

“Yes, I did.”

“Apparently, Greengrass wants us to guard the ball, but doesn’t want too many Aurors around - it would kill the mood or something. So a number of us will be attending as guests.” Only Aurors ‘of sufficient social standing’, of course, which limited the selection.

“Like you,” Hermione said.

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “Well, they didn’t actually order us to take another Auror as a date, but…”

She interrupted him. “I won’t attend a ball held by Greengrass! Never!” she snarled. “I’ll go to France instead!”

He nodded. “I understand.” And he was relieved - he wouldn’t have to worry about her if Crouch attacked.

She nodded curtly but didn’t comment further.

They remained on the bed, leaning into each other, until it was dinner time, Crookshanks’s purring the only sound.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998**

Hermione Granger frowned as she eyed the platform on the floor. It was the same as the one they had used on the Rosier heist, a proven design, sort of, but… “Hm.”

“Something wrong?” Sirius asked.

“I think we need a sturdier model,” she said. “Just in case.”

“The plan’s to jump on brooms as soon as the Aurors arrive,” Sirius said.

“Yes. But a more solid platform won’t hurt. You never know how they’ll react.”

“Harry gets protective,” he said, nodding.

“Yes.” And he wasn’t the only one. Sirius had no qualms about killing if any one of his extended family was in danger, as Hermione knew first-hand. “He’s opposed to using lethal spells against us, but if he thinks we’re attacking his, our home...” She shrugged. It wasn’t his case, but that wouldn’t matter - even if he were at work, the Aurors would want him and Ron present to deal with the wards anyway.

“Good idea,” Sirius said, wincing. “Perhaps reinforced steel?”

“It can’t be too heavy, or we’ll have trouble levitating it,” she replied.

“Fletcher can’t manage a little steel plate?” Sirius sounded amused.

He could, in her opinion, but he might disagree. She frowned at Sirius. “Can’t you two get along?”

“It’s a tradition now.” His smile was a little too wide, which meant he wasn’t telling the entire truth, but she didn’t push.

Instead, she sighed. Mr Fletcher wasn’t any more willing to drop the silly feud either.

“Why isn’t he here, anyway?” Sirius asked, looking around.

“He’s visiting the Smiths,” Hermione answered. “He hopes to find out if they suspect ‘Mademoiselle Levesque’ is a fake.”

“Is that likely?” He frowned, growing serious at once.

“No. But it doesn’t hurt to check. And he might find out other useful information. I’d prefer not to be blindsided by a jealous witch at the Yule Ball.”

He chuckled. “From what I’ve seen and heard, Smith’s heir isn’t exactly the kind of wizard after whom witches pine. Other than those after his gold, but they’re not the kind to be invited to the ball.”

“Draco Malfoy isn’t a heartbreaker either, but Parkinson was after him from our first year at Hogwarts,” Hermione pointed out. “And she’s not poor.”

“She’s a Slytherin - obviously, she’s got no taste.” Sirius shrugged. “Although I’m sure that the greedy snakes will swarm Harry at the ball.”

He was looking at her with a curious expression. She snorted. “I’m not going to make a scene. I’m actually glad that he’s attending the ball - I don’t have to make up another lie to explain my absence.” Although any witch trying to seduce Harry would regret it!

“Like ‘I’m going to France; I need to stock the library in our holiday home’?” He grinned at her.

She sniffed. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“He’ll expect books there during his next visit.”

“Jeanne’s handling that.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I gave her a list,” she admitted. A long list, of course. She sighed. “I don’t like lying to him, though.”

“You won’t have to for that much longer,” he replied. “Greengrass, Parkinson and Malfoy. Afterwards, it won’t be a secret any more, but part of your past - and a wizard shouldn’t pry into his witch’s past.”

She pressed her lips together. That sounded as if Sirius assumed that she’d stop doing heists once she had achieved her revenge. And that was a clear indication that he was planning to retire from thieving himself, once his and Jeanne’s child was born.

She didn’t know how to feel about that. Not at all. But this wasn’t the time to think, or even talk, about it.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 16th, 1998**

Bathilda was frowning when she sat down at their table in the break room, Harry Potter noticed. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“We’ve got a lead on some of the loot sold by the thieves we arrested two weeks ago. Apparently, they had a fence in Paris. But the French Gendarmes are being uncooperative.” She scowled, which was a very rare expression for her. “John says the fence is probably related to some noble at the Duc’s Court, and so the Gendarmes won’t touch him. Not for foreign crimes, at least.”

“They refuse to arrest and question him?” Ron asked.

“Not directly. They’ve been asking for more evidence, more information, more forms…” Bathilda pressed her lips together.

“Ah, typical!” Harry said. “Bury them in paperwork until they give up.” He glanced at Nott.

The git sneered at him. “Don’t try to blame your inability to correctly fill out a form on me.”

“Other Aurors correct or ignore spelling mistakes,” Harry retorted.

Nott scoffed. “Other Aurors don’t risk getting complaints about manipulating your order forms if they do that.”

As if Harry would do that! He glared at Nott, then glanced at Bathilda. Usually, she’d tell them to stop at this point.

She sighed. “And I haven’t received any answer yet from the Prussians regarding a theft committed twenty years ago in Berlin. A theft committed by remarkably skilled thieves.”

“Idiots,” Ron said, shaking his head. “The only ones profiting from such stupidity are the criminals.”

“Well, are we doing the same?” Harry asked, looking at Nott.

“No, we aren’t,” the git answered. “At least not to my knowledge. We’re working according to the law. But we’re checking any demands from foreign Ministries carefully - we wouldn’t want to hassle our citizens for petty or political reasons. You can’t trust foreigners not to abuse the system.”

“In other words: we’re doing it,” Harry said.

“If we can’t trust foreigners,” Bathilda spoke up before Nott could say anything in response to Harry’s comment, “why are we hiring foreigners to free more Hit-Wizards from guard duties?”

Harry snorted. “Because the Old Families are more afraid of our own Death Eaters and thieves than foreigners.”

Nott scoffed. “If the choice is between letting those dangerous criminals commit more heinous crimes because we don’t have the numbers to stop and arrest them, or risk some trouble with foreign hired wands, then the decision is clear.”

Harry pressed his lips together. Nott wasn’t entirely wrong, but that didn’t mean that Harry had to admit it.

Fortunately, Ron picked up the slack. “We wouldn’t need foreign help if the Old Families hadn’t crippled the Ministry by protecting corrupt and inept Aurors and refusing to hire the best wands because they weren’t purebloods.”

“And the Death Eater traitors among the Old Families didn’t help either,” Harry added.

“Neither did letting the Death Eaters and thieves escape - multiple times,” Nott said, sneering at them.

“Stop it, you dolts!” Bathilda suddenly yelled.

Harry smiled. The witch was back to normal.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998**

“...and Smith doesn’t suspect anything as far as I could tell. His mother even praised him - although in a backhanded way - for ‘finding a witch who hadn’t heard of his escapades, yet’.” Mr Fletcher grinned briefly. “So you’ve perfectly fooled Smith. I almost expected them to ask me if I’d give you a few lessons, to ensure that you won’t embarrass them, but apparently, Smith convinced his mother that you don’t need them.”

Hermione Granger huffed. Of course, she didn’t need lessons in manners! She had learned from the best!

“Everything ready here?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I’ve been testing platforms made of different material, but wood seems the best for our purpose.” The effects of Blasting Curses on aluminium hadn’t been pretty. “If I had some kevlar to study…” She shrugged. Something to look into once she had the time to spend on such a project. “If all goes according to plan we’ll be gone before they can reach us.”

He frowned at her. “We have to let them spot us, at least, to sell the deception. That means we’ll be in range of their spells.”

“On our brooms, disillusioned and with Shield Charms,” she replied. “Sirius will warn us. And we’ve got Firebolts.”

He scoffed. Obviously, he was more worried than she was. But they had gone over this before - this was the safest and most plausible way to fool the Aurors. It fit their modus operandi. It wasn’t entirely safe, but the risks were acceptable.

She grabbed her mask. “Let’s go!”

They took one of the tunnels to leave the house, coming out in a side alley five hundred yards away. Already disillusioned. A flick of Hermione’s wand conjured the platform, and a swish turned it invisible. She couldn’t see Mr Fletcher, but she saw the marker float above his position, moving as he stepped on to the platform, then dipping as he sat down.

She joined him, kneeling down on the platform and gripping the low railing on its side. Actually, it was more like a handle. But it helped steady her when the platform rose into the air as Mr Fletcher cast a Levitation Charm.

A few minutes later, they were floating above Grimmauld Place, just above the wardline. And low enough to be in range of Human-presence-revealing Spells - like their own. She tapped her mask. “We’re in position.”

“Alright, I’ll throw the cat out!” Sirius replied - far too cheerfully.

“Let the cat out!” she hissed.

“Of course - that’s what I meant!”

She ground her teeth. If the stupid dog hurt her Crookshanks…

A few minutes later, she saw the back door open and her cat appear. As befitted a smart cat, he stepped out cautiously and slowly, looking around and sniffing the air. As usual on a heist, her own scent was suppressed by a potion, but for this occasion, she had brought something with her - the distilled essence of the fur the stupid house cat in France had lost before fleeing her territory. She pulled out the small vial and opened it, emptying the liquid on to the platform.

“Bait’s ready,” she whispered. “I’m calling Harry.” It would take a little while for the scent to reach Crookshanks.

“Alright,” Sirius said.

Mr Fletcher grunted next to her but didn’t say anything.

She pulled out the enchanted mirror, activated the enchantment Jeanne had added, then called Harry.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 16th, 1998**

Harry Potter frowned when he felt the enchanted mirror vibrate in his pocket. Why would Hermione call him during work? She was in France, getting more books. His eyes widened. Had something happened?

“Yes?” he snapped as soon as the mirror started to clear.

“Harry?”

He saw Hermione’s face in the mirror. She didn’t look afraid or nervous. And that was… yes, it was her room in their holiday home. “Yes, it’s me.” He grinned. “Did you expect someone else?” he added with a chuckle.

She sniffed but kept smiling. “Funny. Do you have a few minutes?”

He looked up. Ron was grinning at him. Harry sighed. His friend wouldn’t let him forget this, not after Harry’s comments about Ron and Luna’s chats. He suppressed a sigh and smiled at Hermione. “Yes, I do.”

She beamed at him, then brushed a stray lock back from her face. “Good. I was shopping for books, and I was thinking that we might need some more furniture as well.” She bit her lower lip, and he thought that he caught a hint of a blush on her face. “In particular, a bed.”

“Oh.” He felt his cheeks grow a little warm and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said as nonchalantly as he managed, “I think we might need a bigger bed.”

She nodded. “Yes. I saw a large one, but I’m not certain if you’d like it. It’s a little old-fashioned.”

“Old-fashioned?” He briefly glared at Ron, who seemed to have trouble not laughing out loud.

“It’s a canopy bed.”

Harry had spent seven years sleeping in such a bed at Hogwarts. “That’s fine.” It would also provide them with some privacy. And maybe he could cast a spell on the drapes to keep animals out.

“Great. There are a few possible patterns for the drapes and the canopy, too. And we could enchant the canopy to show the sky.”

He smiled. Like the Great Hall in Hogwarts. “So, it’d be like sleeping under the stars?”

She started to nod when the door to their office was pushed open. “Harry! Ron!”

Harry had his wand out and pointed at the intruder before he realised it was Bathilda. She gasped, then recovered. “Mr Black called us - there’s someone trying to break into your home!”

She barely managed to get out of the way as Harry and Ron, wands still drawn, stormed out of the office.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998**

Harry Potter almost collided with Sirius when he charged out of the fireplace in Grimmauld Place’s entrance hall. “What happened?” he yelled, glancing around with his wand in hand as his godfather took a step back. Behind him, Ron arrived through the Floo Network.

“I noticed Crookshanks was behaving weirdly - he was standing in the garden, looking straight up and hissing,” Sirius said. “There was nothing in the air, but when I went to the attic window and cast a Human-presence-revealing spell, two markers appeared floating in the air. Right above the middle of the garden in the back.”

Two? Harry clenched his teeth. That would be the thieves… or Crouch had found an accomplice. “Are they attacking the wards?”

“I don’t think so. I think they’re just analysing them so far,” Sirius said. “I didn’t notice anything when I checked.”

“They’re good,” Ron said. “You might have missed them. If they are attacking the wards already, we’ve got them. The backlash will get them if they try to flee.”

Harry nodded and tapped his Auror badge. “Potter here. We’ve got two disillusioned intruders floating above the building’s wardline. Don’t get too close.” If they spotted the Aurors, they’d flee.

“Are they Death Eaters or the thieves?”

That was Bathilda. Harry pressed his lips together for a moment. If he claimed that it was probably Crouch, he and Ron would be in charge… He shook his head. “We don’t know. Crouch doesn’t have any accomplices left, as far as we’re aware.”

“Could be a new recruit or the victim of an Imperius Curse,” Ron added. “They keep them in the air while Crouch works on the wards.”

“Dawlish here. Don’t use lethal curses until we know it’s Crouch and not the thieves. We’re surrounding the area to cut them off and will start casting Anti-Apparition Jinxes. Potter, Weasley, inform us when you’re ready!”

Harry clenched his teeth again. These orders made sense, but they came from Dawlish. He didn’t like the other Auror taking over. But this wasn’t the time to make an issue out of it. “Copy,” he snapped.

Ron snorted with a grim expression. “Charge them on brooms?”

Harry nodded. That was the best option to flush the thieves out - and if it was Crouch, then they’d have the advantage in the air; Crouch had never been a great flyer according to their records.

“Alright!” Sirius said.

Harry glanced at him. Technically, his godfather was a civilian. But it was his home. And he was better in a fight and had more experience than the vast majority of the Corps. “Alright.” He walked to the door and pulled out his Firebolt, unshrinking it with the ease of long practice, then cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself. When both Ron and Sirius had joined him, disillusioned and with their own Firebolts ready, he tapped his badge. “Potter here. We’re ready.”

“Dawlish here. Everyone, go!”

Harry pulled the door open and jumped on his broom. A moment later, he was shooting into the air, swinging around to circle the house. Behind him, Ron’s marker followed, banking in the other direction. Sirius’s marker shot straight up. A three-way pincer movement. Textbook style.

The other Aurors would be taking to the air as well, disillusioned to keep the muggles from noticing. But they wouldn’t be able to provide much help - not with everyone invisible and no way to tell one flying marker from another.

It was up to Harry, Ron and Sirius.

He pulled up as he passed the corner, to come at the thieves from behind and above. There! Two markers showed up. His wand flicked, and he sent a Stunner towards the spot below the left marker. The red spell splashed against a shield.

“Aurors!” he heard a female voice yell. A moment later, the thieves’ markers split.

He didn’t hesitate and dove to the left, chasing the closest marker.

“Split up!”

Harry grinned - that was the witch. She wouldn’t escape him again! He was on a Firebolt, and he had been Britain’s youngest Seeker in a hundred years! He tapped his badge. “Potter, chasing the witch north.”

His next Stunner missed, but he was still diving at her and rapidly closing. The marker suddenly jerked to the left - a tighter turn than Harry had expected. But he easily matched it and cast another Stunner.

Once more, the thief’s Shield Charm was hit. Probably shattered - the thief reacted as if it were, starting to frantically evade, the floating marker bobbing up and down as it weaved back and forth.

His next Stunner missed again as the thief suddenly shot down towards the garden of No 4 Grimmauld Place. Harry spotted a few more markers appearing - Aurors. He cursed under his breath as he dived after her; they were already at the perimeter. The witch would quickly pass the area covered by the Anti-Apparition Jinxes.

There was no choice. He stashed his wand and drew the Elder Wand, then flicked it rapidly, covering the area ahead of his prey with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes.

That slowed him down, as did the need to weave through Mrs Forsyth’s trees. But he was on a Firebolt - the best broom in the world. He cleared the trees and cast another series of jinxes as he accelerated again.

The thief was further ahead than he had expected - and he was closing in more slowly than he should, too. Unless they were on a Firebolt as well, of course! He clenched his teeth - the thieves had stolen enough gold to easily afford one.

The witch shot above the next roof, close enough that he almost expected to see tiles break. She was good - but Harry was better. Yet another series of jinxes, followed by a pair of Stunners. One missed, the other didn’t - and the thief’s Shield Charm shattered.

Harry grinned. He had her now - his next spell would end the chase.

*****

Hermione Granger pulled hard to the left and down when she felt her shield shatter. She almost ploughed into the roof of a garden shed, but two Stunners missed her - one by what felt like inches. Clenching her teeth, she took a hard right, dropping lower, using the shed as cover. That gained her a second out of her pursuer’s line of fire. She used it to recast her Shield Charm and urged her broom on. She just needed to gain a little more distance and she’d have outrun the Anti-Apparition Jinxes…

She flew even closer to the ground, skimming the pavement, and reached the corner of the side alley she was in before another Stunner flew at her. She banked left again - she had to keep flying away from Grimmauld Place - and tried to apparate.

It didn’t work. That was the third time! Had the Aurors covered half of London with Anti-Apparition Jinxes? That was impossible! Maybe if she flew straight up… She glanced over her shoulder as she accelerated above the road leading to the bus station, and gasped. Her pursuer - it had to be Harry, no one else flew as well and as fast - was diving at her from above!

She pulled up and rolled, almost losing control of her broom when another Stunner splashed against her shield and forced her off-course. She managed to recover and pull up in the last moment before she slammed into a parked car.

Hermione kept rolling as she banked right, narrowingly missing a wrought-iron fence and a lamp post, diving into another side alley for a second. Now she had to be out of range! She focused - and cursed some more. Apparition was still blocked!

And there came Harry again, closer than before - she spotted the marker behind her. And red flashes as he cast Stunners at her. Her shield was gone, but she was twisting her broom into desperate rolls, and the spells missed her again. She pulled up, then dived down - any straight course would let him conjure obstacles in her path.

There was the corner. She grit her teeth as she forced her broom to take a sharp turn to the left - sharper than wise at her speed - and pulled up, heading straight for a taller building. A glance behind her showed that Harry’s marker was taking the same turn - and tighter than she had. This wouldn’t work either - he was just too good on his broom.

She jinked left and right, then shot down to the ground. Muggles were walking around there, unaware - Harry wouldn’t be able to cast at her here. But neither would she be able to lose him.

She was panting, sweat running down her neck as she bent low over the shaft of her broom and tried to get a little more speed out of it. Another attempt to apparate failed. And she was coming up to a crossing - with several cars and a few pedestrians.

She recast her Shield Charm again, then veered right. She had to lose Harry! She spotted a park ahead. Maybe she could lose him in the trees there… No, he’d follow her in. And he was the better flyer. And a conjured wall between the trees would be fatal.

Short of the park’s entrance, she veered off again. She had one surprise left. There was a side alley. Very narrow. It was risky - foolhardy even. But what choice did she have?

She rolled and jinked, more spells missing her. As soon as she rose above street level, to a height where muggles wouldn’t notice anything amiss, Harry’s Stunners came at her. But low on the ground, she would hit someone sooner or later.

She urged her broom forward, spending a precious moment to calculate the angles. Nudging her broom a little to the right, she flicked her wand. A sticky line shot out of her wand, the Chameleon-Tongue Spell wrapping itself around the lamp post on the corner. She felt as if her arm was wrenched out of its socket as she was pulled to the side, but managed to hold on as she whirled around the lamp post, straight towards the side alley.

She ended the spell at the right moment, flying straight on into the alley. A glance over her shoulder - yes, Harry had overshot! Grinning ferally, she pulled the broom’s shaft up, bleeding speed as quickly as possible. As soon as she wasn’t flying at a few dozen miles per hour any more, she pulled out a small package and dropped it.

In an instant, darkness covered the alley. She came to a stop, sliding a few yards over the pavement, out of the darkness, holding on to the broom. There was a manhole. Perfect. She levitated the cover up and dropped another package of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

*****

Harry Potter cursed his overconfidence as he pulled up. He had been steadily gaining on the cursed thief until she pulled that trick. But he had his own bag of tricks. He completed his Immelmann turn, but veered off to the left, flying parallel to the side alley into which the thief had disappeared and gaining altitude until he could see into it from above. One end was covered in darkness, but there, at the other end… darkness filled the other half of the alley right when he caught a glimpse of a floating marker - and a manhole cover dropping to the ground. A Blasting Curse would cave in the pavement, burying her alive. Probably. Or an Acid Cloud… No. Non-lethal spells. He was an Auror, and she was a thief, not a Death Eater.

He gritted his teeth and tapped his badge as he dived. “Potter here. I’ve cornered the thief in a side alley south of the park. She’s covered it in darkness and is fleeing into the sewers. I’m in pursuit.”

He held his breath as he entered the darkness. If he had misjudged the height… he hadn’t. He levelled out and came to a stop without crashing into the pavement, and when he jumped off his broom, he only dropped a foot. Just like in Quidditch. Now, the manhole had to be…

Something slammed into his shield, and he had to take a step back to keep his balance. What the… It charged him again, barking. A dog? Or several? His eyes widened. Of course - conjured or transfigured dogs would be able to find him by scent in the darkness! Clever - but not clever enough.

He cast a Bubble-Head Charm and dropped a small vial. A moment later, the dogs’ barking turned into whining and wheezing as the stench overwhelmed their sensitive noses. But he still had to find the manhole and he couldn’t risk just falling into it - or stepping into a trap.

Half a dozen conjured snakes found the manhole easily, but it still took him a minute to reach it, and a few more seconds to check for spells.

He was clenching his teeth as he dropped down the hole - he had lost too much time. Once again, the thief had escaped him!

*****

**London, December 16th, 1998**

Hermione Granger was suffering. Terribly. Her delicate nose was filled with a biting, acidic stench, her sharp eyes had welled up with tears, and she could barely breathe as she sped through the streets of London as fast as her paws could carry her.

She had to get away, get out of that stupidly large area the Aurors had covered with Anti-Apparition Jinxes, and apparate to France. And she had to get rid of whatever unholy concoction Harry had dispersed in that alley. Her fur was reeking, and she couldn’t clean herself in this form!

A woman shrieked, surprised, as Hermione dodged around her legs, and a child giggled as the cat sped past. There was a crossing - but the traffic light was red. At least she managed to deduce that by the fact that muggles were waiting at the curb. She was tempted to dash across anyway - she was a quick cat, and nimble too! - but the cars were going very fast…

Crouching down, she waited, one paw rubbing her nose in a determined but futile attempt to clear it of the stench.

“Oh, the poor cat! Mum, someone must have spilt chemicals on her!”

She froze. The last thing she needed was some muggle trying to ‘help’ her.

“There, there, honey…”

The teenage girl was approaching her. Hermione hissed, and the girl jerked back.

“I don’t want to hurt you, I want to help you!”

She didn’t need the girl’s help! Hermione glanced at the light. Her eyes weren’t well-suited that to discerning the colours, but she could see the positions easily. Still red… but the cars were slowing down and coming to a stop!

She sprinted across the crossing before the girl could approach her again, then turned left - still moving away from her home and from the Anti-Apparition Jinxes that covered the entire area - before disappearing into a side alley. No witnesses around. She changed back, holding her breath, and tried to focus on the spot near the cliffs of Dover that she knew so well.

She almost cried with relief when she felt the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a rubber pipe. Finally! Shuddering, she cast half a dozen Cleaning Charms on herself - and a Bubble-Head Charm for good measure. That would do until she could take a bath and scrub her skin clean of the last remnants of this vile mixture.

An Apparition later, she was in France, on her way to their holiday home, where Jeanne was waiting. And a luxurious bath!

*****

**London, December 16th, 1998**

“What a stench!”

“This is bad!”

“Unbearable!”

“I want to go home!”

“I want to bite something!”

Another failure! Harry Potter ignored the complaints from the snakes he had conjured earlier and sighed, then tapped his Auror badge. “Potter here. The thief I was chasing escaped underground.”

“Weasley here. The other thief escaped by flying out of the Anti-Apparition Jinxes’ range.”

“Dawlish here. Potter, secure the area, wait until Johnson and Brown relieve you, then head to the scene of the crime.”

That meant Grimmauld Place. Harry shook his head as the darkness covering the side alley in which he was standing started to fade. He cast a Cleaning Charm on himself, in case he had spilt some of Moody’s Special Animal Repellent on himself, then looked around. The dogs still hadn’t recovered. He vanished his snakes, then stunned and bound the dogs. He would have had the thief, had he used a dark curse instead of Stunners. No. Too many bystanders. And he wanted to arrest, not kill the witch. He muttered a curse and stashed the Elder Wand. He would have had the slippery witch if he had used more conjured obstacles. Like nets or walls. But they were in the middle of Muggle London…

“There you are, Potter!”

Harry looked up and saw two markers descending on the alley. He flicked his wand and covered the area with Muggle-Repelling Charms, then dispelled his Disillusionment Charm.

“It’s safe now.”

“Alright… Merlin’s arse! What is this stench?” Johnson spat in between gagging.

“Ah, that’s better.” Her partner must have cast a Bubble-Head Charm, but sounded a little affected as well.

And, as Harry noticed when the two Aurors faded into view, both looked a little green in the face. “A potion Moody uses to deal with animals.”

“Animals? That would incapacitate most thugs I know!” Johnson retorted.

Harry blinked. “That wouldn’t work. It’s not effective against Bubble-Head Charms,” he said. Which should be obvious to them.

Both Aurors were staring at him, then shook their heads. As if Bubble-Head Charms weren’t sixth-year spells.

“What about the dogs?”

“Conjured or Transfigured, I think,” Harry said. “The thief set them on me to stall me.”

“Did it work?”

“No. What kept me from catching her was the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder she used in the alley,” Harry explained. “That delayed me long enough for her to make her escape.”

Brown frowned. “If she didn’t apparate, then she wanted to lead you here. This is probably a trap.”

“She couldn’t apparate,” Harry explained. “I kept covering the area around us with jinxes.” And he doubted that the thief had planned to lead him into this alley anyway - he had come far too close to catching her.

The two Aurors exchanged a glance, then Johnson spoke up: “You kept casting Anti-Apparition Jinxes? While chasing her?” She muttered another curse.

“I almost had her, too,” Harry said. “I shattered her Shield Charm twice, but she managed to recast it before I could hit her again.”

“Good luck telling Dawlish that,” Brown said.

Harry shrugged as he mounted his broom. He could always offer to let the prick watch his memories if Dawlish didn’t believe him.

*****

**Argelès-sur-** **Mer, Pyrenées Orientales, France, December 16th, 1998**

“Hermione!” Jeanne exclaimed, “You’re late. I feared the worst.” Hermione Granger found herself wrapped in a hug followed by loud sniffing. “And you smell.”

Hermione clenched her teeth. This wasn’t the welcome she wanted after escaping by the skin of her teeth from Harry. “I know,” she spat. “I need a bath.” She pulled herself free - Jeanne had gotten a little clingy as her pregnancy progressed. “Did you hear from Sirius?”

The other witch nodded. “He told me that ‘unfortunately’, one of the thieves escaped from him and Ron.”

Hermione sighed with relief. Mr Fletcher had escaped, then.

“What happened?”

“Harry chased me through half of London,” she replied. “And when I managed to fool him and was about to sneak away, he used some terrible concoction. The stuff clung to my fur.” And her eyes were still stinging.

“Oh. Did he see you?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Was Jeanne smirking? She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. I tricked him by levitating a manhole cover and conjuring a few dogs to distract him in the darkness.” She almost hissed at the memory. That was animal cruelty! She had a mind to tell Harry off - if only she could think of a way to do so without drawing suspicion. What if there had been another cat present, one who couldn’t use magic to clean her fur?

“Ah.” Jeanne was almost smirking again. “I’ll call Sirius and tell him you want to know if Harry’s alright.” That would let him know that she had made her escape as well.

Hermione huffed. She knew that Harry was alright - he had almost caught her. “Wait a minute! I’ll change,” she said, heading to her room. The less she had to use Jeanne’s alterations to the mirror, the better.

Once in her room - there was a new bed, as she had described to Harry - she leaned against the door and shuddered. That had been entirely too close. She’d only escaped Harry because she had been lucky. She hadn’t expected the Aurors to cover that much ground in Anti-Apparition Jinxes. Nor for Harry to be that good on his broom.

She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes for a moment. She should have expected the latter - he was a Quidditch prodigy, after all. And she wasn’t.

She took a few deep breaths. Then her lips twisted in a wry grin as she started to strip off her leather suit. She was no Quidditch prodigy, but she was a great thief, and she had outwitted him. Again.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998**

Dawlish had managed to anger Sirius, Harry Potter noticed as he entered the entrance hall of their home. The sneer his godfather was showing was usually reserved for the likes of Malfoy. He glanced at Ron and Bathilda. Both were standing near the two men and looking more than a little uncomfortable.

“I reiterate, Auror Dawlish,” Sirius spat. “There is no need to search my home - no one passed through the wards.”

“That’s what Bulstrode and Davis thought,” Dawlish shot back. “And you know what happened to them. These thieves are not only very skilled but also very cunning. The chase they led us on might just be a distraction to make us lower our guard!”

The two men were facing each other. Sirius’s sneer grew even more pronounced. “Don’t compare the Blacks to the likes of the Bulstrodes or the Davises! And why would the thieves let themselves be spotted - by a cat! - if they had managed to get past our wards? That makes no sense at all!”

“They are after more than gold, Mr Black,” Dawlish said - through clenched teeth, Harry noted. “They want to humiliate their victims - even if it leads to greater risks for themselves. They did the same thing - a narrow escape - at Davis Manor despite the fact that they could have fled the premises before we arrived.”

“That’s preposterous!” Sirius scoffed.

Harry cleared his throat. “Actually, we should check the house for hidden thieves.”

Sirius turned to face him. “Harry! There you are! Did you catch your thief? Ours escaped - our brooms weren’t fast enough.”

“They had to be on Firebolts,” Ron confirmed. “We couldn’t get close quickly enough to stop them from flying out of the area covered with Anti-Apparition Jinxes.”

Dawlish snorted. “Anyway, Potter agrees. We need to search the house.”

“I won’t have a bunch of Aurors search my house as if it belonged to a common criminal!” Sirius spat. “Do you think I’m a fool? Malfoy’s toadies would use that to ‘find’ some dark items.” He scoffed. “I’m quite familiar with the way the Ministry works, Auror.”

“That’s outrageous!” Dawlish retorted. “Are you insinuating that Aurors would frame you?”

“I’m stating it outright!” Sirius shot back.

Harry cleared his throat. “Ron and I can search the house. We don’t need anyone else.”

Dawlish glared at him. But Sirius nodded slowly. “It’s unnecessary, but if you insist.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Harry said.

And, after that damned thief had escaped him again - he was certain that it was the same witch from Davis Manor; he could feel it - it was better to ensure that this wasn’t another deception.

“Alright,” Dawlish agreed through clenched teeth. “Search the house, then report to me at the Ministry!” He whirled around and stalked towards the fireplace. Bathilda shrugged, looking at Harry with a grimace on her face, then followed her partner.

“The nerve of that man!” Sirius shook his head as soon as the Aurors had left.

“He’s not entirely wrong,” Harry said. “We’re dealing with very dangerous thieves.” Twice they had managed to escape from them - and unlike the Death Eaters, they hadn’t lost anyone yet.

Sirius sniffed. “They need more than a few tricks to break into our home!” He blinked, then pulled a mirror out of his pocket. “Jeanne? Ah!” He looked at Harry. “Hermione wants to know if you’re alright. Seems you ran off in the middle of a call.”

Harry winced. Between chasing that damned thief and pondering what mistakes he had made, as well as defusing the row between Sirius and Dawlish, he had forgotten about that. Hermione would understand, though. He hoped so, at least - his day was bad enough already.

*****


	53. Dancing on the Edge

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 16th, 1998**

The bloody thieves had escaped again! And that damned Black was hindering the investigation! John Dawlish wanted to curse out loud as he walked from the Atrium of the Ministry towards the lift, but that would set a bad example for his young partner. He entered the lift and sighed as soon as the doors closed.

“It wasn’t your fault that the thieves escaped,” Bathilda said.

He snorted. “I know that. And Bones knows that. And even Fudge knows it. But that doesn’t matter. The thieves escaped from a force I commanded. And that makes it my fault.”

“But there was nothing else you could have done!” the young Auror exclaimed, shaking her head.

John smiled against his will - she was so earnest, almost naive. “I could have gathered more Aurors to chase them instead of letting Potter and Weasley handle it, and I could have had more of the area covered in Anti-Apparition Jinxes.”

“But… more Aurors would have hindered each other because they would have been disillusioned while chasing after the same target. They might even have cursed each other by mistake since they would have been unable to tell friend from foe.” Bathilda shook her head. “None of us were trained to fight in a big group. And we needed the Disillusionment Charms so the muggles wouldn’t notice us.”

“You’ve been talking a lot with Potter and Weasley, haven’t you?”

She blushed but was saved from answering by the doors opening to Auror headquarters. “We started at the same time, and most of us take our breaks together,” she replied as they left the lift and headed to their office.

A glance confirmed that she looked as worried as she sounded. He chuckled. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. For all their arrogance, Weasley and Potter were trained by Moody - they know how to fight.” If only Moody hadn’t taught them his attitude as well. Bloody loose cannons.

Bathilda nodded, smiling shyly. “And the female thief escaped Harry even though he prevented her from apparating!” she added as they entered their office.

John grunted. “She lured him there. There’s no way Potter could have managed to keep her from apparating. Not at the speed they were going.” Anti-Apparition Jinxes didn’t cover that much space. No, the thieves had planned that.

“But… what for? Johnson and Brown haven’t found any traps.”

John grinned. “I don’t know - yet. But this was a set-up. Trust me, I can feel it in my gut.”

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. He didn’t mind - she’d come round once he gathered more evidence. Provided, of course, that he wasn’t removed from the investigation by Bones. He sighed again. “I’ll go and inform Bones and Scrimgeour. Get started on the report.”

“Alright!” She smiled at him, doing her best to cheer him up as he nodded at her and left their office.

Sometimes he felt as if he didn’t deserve a partner like her.

*****

“...and based on the speed of the thieves’ brooms, we can safely assume that they were using Firebolts. Auror Potter, who had the longest contact with the thieves, agreed with that conclusion. I’ve given orders to check the recorded sales with Spudmore.” John doubted that the thieves had made legal purchases, but you never knew.

“I see.” Scrimgeour nodded. “And you remain convinced that Potter’s pursuit of one of the thieves was a set-up by them?”

John nodded. “The other thief managed to clear the area covered by Anti-Apparition Jinxes in less than a minute, and those were cast by half a dozen Aurors. The thief Potter was chasing would have been able to outrun his jinxes in the same time frame.”

“But according to the Aurors at the scene there were no signs of a trap,” Scrimgeour said.

“That doesn’t mean anything. These thieves have demonstrated exceptional skill in Curse-Breaking and stealth,” John said. He knew this was a set-up. “We only saw two of them. I wanted to search the house for the third thief, but Black refused to give us permission. Aurors Potter and Weasley are searching the house.” Probably.

“That’s not unexpected. By all accounts, the intruders were detected before they could break through the wards.” Bones spoke up for the first time since John had started his report. “A similar situation to the attempted break-in at Longbottom Manor.”

John shook his head. “The thieves robbed two Old Families. At Davis Manor, they were prepared for us and escaped easily. And they would almost certainly have been aware that Bellatrix Lestrange was discovered when she approached Black’s house, so they must have been prepared for that as well. The missing third thief is the key to this; I’m certain.”

“Well, if anyone is in their house, Aurors Potter and Weasley will find them,” Scrimgeour said.

John refrained from scoffing. Potter and Weasley were good, but they were not perfect. And they were too arrogant to catch these thieves. “We should search the house with a larger force. Two Aurors are more easily fooled than a dozen.”

“If Black refuses to let them search his house there’s nothing we can do,” Bones said.

“And it’s not just Potter and Weasley - Black and his wife, as well as Potter’s girlfriend, will support them, won’t they?” Scrimgeour added.

This time, John scoffed. Civilians. Black might be a master of dark curses, but that didn’t make him an Auror. And his wife was French - cut from the same mould. And Granger was a thief herself.

He blinked. He hadn’t seen either Black’s wife or Granger there.

Bones’s question interrupted his train of thought. “Is that all?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. “The investigation is just starting - we’re still collecting all the reports and going through the evidence we secured.”

“Good. I’ll inform the Minister. With Potter, Weasley and Black involved so closely, I don’t think there’ll be consequences for this failure.”

John nodded, but he wasn’t as optimistic as Bones. Black hated the Ministry and especially the DMLE, and Granger shared those sentiments.

He shook his head as he walked back to his own office. Neither Granger nor Black’s wife had been at home. Black had claimed they were in France, but… Black couldn’t be trusted. He might have been innocent of the crime of which he had been accused, but John knew the man had done a lot of shady things in the conflicts with the Dark Lord. And he had taken Granger under his wing - a convicted thief - and paid her debts. She claimed to have been framed, but John knew better. No one who was innocent acted like that witch. She had been working for Dumbledore in that whole affair as well.

What if… He stopped for a moment, holding his breath.

What if this whole attempted robbery had been planned by the Blacks, Granger, Potter and Weasley to fool everyone else? What if they were the thieves? Merlin’s balls, it all made sense! It explained how the thieves could fool the entire Auror Corps while robbing Old Families’ manors! It was a conspiracy!

He turned around, starting to walk back to Bones’s office, then stopped. No. He couldn’t tell Bones or Scrimgeour, either. They wouldn’t believe him. Not without proof. To accuse a member of the Wizengamot of robbing Old Families - and one of the richest wizards in Britain as well… He’d be ruined. Or worse.

No, he had to investigate this himself. Find evidence. Expose the whole plot and bring them to justice. Bathilda could… No, he couldn’t even tell her. She was too close to Potter. And she was too naive - Potter would realise that she knew even if she didn’t say anything. And Moody, who might believe him, was still in a coma in St Mungo’s. Unless Moody was part of this as well - he had worked for Dumbledore, hadn’t he?

John closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. He would have to do this alone.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998**

“Yes, I’m alright,” Harry Potter repeated, smiling at Hermione’s face in the enchanted mirror.

She frowned, though. “Are you really?”

“Really. I wasn’t hurt.” He shook his head.

“You have a tendency to downplay your injuries.”

“You can ask Ron if you don’t trust me.” He laughed at the scowl that caused.

“I’m just worried. You ran off in the middle of our talk, and I didn’t hear anything until you called me.” She was still looking upset - or annoyed - more than reassured, as far as he could tell.

“No one got hurt. Not even the thieves,” he told her.

“Did you catch them?”

He grimaced. “They escaped.”

“Again?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Yes, they did. They had a head start, though.”

She looked a little doubtful. “Who discovered them?”

He wanted to roll his eyes. “Sirius noticed that Crookshanks was hissing at the air above the house.”

“Oh! Crookshanks spotted another intruder?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted.

“First he discovers Lestrange, and now the thieves! He’s such a great cat! Isn’t he, Harry?” She was beaming at him.

“Yes, he is a great cat,” Harry admitted. And an even greater pain.

“Is he with you?” she asked with a wide smile.

He blinked and glanced around. The orange furball was lying on the windowsill. “Yes, he is,” he replied, suppressing a sigh.

“Oh, can you hold the mirror so he can see me?”

Harry Potter clenched and bared his teeth as soon as he turned the enchanted mirror towards the fat cat. Crookshanks ignored him, of course. He also didn’t spare Hermione more than a bored-looking glance, but she didn’t seem to care.

When he heard Hermione coo at her pet, he closed his eyes. “There you are! You’re such a great cat! And such a vigilant guard! Harry will reward you for this with a special meal!”

“I will?” Harry replied before he could stop himself. He flipped the mirror back to face him and winced at Hermione’s expression.

She huffed. “Yes, you will! It’s the least that he deserves!”

“But aren’t you returning in time for dinner anyway?”

She nodded. “Yes. But you rewarding him will improve your relationship. He senses that you don’t like him, and this will help remedy it,” she added with a sniff.

“I’m feeding him every second morning,” Harry retorted, “and it hasn’t helped his attitude.”

“As hungry as he is when I get up, you probably don’t feed him enough.”

There was no use fighting this. Not when she was in this sort of mood. “I’ll get him some treats,” Harry said.

“Good.” She nodded, then bit her lower lip. “Are you going to be in trouble because the thieves escaped again?” she asked in a lower, softer voice.

“I don’t think so,” he said, trying to sound confident. He had done his best, after all - no one else had come as close to catching the thieves.

She scoffed. “Sirius can settle matters if they try to blame you.”

“I don’t think that’ll be needed,” he said. He hoped it wouldn’t.

She wet her lips with her tongue. “So…”

“So…”

“I’ll wrap up things here with Jeanne, and we’ll be on our way home.”

“I’ll have to head to the Ministry,” he said.

“We’ll meet at dinner, then?”

“Yes.”

Both of them were smiling at each other as the enchanted mirror faded.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 16th, 1998**

“...and once we finished the search of the building without finding any sign of intrusion, we returned to the Ministry,” Harry Potter finished his verbal report.

Dawlish narrowed his eyes at him. “No sign of any intrusion? The wards of the vault were not disturbed?”

“We found no sign of any intrusion,” Harry replied. He wasn’t about to reveal any details about his home - that was none of the Ministry’s business.

Dawlish pressed his lips together. “I see. And the thief you were pursuing managed to escape using Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder - the same powder they used in the Davis robbery.”

“Yes.” Harry clenched his teeth. “I sent conjured animals into the affected area to trigger any traps, but by the time I entered it myself, the thief had already escaped. Probably through the sewers.”

“Probably?”

“I was watching the escape routes before I entered, but she might have escaped while I was inside.”

“She?” Dawlish leaned forward. “I thought the thief was disillusioned during the entire chase.”

“I recognised her voice when she ordered the thieves to split up when we rushed at them,” Harry replied. “She was the thief I encountered at the Davis robbery.”

“The one who escaped you.” Dawlish stared at him.

“Yes,” Harry spat out.

The other Auror leaned back.

“It doesn’t sound like you could have stopped her,” Bathilda said, looking up from the parchment she had used to take notes.

“Indeed.” Dawlish nodded. “Unless you had a Hand of Glory.”

“Those aren’t easy to come by,” Harry said. Rather dark, too. And disgusting - who would want to carry a mummified human hand round with them?

“A number of Old Families might have acquired one in the past,” Dawlish said.

“The Blacks didn’t,” Harry replied, narrowing his eyes at the implication.

“Was anyone else present in the house during your search?” Dawlish asked, looking up from his notes.

“Apart from Kreacher, our house-elf, no. Both Hermione and Jeanne - Miss Granger and Madam Black - were in France, in our new holiday home,” Harry said.

“Your girlfriend, or so I heard.”

Harry gritted his teeth at the tone. “The details of our relationship are private.”

“I see.”

No, he didn’t. Harry glared at him. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.” Dawlish nodded. “I’ll get back to you if there’s anything else.”

Harry nodded sharply and left the office. At least the git hadn’t brought up Hermione’s conviction this time.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998**

Hermione Granger wasn’t waiting in the entrance hall for Harry to return from the Ministry. He was fine, after all, and if she closed her eyes, she could still smell the horrible stench of that sadistic concoction he had used against her. Instead, she was sitting in her room, reading the latest of Malfoy’s proposals for the next session in the Wizengamot - this time about the ‘obvious need to implement stricter standards for promotions in response to the lowered hiring standards’. It was an obvious ploy to favour purebloods for promotion - well, obvious if one knew what all the ‘familiar with Wizarding Britain’s society’, ‘well-versed in etiquette’ and ‘undivided loyalties’ selection criteria meant to a member of an Old Family.

She scoffed, then frowned. Part of the reason she was in her room and not in the study was that each time she breathed loudly, snorted or otherwise drew attention to her nose, the stupid dog snickered. As if her ordeal had been funny!

She huffed and put the parchment down. Sirius wouldn’t have trouble blocking that proposal - it was a little too blatant. He would just have to point out that even with new employees, one should focus on their performance, especially in these ‘trying times’. She grinned - even the Old Families were aware that nepotism could be their ruin now. But despite that, Sirius would have to spend time and gold dealing with this drivel - which is what Malfoy probably wanted all along. Well, thanks to Bulstrode and Davis, gold wasn’t a problem.

She frowned. Between the crisis with Gringotts and the loss of the fortune of two Old Families, with a number of businesses’ assets tied up in court due to Davis, the economy should start being affected. On the other hand, most of the gold had been sitting around gathering dust. She should look into this - although she wasn’t certain if the Ministry was actually tracking any relevant statistics, apart from tax revenue. Not that she had any experience with economics either - although that, at least, was something she could easily remedy by studying the appropriate textbooks. Once she had the time.

Sighing, she closed her eyes, rubbed her nose and tried to focus on her work again. If she prepared a list of arguments to counter the proposal, Sirius would have an easier - and probably cheaper - time dealing with the wavering idiots in the Wizengamot. Now… She licked her lips and started making notes. Mentioning that dangerous criminals wouldn’t be caught by Aurors more concerned with etiquette than duelling was an obvious opening line. Pointing out that adding vague criteria made it easier to sabotage careers to spite a rival was a logical argument, but wouldn’t sway people who considered that the proper way of doing politics. Which was the majority of the Wizengamot. But leaving it out would be dishonest and make Sirius look stupid or callous. And that might backfire once the Wizengamot was reformed.

A knock on the door interrupted her. “Yes?” she called out.

“Hermione?”

Harry! She jumped up and quickly cast a cleaning charm on her house robes. “Come in!”

She hugged him before the door was fully open and was kissing him before it closed again. His arms around her, his warm body pressing against hers… she felt good.

Then she remembered the chase, the stench and her lies, and tensed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as they separated.

“No,” she lied. Nodding at her desk, she added: “Just the latest attempt by Malfoy to add more discrimination and nepotism to the Ministry.”

To her surprise, Harry flinched slightly at hearing that. She cocked her head sideways. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head. “No. Just Dawlish trying to find someone to blame for today’s failure.”

That git! She scowled. “He’s trying to blame you?” Of course, the idiot would!

Harry shrugged. “He agreed with Bathilda that I couldn’t have stopped the thief, but he still wanted to find any mistakes I might have made.”

“Well, did you make any mistakes?” Hermione asked. He had almost caught her, after all - if he had gotten a little luckier with just one Stunner...

He sighed and sat down on her bed. “Apart from missing with my curses?”

She joined him, putting one hand on his shoulder. “Yes.” It wasn’t selfish - he wasn’t hunting them, after all, but Crouch.

She felt him shrug, very slowly, under her hand. “I haven’t been able to analyse it in detail with Ron. I’ll have to do that once Ron has finished telling Luna everything she can’t use in an article. But… anything I could have done would have endangered the Statute of Secrecy. Maybe if I had conjured birds to block her…”

She pressed her lips together. Birds? Crashing into her? That might have worked. She loathed the stupid animals even more for that. “Wouldn’t that have had a high chance of seriously hurting the thief?”

“If I had hit her with a Stunner at the speed she was flying, she wouldn’t have fared any better, I think.”

And yet, he had cast at her. She frowned - she couldn’t help herself - and tried to cover it up. “Wouldn’t that have endangered the Statute of Secrecy as well?”

“She was disillusioned. I could have covered up a crash with a fallen street light or something.” He grinned. “Besides, the Obliviators are good at handling such things. I’ll get her next time.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “I thought you were investigating Crouch.”

“Well, I don’t think Dawlish will catch the thieves, and once Ron and I have caught Crouch, we’ll probably replace Dawlish.”

That wasn’t something she wanted to hear either. Fortunately, Jeanne called them to dinner before Hermione had to think of something else to say.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 17th, 1998**

“What happened? I managed to escape as planned, but you let Potter chase you through half of London before losing him.”

Hermione Granger frowned at her tutor’s implied accusation. “I didn’t let him chase me - I couldn’t apparate. They had covered the whole area in Anti-Apparition Jinxes. I tried multiple times, without success.”

“That’s not possible,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “I had no trouble apparating as soon as I had left the vicinity. To single you out, they would have had to predict your route perfectly - and then they would have done the same to me.”

“I know that!” If she were in her other form, her fur would have bristled. “But it’s what happened - I was blocked from apparating. And since there was no one else around, and they didn’t block you, it had to have been Harry who was doing it.”

Mr Fletcher scoffed, but didn’t contradict her. “Potter would have had to be on Dumbledore’s level to keep casting so many Jinxes while chasing you - and casting Stunners at you at the same time.”

“Well, he was personally trained by Dumbledore,” Sirius cut in. “Who knows what tricks he learned? He didn’t destroy Voldemort with spells you learn for your N.E.W.T.s, did he?”

Hermione had a well-founded suspicion about what Harry had used to destroy Voldemort. Blood magic. But that wasn’t something she’d discuss with anyone. However, Sirius had a good point. “I underestimated Harry. That won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” Mr Fletcher grumbled. “He almost caught you twice - and third time’s the charm. You better find out what he can do.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She had escaped from Harry twice already, and she would continue doing so! But she wouldn’t cheat and spy on him. At least not as Hermione - she already felt guilty enough keeping her secret from him.

And besting him in a fair competition felt too good to spoil it!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 25th, 1998**

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Joyeux Noël!”

“Open the presents!”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at Sirius’s outburst, but smiled anyway. He didn’t even make a token effort to rein in his exuberance. Just like a dog, really. She giggled at that, earning her a smile from Harry and a brief suspicious glance from Sirius before he continued summoning the presents.

She caught Harry looking at Remus.

“I’ve checked them. They’re safe.” The man nodded.

“I would never mar such a joyous occasion with cheap pranks!” Sirius lied as he started to hand out the gifts.

Hermione smirked when saw the dog’s expression upon realising that the presents were actually safe - she had checked them herself. And dealt with Sirius’s pranks - both the obvious decoys meant to fool Remus as well as the actual prank spells. Really, as if she’d let him turn Harry into a dog!

He should be glad that she had refrained from pranking him in retaliation. She smiled sweetly in response to him frowning at her, then opened the gift from her parents first. As soon as she pulled the wrapping paper away, she had to stifle a gasp. Enid Blyton’s collected works!

“As expected - more books!” Sirius commented, ignoring the elbow Jeanne poked into his side.

“Of course!” Hermione replied, blinking a few times.

“Enid Blyton?” Harry craned his neck. “Aren’t those books a little…” He trailed off, but she knew what he meant.

She smiled. “I had all of her series as a child. My grandparents bought me one series each summer. And now I have them again.” With these, her book collection, lost with her home after Malfoy framed her, was completely restored.

“Ah.” Harry wrapped his arm around her waist and briefly pulled her against him. He understood. “Don’t worry - we’ll get Crouch, and your parents will be able to return.”

She nodded, feeling a slight pang of guilt at having sent them away in the first place - and at not feeling too guilty about that. If Crouch weren’t still a threat, she would be celebrating Christmas with her parents. But she would want to be with Harry. She sighed as she carefully set the box with the books down next to her feet and started on unwrapping her other gifts.

Remus’s gift was a rare book on Arithmancy - copied, as he explained, from Hogwarts’ restricted session. She thanked him profusely and didn’t mention that she had made her own copy a few years ago, thanks to Dumbledore granting her access to the library over the summer.

Jeanne’s was a matching set of robes, shoes and underwear made by Francois Baletiers, one of Paris’s grand couturiers. Very expensive and, as Hermione discovered when she pulled the garments out of their enchanted box, very sexy. She didn’t have to fake her blush.

Harry’s was a pair of books. A glossy, signed copy of ‘Seven Championships’ by Filius Flitwick. And a small, thin booklet, ‘A quick guide to combat for Storm Wizards’ by Hans Balzer.

“Moody translated it himself and made annotations,” Harry explained when she looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “He wanted to give it to every new Auror, but the Ministry opposed it - apparently, no matter how insightful they were, texts written by Grindelwald’s best combat instructor were deemed unsuitable for British wizards and witches.”

Ah. That Balzer. The name had sounded somewhat familiar. “Duelling and combat,” she said, “is there something you want to tell me?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well… I thought you’d like some useful and interesting new books?”

She snorted. Harry wasn’t subtle. But he meant well. And he cared so much… She leaned over and kissed him before opening Sirius’s gift.

She blinked. And stared. “A Firebolt?” she asked, looking at the dog. She already had one!

He grinned at her, though she saw that it was slightly forced. “Now you and Harry have matching brooms. The fastest on the market!”

She caught him glancing at Harry, who was looking slightly embarrassed, and understood. “You told him to buy one for me?”

“You need the best broom available,” Harry replied. “And I merely made a suggestion when he asked me what you’d like.”

She forced herself to smile. Harry meant well. And he obviously thought she’d need the broom in case she had to flee from Crouch.

But he would want to fly with her, and she would have to put on an act on the broom or risk him recognising her flying style.

And, of course, Harry would want to put the information contained in his gifts into practice. Which meant more sandbagging.

Not that Harry knew any of that - he just wanted the best for her. She couldn’t fault him for that. Sighing, she leaned into his side and watched him unwrap her own gift - a complete collection of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories.

And giggled when he frowned at her and asked: “Are you trying to tell me something?”

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, December 26th, 1998**

“Here, Hermione! Our gift for you!” Luna beamed at Hermione as she handed over a gift wrapped in paper which glowed in all the colours of the rainbow. Harry Potter didn’t have to use his glasses to know it was a book. By now everyone knew that the witch preferred books to almost any other gift. He was certain that an old, rare book would have impressed her more than the Firebolt Sirius had given her yesterday.

But a Firebolt could carry her to safety whereas an old book wouldn’t save her if Crouch attacked her. Not even an old book on duelling or fighting - Hermione wasn’t hopeless any more, but she wouldn’t be able to defeat the likes of Crouch any time soon. Which was the reason Harry had urged Sirius to buy her a Firebolt. A lecture on how spending ‘exorbitant amounts of gold on gifts defeats the spirit of Christmas’ was a small price to pay for Hermione’s safety.

“The latest edition of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’? Thank you!” Hermione’s smile matched Luna’s, Harry noted.

The blonde nodded happily. “It’s even better than the latest edition - I’ve added corrections and annotations! You’ve got a unique edition!”

Hermione blinked, then checked the book and froze for a second.

Harry craned his neck - indeed, almost every page had had notes added to it in Luna’s handwriting.

“Thank you, Luna. I’ll treasure it!” Hermione said.

Harry saw that Hermione’s smile was a little forced, but Luna didn’t seem to have noticed - she was still beaming at her. He was happy - the witch meant well and had obviously spent a lot of time and effort on her gift.

Ron nodded. “The original was great, but recent editions have failed to add the latest research and observations. Scamander has grown a little complacent.”

Luna pouted. “They just don’t want to acknowledge The Quibbler! Even though Daddy was the first since Newton Scamander to observe Three-leafed Pygmy Dryads in their natural habitat!”

Hermione frowned. “Really?” she asked as she flicked through the pages until she reached the creature’s entry.

“Yes! Newton only observed the main variant, but didn’t describe the yellow-leafed variant!” Luna nodded several times. “I wanted to glue a picture we’ve taken on to the page, but Ron said that would be too much.”

“You’ve got pictures?” Hermione leaned forward.

Luna nodded once more and pulled out a thick envelope from her pocket. “Pictures of all the animals we observed!” She handed a stack over.

Hermione held up a picture. “This is you and Ron camping.”

“Oh, yes.” Luna nodded. “But there’s a Hiding Humper behind the tent - if you wait long enough you can spot his shadow when he moves!”

“We totally missed it,” Ron added, putting his arms around Luna, who leaned into him in response, “until we went over the pictures afterwards.”

There was a moving shadow, Harry Potter thought, though it could have been a leaf or one of the tent’s flaps twisting in the wind. He handed the picture back after another glance at Ron and Luna holding each other in front of the tent.

A year ago, he’d have been jealous of their obvious happiness. And ashamed of being jealous. But now he was with Hermione. His girlfriend, even though they weren’t using that term.

But they cared for each other, and that was all that mattered at the end of the day.

*****

**Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 27th, 1998**

Harry Potter couldn’t help feeling a little jealous as he watched Ron and Luna dance in the middle of the ballroom in Greengrass Manor. His two friends looked happy together - happier, in his biased opinion, than most of the other couples surrounding them. If Hermione were here… He sighed. She wouldn’t be happy here, surrounded by the the very people who had tried to destroy her life. He knew it, he understood it, but, seeing his friends dancing together, he still wished she were here.

He took a sip from his glass. Pumpkin juice wasn’t the most posh choice of drink at a ball, but he wouldn’t drink alcohol while technically on duty, and the only other non-alcoholic option would have been Butterbeer - and that wouldn’t be posh enough for the occasion. And while Harry didn’t care about the host family and their friends, he didn’t want to damage Sirius’s standing among the less bigoted members of the Wizengamot by playing the uncouth, muggle-raised half-blood. Of course, according to Hermione, Butterbeer wasn't completely non-alcoholic anyway.

That he had arrived without a date was as far as he could go - Sirius’s friends and allies would understand that Harry wouldn’t risk rumours of him dating someone else, and Greengrass’s cronies would have to swallow the pointed hint at the fact that Harry was only present because he had been ordered to be by Scrimgeour.

Which was true. Otherwise, he’d be in France with Hermione, Sirius and Jeanne. Probably visiting Jeanne’s family. A much more appealing prospect than standing guard over the Yule Ball in Greengrass Manor. If you could call it standing guard when he wasn’t even out patrolling the wardline or checking the hallways. On the other hand, Dawlish was out there.

He let his gaze wander over the crowd filling the ballroom. He didn’t know many of the guests. Not personally, at least - he knew the names and faces of the various Wizengamot members, of course. But not many of their younger relatives - few of the guests had been at Hogwarts with him.

But there was Bathilda, standing at the corner of the buffet, head almost swivelling round as she kept looking at every entrance. If she tried any harder to look like a guard she’d have to keep her wand drawn. He grinned and walked over, grabbing a canape on the way. “You know, you’re not exactly blending in,” he said after casting a privacy charm.

“Our duty is to guard the ball,” she replied, briefly glancing at him.

“Without making it obvious,” he said. “At least that was what Scrimgeour told me twice in person.”

Bathilda sighed and turned her attention to him. “You know why he said that.”

Of course, Harry knew that. “Would I make a scene?” he asked, grinning.

That earned him a frown. “You would - if you could blame someone else.”

“Touché,” he admitted. “Speaking of someone to blame - where’s your date?”

“Theo’s dancing,” she replied, nodding towards the dance floor.

Harry saw Nott with Greengrass and frowned. “He’s left you standing here, hasn’t he?”

“I can hardly expect him to sacrifice his evening just to keep up appearances.” She was frowning again. “It was nice enough of him to volunteer as my date.”

Harry doubted that Nott would have found a better date anyway. “Still, that’s both unprofessional and impolite.”

“We have danced together. And I expect that we will dance together once more before the evening ends,” she retorted.

Harry scoffed. “After he’s danced with every daughter or granddaughter of an Old Family, I suppose.”

“He isn’t like that,” Bathilda shot back. “And wouldn’t you dance with your friends?”

Harry glanced at her. “I wasn’t aware I had friends here. With a few exceptions.” Among which Draco Malfoy, whom Harry could spot dancing with Parkinson on the other side of the room, definitely didn’t number. Fortunately, Malfoy had avoided him so far - just like in their last years at Hogwarts.

“Oh, you!” Bathilda scoffed. “Everyone knows the Greengrasses aren’t your favourite people, but they’re one of the Old Families, and at least half the guests are friends of your godfather!”

Acquaintances would be a more correct description, Harry thought. Or allies of convenience. If they knew what Sirius and Hermione were planning… He snorted, then schooled his features and ended the privacy charm as he spotted one actual friend headed towards him.

“Hello, Neville,” he greeted him. “Lavender.”

“Harry! I’ve been looking for you for a while,” the wizard smiled broadly, then looked at Bathilda.

“Neville, Lavender - this is Bathilda Meringworth. We’re colleagues. Bathilda - Neville Longbottom and Lavender Brown. We were in Gryffindor together.”

“Hello!” Lavender beamed at the witch. “So, you’re covering for Nott, Harry?”

“Pardon?” Bathilda frowned.

Neville grimaced. “Sorry. Lavender noticed that you arrived with Nott, but haven’t spent much time together.”

“Not enough to be a romantic couple,” Lavender cut in. “And if you were here as friends, you’d be chatting together with others more often. And you’ve been looking around with a more serious expression than Harry.”

“Sorry,” Neville repeated himself. “She’s convinced that you’re undercover Aurors.”

“Well, she’s right,” Harry said. “Do you think I’d be here if I hadn’t been ordered to attend?”

“You could be here for political reasons,” Neville replied. “To make contacts and friends.”

Which was probably what his grandmother had told Neville. Harry shook his head. “Do you think Sirius would send me if he wasn’t going to bother attending himself?” Neville’s grimace told him that his friend thought so. Probably another result of his grandmother’s influence.

“He’s visiting his wife’s family, isn’t he?” Lavender asked, leaning forward.

Harry had a brief flashback to Hogwarts’ rumour mill. “Yes.”

“And Hermione is with them, right?” Yes, Lavender had the same expression as when she had spread the latest news in their house.

“Yes,” Harry said.

Lavender nodded, as if that had been a great revelation. “I knew for years you’d end up together, you know. Ever since you dumped Parvati for her.”

“I didn’t dump Parvati for her,” Harry corrected the witch. “Parvati wanted me to break off my friendship with Hermione.”

Lavender nodded. “As I said.”

Harry frowned at her, but didn’t bother trying to correct the witch. “So, are you a couple?” he asked instead.

Both nodded and Neville even blushed slightly.

“You make a nice couple,” Bathilda said.

Harry glanced at her. He had heard her sound more convincing when defending Dawlish’s latest stupidity.

“Thank you!” Lavender either was a much better actress than Harry had thought, or hadn’t picked up on Bathilda’s lack of honesty.

Neville, though, was wearing the same expression he wore in the Wizengamot when talking to Malfoy. Quite protective of Lavender, was he?

“Oh, there you are!”

Harry turned around. Luna was all but dragging Ron towards them. “Hello, Harry! Neville! Lavender! Auror Meringworth!”

And Bathilda’s polite smile grew even more forced while Ron looked slightly embarrassed.

Luna was unfazed, of course. “Isn’t it great of the Ministry to order their Aurors to attend the ball? We wouldn’t have been able to attend otherwise! All the food, the music, the dancing - no wonder Ron likes being an Auror,” she said, apparently without taking a breath, as she leaned over and started filling a plate with food. Harry noticed that she wasn’t wearing her dirigible plum earrings, but quite tasteful silver earrings in the shape of snowflakes.

“Weren’t we supposed to keep this a secret?” Bathilda asked, glaring at Ron.

Harry’s friend shrugged. “She figured it out herself - she’s a great journalist, you know.”

“And it wasn’t as if it was a big secret,” Luna added, then stuffed a shrimp into her mouth. “It’s all Harry’s fault, anyway,” she added after swallowing.

“What?” Harry stared at her.

“You wouldn’t be here, without Hermione, unless you were ordered to attend,” she explained. “Oh, delicious!”

Faced with Bathilda’s frown, Harry shrugged. It wasn’t his fault.

“It’s a great party. Have you seen the gardens? They’ve covered them in Warming Charms!” Luna suddenly pouted. “And then they went and added wards against animals, so all the poor animals outside can’t come in and escape the cold! Isn’t that cruel?”

“It’s for security purposes,” Bathilda said. “So criminals cannot send conjured animals into the manor.”

“And so all the animals in the forest have to suffer because of a few bad apples?” Luna shook her head. “That’s not fair!”

“I don’t think the guests want to share the gardens with all the animals of the forest,” Neville said. “Most of them would eat the plants, too.”

“Plants grow back,” Luna retorted. “And the animals wouldn’t hurt anyone - it’s not as if there are dangerous animals in the forest.”

“Unless someone conjures dangerous animals. Like venomous snakes,” Bathilda said with a sniff.

“They can be handled with a bezoar.”

Just when Harry thought the argument would grow heated, the band started another song and Luna perked up. “Oh, our favourite! Come, Ron! We have to dance!”

Harry resisted waving when Ron was dragged off to the dance floor. Instead, he handed Bathilda a glass of fresh juice. That earned him a smile.

“Oh, look - the rumours were true; Smith found a witch for the ball,” Lavender said. “Poor thing.”

Harry turned around. There was Michael Smith, talking to Malfoy, with a witch on his arm. “Poor thing?” he asked.

“I heard she’s a recent emigrée from Québec. Rich, last of her family and absolutely naive. She probably has no idea that he cheated on his last girlfriend,” Lavender went on.

The witch did look… Harry wouldn’t call it naive. Honestly happy to be here, perhaps? She was striking, with a tanned complexion that perfectly set off her long, blonde hair.

“Her dress’s French,” Lavender said. “Madam Malkin’s would never have such a risqué decolletage.”

She sounded quite jealous, in Harry’s opinion. Like Parvati had sounded when talking about that American witch. With good cause, in this case - the dress fit the witch like a glove, and she had the figure for it, too.

He briefly wondered if he should keep an eye on the couple, in case Smith started to bother his date.

Then he wondered why he thought that.

*****

There’s Harry!, Hermione Granger thought once she had spotted him. He was standing at the edge of the buffet, talking with Neville, Lavender and that female Auror friend of his, Meringworth. Didn’t Meringworth have a fake date of her own? If she weren’t playing the role of the naive, friendly Marie Levesque, she would have frowned. That Auror needed a clawing if she was trying to seduce Harry!

And Smith needed a lesson as well, she added to herself when she saw towards whom the pureblood ponce was steering them: Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson!

“Michael! So nice to see you!” Malfoy said with his snotty smile while Parkinson nodded with a rather vapid expression - the typical hanger-on. The witch would probably smile and nod if Malfoy introduced her as a minion.

“Good evening, Draco. Pansy.” Smith nodded at both. “Marie - may I present to you Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, dear friends of mine.”

“Enchantée,” Hermione said, her pleasant smile growing just slightly wider at the brief frown that crossed the two purebloods’ faces when they were introduced to her, and not the other way around.

“She’s from Québec,” Smith added. “She had to leave after the recent unpleasantness.”

“Oh!” It was impressive how quickly Parkinson recovered from the slight, fake compassion replacing fake politeness. “You’re a refugee from the war?”

“Emigrée,” Hermione corrected the witch. “I left after I lost my entire family. Sold the manor, transferred the vaults - I didn’t want anything to tie me to a country that ’ad cost me so much,” she added.

Malfoy’s eyes widened for a moment - he must have realised that she was both the head of her family and rich - if the fact that she was dressed in the latest robes from Paris’s most expensive couturier hadn’t clued him in already. Parkinson was a little slower on the uptake, but Hermione didn’t miss how the witch’s smile froze for a moment before her pug nose wrinkled in a faint sneer. “How sad! You lost your entire family?”

“To dark curses, yes,” Hermione said. Seeing Smith’s eyes light up at that, she didn’t have to fake her shudder.

Malfoy nodded in apparent sympathy. “My father fought in the war against the Dark Lord. He faced the Dark Lord himself and was almost killed by a dark curse. He did prevail, though. Without him, the war would have been lost.”

Hermione had to struggle not to dispute those lies. Harry and Dumbledore had defeated Voldemort! With an effort - she hoped her hesitation would be attributed to Levesque’s tragic past - she asked: “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. My father risked his life spying on the Dark Lord, discovering his weakness and luring him into an ambush. Each time he met the Dark Lord, he was facing the Unforgivable Curses!”

Hermione shuddered once more, remembering her own brushes with dark wizards and witches. Or vampires. She felt Smith’s arm tighten around her waist. “Enough of those dark tales,” he said. “This is a ball, after all. We should dance!”

Hermione nodded with apparent eagerness. Dancing was much more preferable to talking to Malfoy and Parkinson. Or discussing the Dark Arts with anyone.

And Smith, for all his disturbing fascination with the Dark Arts, could dance, as he now demonstrated. Hermione didn’t make any missteps which she would have had to blame on unfamiliarity with British dances, but she wasn’t on his level. Which, she told herself, helped maintain her cover. Cats were graceful, but they also didn’t dance that often.

A song later, Smith was steering her towards the buffet again - although not towards the corner still occupied by Harry and Meringworth. And Ron and Luna, Hermione noted with slight satisfaction. Instead, Smith introduced her to the host, Balthasar Greengrass, and his wife, Mirabel.

This time, Hermione curtsied - Marie Levesque was a guest, an emigrée and lower-ranked than a member of the Wizengamot.

“You’re from Québec?” Greengrass asked.

“Yes, sir,” Hermione answered. “I emigrated after my family died in the recent war.” That would prevent further questions into her past - unlike Parkinson, the Greengrasses would be too polite to pry. “I’m planning to start a new life in Britain - we ’ave distant family ’ere. France is a possibility as well, of course.”

“Britain is a land of opportunity,” Smith said, a little too quickly - he almost cut off the host, Hermione noticed. Though, judging by the smiles and glances the Greengrasses exchanged, they didn’t take offence.

“Indeed.” Greengrass inclined his head.

“But what about those ‘Death Eaters’ I ’eard about?” Hermione asked with wide eyes. “Aren’t they still a danger?”

“There’s only one of them left, and he won’t last much longer,” Greengrass said. He sounded confident - but Hermione knew how many Aurors were placed around the manor. “The others have already been killed by the Aurors.”

She couldn’t resist. “And those thieves?”

That made Greengrass frown slightly. “They aren’t that dangerous. If our best Aurors were not focusing on the last Death Eater, they would have been arrested already.”

His wife nodded. “They were lucky to escape so far - they managed to rob two manors, but failed twice and had to run with their tails between their legs.”

Those were planned deceptions! Hermione forced herself to nod in apparent agreement. “I see.”

“And France is, honestly, not a good place to live,” Madam Greengrass added. “Unlike Britain, it is a monarchy. The current Duc d’Orléans is a decent man, but who knows if his successor will be as adept at governing? France is always just one step away from a revolution.”

Smith nodded. “The French are belligerent. Britain is much more peaceful - we’ve learned our lesson in the last war, while the French didn’t. They are far too aggressive.”

“There ’asn’t been a revolution in France in centuries,” Hermione pointed out. Not counting the muggle ones, of course.

“Then there’s bound to be one soon,” Smith said. “They’ve been harbouring criminals as well - they refuse to cooperate with our Ministry so we can’t prosecute them.”

She blinked. “You mean those thieves are French?”

“That would certainly explain their audacity,” Greengrass said.

As they left the Greengrasses to talk with other guests, Hermione hoped that she hadn’t inadvertently drawn attention to Jeanne as a suspect. But even with her padded catsuit, Jeanne was both taller and curvier.

A few minutes later, she found herself alone at the buffet while Smith dealt with a call of nature. She eyed the food with a snort - for all their remarks about France, the Greengrasses certainly didn’t seem to eschew French cuisine.

“Miss Levesque?”

She turned to find herself facing Malfoy again. “M. Malfoy?”

“Did Michael leave already?”

Hermione didn’t have to fake her surprise. “Bien sur que non!” she exclaimed. “’E just had to step out.” What was Malfoy insinuating?

“Ah.” Malfoy nodded, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I was merely concerned that he might have committed a faux pas.”

“A faux pas?”

He nodded again. “He did cheat on his last girlfriend, you know. It’s why we were surprised he found a date for the ball.”

So that was the little backstabber’s angle. “’E did?” she asked, moving her hand to her lips with a gasp.

“Oh, yes, he did. It was quite the scandal, actually - in our circles.” Malfoy smiled in what he probably thought was a comforting manner. “I wanted to let you know, in case he strayed again.”

And he probably wanted to sabotage Smith’s possible marriage to a rich foreign witch, who would be easier to take advantage of than a witch with close ties to other Old Families and who would rely on her husband’s advice. “I… I see.” She nodded, a little shakily. “He didn’t mention anything.”

Malfoy’s smile slipped a little. “It might have been an oversight - he was probably too overcome by your beauty. Please don’t mention it to him, lest he misunderstand my intention.”

As close as Malfoy was, and with how his eyes strayed towards her bust every few seconds, Hermione doubted that she misunderstood his intention at all. But Parkinson would probably believe that Malfoy had only acted to sabotage Smith’s relationship. Typical. “Thank you.” She slowly, hesitantly nodded.

As soon as Malfoy turned away, she glanced at the corner where his father was talking to his allies and cronies. The elder Malfoy didn’t seem to be paying any attention to his son, but that could be an act - unlike his son, Lucius Malfoy was quite gifted at intrigue.

But Hermione didn’t have time to deal with this. She had to proceed with the plan’s next step. As soon as Smith returned.

Where was he, anyway? She looked around, then froze.

Harry was headed her way.

*****

“Excuse me for a moment,” Harry Potter told Bathilda, “I have to check something.”

“Ah, OK,” she replied as he was already turning away, headed towards the young witch who had come with Smith. The witch had looked rather disturbed during her brief chat with Malfoy, and the way she froze when she noticed him walking towards her wasn’t a good sign either.

Harry smiled at her as he bowed with a flourish. “Harry Potter, at your service.” It was a slight breach of protocol, to present himself like that - but then, leaving your date alone instead of with friends was a worse faux pas.

She curtsied in return. “Marie Levesque. Enchantée.” She had a husky voice, in addition to her striking appearance, he noted. A round face - but then, she had a curvy figure. A moment later, she blinked. “’Arry Potter?”

He was tempted to answer ‘the one and only’, but smiled instead and nodded. “Yes. You might have heard of me.” His fame might be of use, for once.

“Of course! The Boy-’Oo-Lived!” She nodded, smiling.

She wore heavy makeup, Harry noted. It suited her, though. “You’re French?”

“Québecois,” she corrected him.

He nodded. That explained the slightly different accent from Jeanne’s - practically every French wizard or witch he had met had had the same accent after seven years at Beauxbatons. ‘Court French’, Jeanne called it - no one wanted to sound like an uneducated provincial witch in France, or so she claimed.

“Do you… wish to dance?” she asked.

Now it was his turn to blink. He had only planned to check on her - who knew what Malfoy was up to - but now… He nodded and held out his hand to her. “Indeed.”

She took it, and a moment later, they were on the dance floor.

Not a moment too soon, either - he spotted Smith glaring at him from where the wizard had left Miss Levesque.

“I couldn’t help noticing,” Harry said, leading them into the midst of the dance floor, “that you looked a little shocked after Mr Malfoy talked to you.”

“Ah…” She hesitated a moment.

“I’m an Auror,” Harry said.

“Oh. It wasn’t… ’e just informed me of a rumour. A private rumour,” she added before he could pry.

“About your date’s recent affair?” Harry took a guess.

That earned him a frown. “Does everyone know about this but myself?”

He couldn’t resist. “Yes.” His smile earned him another frown. “I take it Mr Malfoy warned you not to trust him?”

“Yes.”

The git probably had ulterior motives, but Harry couldn’t prove it. “Wasn’t his girlfriend with him?” he asked instead.

“No…”

He could see from her expression that she had come to the same conclusion. He nodded with a wry grin as he led her into the next song. Whatever Malfoy was planning, she would no longer be an unsuspecting target.

*****

Hermione Granger knew she shouldn’t be dancing with Harry. She shouldn’t even be talking to him - she had taken great care with her disguise, using heavy makeup and cheek inserts to change the appearance of her face, not to mention the padding in her dress, but no disguise was perfect.

But she loved every moment on the dance floor with him. The thrill of the danger she was courting only added to the exhilarating feeling. She did control herself when Smith cut in, though - she had a plan to execute, after all.

A plan which was delayed for a little longer, now, since Smith led her through several dances in an obvious attempt to upstage Harry - even though it was quite widely known that Harry was in a relationship. But then, Smith would probably cheat on her in Harry’s place.

Finally, though, they were back at the buffet, and Hermione sighed in quite an obvious way. “I need a drink, I believe,” she said. “I enjoyed the dancing very much, but it left me a little thirsty.”

“Understandable,” Smith told her, with a wide smile, as he snapped his fingers, ordering one of the servers carrying a tray full of slender wine glasses towards them.

Hermione took one, drank it quickly, then grabbed another. “Oh… I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just so thirsty.”

Smith’s smile grew wider. Of course, he wouldn’t have missed that she hadn’t eaten much - the inserts in her mouth which changed the shape of her cheeks made eating a hassle - and two large glasses of wine on an empty stomach would have left her quite tipsy, if not for the potion she had taken beforehand.

And as she expected, he proposed getting some fresh air in the gardens. She agreed, of course, and took care to lean more strongly against him as he led her outside. And then acted as if she didn’t notice how he was leading her away from the other guests enjoying the gardens.

“It’s remarkably warm for the season,” she said, once they were sitting on a bench in an artificial clearing.

“Warming Charms, my dear,” Smith replied. “Not everyone can be expected to cast them themselves.”

Especially after imbibing copious quantities of alcohol, Hermione thought. And it would be terribly embarrassing for the Greengrass family if a drunk guest passed out in their gardens and died from exposure. She nodded and took a deep breath, then leaned back on the bench, arching her back as she stretched.

And while Smith’s eyes were glued to her chest, a flick of her wrist had her wand slide into her hand from the enchanted holster inside her glove.

“Stupefy! Obliviate!”

It took her less than a minute to bind, paralyse and silence the wizard and stash him inside a dense bush. And two minutes to change into her catsuit.

Five minutes later, she was back in the manor - through a window on the first floor.

*****


	54. Slipping Away

******Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 27th, 1998**

Her family’s Yule Ball was a success. Daphne Greengrass hadn’t expected anything else, of course - when the Greengrasses committed to something, they succeeded. The best musicians gold could buy. The most exquisite food - even if it was French. And at least, she noted as she glanced at her younger sister, Astoria seemed fond of the buffet. As, it seemed, were most of the guests - all of whom, of course, had been carefully chosen.

She took a sip of champagne, the slender glass feeling almost weightless in her hand, and let her gaze wander over the ballroom. It was a gathering of the Old Families and their most esteemed acquaintances. And, unfortunately, Aurors to guard the ball against attack. She frowned. At least the Ministry hadn’t picked unsuitable wizards and witches for the task - with a few exceptions.

“Look at Weasley, Tracey!” she whispered, nodding towards the redhead on the dance floor. “To think he would be so crass as to bring Lovegood to our ball!” Potter, at least, had left his mudblood girlfriend at home. That would have been a scandalous affront - Granger, at the Greengrass Yule Ball! Lovegood was at least a pureblood, although of the lowest social standing. Not that the Weasleys were much more respectable, but at least their Head had achieved some influence in the Ministry.

Her best friend shrugged. “Potter and Weasley are the only Aurors who’ve had any success in fighting Crouch and the Lestranges.”

Daphne glanced at her. Tracey had been rather quiet during the ball; a pale shadow of her usual witty self. A year ago, at the last ball, Tracey would have made a comment about Weasley’s lack of breeding. But that had been before those despicable thieves had robbed Davis Manor and ruined her life, just as they had ruined Millicent’s.

To see an Old Family reduced to such poverty was abhorrent. To see two fall into ruin, without the criminals responsible for the atrocity even being caught, was inconceivable. Daphne’s best friend, forced to live like a member of a common family - even some cadet branches of other Old Families were now richer than the Davises! And some of those low-brow leeches who had been only too glad to take advantage of the Davises’ vault were even trying to profit from her friend’s misfortune by making vastly exaggerated claims!

Daphne drew a deep breath. She couldn’t let her temper take control of her. A pureblood witch of good breeding didn’t allow that to happen. If Tracey was able to bear her tragic fate with dignity, then the least Daphne could do was not make a scene and remind her friend of it during the ball. She would stand by her even as others abandoned her friend.

Like the Malfoys. Once more, Daphne had to struggle to control herself. She loathed that family. If only she hadn’t been involved in that plot to get the swotty mudblood expelled! But at the time, it had seemed like a good idea - and her parents had agreed. Couldn’t let a mudblood show up proper wizards and witches, after all. But then Malfoy had turned out to be a spy for Dumbledore, and Daphne’s family, together with Tracey’s, had ended up indebted to him when he used his influence to clear them of any suspicion of supporting the Death Eaters - even though the Greengrasses hadn’t actually done anything for the Dark Lord.

She gritted her teeth - she couldn’t help it. The Old Families were supposed to be equal, ruling Britain according to their traditions. They weren’t supposed to be beholden to anyone, least of all the Malfoys.

“Speak of the devil...” Daphne whispered as she saw Draco and Pansy making their way towards her. She saw Tracey tense up and reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand.

“Daphne! What a wonderful ball!” Draco’s smile was as wide as it was fake. “Of course, all your family’s past Yule Balls have been memorable events.”

“Indeed.” Pansy didn’t even bother hiding her snide expression. “After all the unpleasantness of the last few months, it’s very soothing to see that some things remain the same,” she said with a glance at Tracey.

Daphne squeezed her friend’s hand again in response to Pansy’s thinly-veiled barb. “Thank you,” she replied, inclining her head.

“I must thank you.” Pansy nodded. “After all those Wizengamot sessions I had to attend with my father, it feels good to relax among friends.”

“Oh, yes!” Draco sighed. “I’m doing all I can to support my father in his struggle to prevent Black from ruining our country. It’s the least an heir to an Old Family can do, wouldn’t you agree?”

“All you can do - as long as you can avoid Potter, right?” Tracey said, with a hint of her old viciousness. Daphne was glad to see that she wasn’t just accepting Draco and Pansy reminding her that, with her family ruined, she wouldn’t be able to succeed her father in the Wizengamot.

Draco narrowed his eyes and sneered at her. “I don’t bother to mingle with my inferiors.” He lifted his chin and offered his arm to Pansy. “Let’s go dancing.”

Daphne nodded at him as he left - it wouldn’t do to be impolite - before glancing at her friend. Tracey was tense, breathing through clenched teeth. That was a very bad sign. Daphne sniffed. “I wonder if he’s dumb enough to believe that Potter’s inferior to him.”

Draco hadn’t been talking about Potter, not exclusively, of course, but Tracey slowly smiled. “I can’t tell. He’s certainly stupid enough to believe his own lies, but he’s also too much of a coward to actually cross Potter. Or Weasley.”

“Crossing Weasley means crossing Potter. They’re best friends,” Daphne said. She smiled at her own best friend, letting her know without words that she’d do the same for her.

“Thank you,” Tracey whispered, and, once more, Daphne had to fight to keep her composure.

*****

Scaling the walls of Greengrass Manor had been easy. There was a lot of ivy to provide foot- and handholds - it was poison ivy, as well as a nasty magical variant of it, but nothing that would get through Hermione Granger’s enchanted catsuit. The windows weren’t a challenge either - the alarm charms and locking spells were slightly outdated, but not old enough for the power that came with age to compensate for the lack of complexity. It only took her a few minutes to disable them and then thirty seconds to open the window with her tools.

Which didn’t mean she could take it easy, of course - she only had a limited window of opportunity to pull off the entire heist; even Smith’s friends would grow suspicious if he stayed out in the garden too long. But neither could she afford to be hasty.

Balanced on the windowsill of what seemed to be a sitting room - rarely used, she thought, since there were no newspapers or books around - she took a look at the floor with her detection spell active. She couldn’t spot any spells on it. She still held her breath when she stepped down on to it, ready to jump back, out of the window, at the slightest threat.

Nothing. She quickly made her way to the door. There was an alarm charm on it, but nothing else. Probably a way to let the house-elves know that they could go and clean up after whoever had used the room. She disabled it - temporarily - and quickly cast a Supersensory Charm to listen at the door. No footsteps. No talking. Just the faint sound of the ballroom’s music from the other side of the manor. Perfect.

She opened the door slightly and peered out, then slipped out into the hallway. According to the notes she had copied from Greengrass’s shop, the vault was in the basement. And the entrance to that part of the basement, located behind a massive door in a hallway on the ground floor, was heavily guarded - she had passed the three guards standing in front of the door when Smith had led her from the entrance hall to the ballroom. With the number of people passing through the hallway during the ball, it would be nigh-impossible to knock those guards out and deal with the spells protecting the door without anyone noticing either her or the missing guards.

Fortunately, Hermione had an alternative. She didn’t head towards any of the stairs leading down to the ground floor, but away from them - to the large room with the wide balcony on the southern side. As expected, that door was no challenge either. From what she had found out, the Greengrasses used this as a living room, which meant they wouldn’t put up with complicated spells that made entering and leaving a hassle.

Once more she opened the door just wide enough to peer inside. Clear. Smiling, she slid inside and closed the door again. This room looked and felt used. Newspapers covered the side table, a book - on Quidditch - was left on the main table, and there were records stacked slightly haphazardly next to the gramophone. Heavy drapes covered the windows and the glass door to the balcony - it wouldn’t do to let the Auror guards outside peer into the living room of an Old Family, even if that made a thief’s work easier.

Smirking, Hermione quickly cast another Supersensory Charm, then started to rap her knuckles against the walls. The wall to the east had a large hollow space inside - the tunnels the house-elves used to come and go without being seen. And since they’d be serving meals to the Greengrasses here…

Hermione changed, then sniffed the ground until she found the spot that smelled most of food and elves. There weren’t that many ways to hide a secret door, and she knew most of them. Opening it from this side was a little trickier than expected - apparently, the Greengrasses expected their house-elves to leave the doors open while doing their work in the room, unlike the Blacks - but nothing a trained thief couldn’t handle.

A few minutes later, she was padding on all fours through the narrow tunnels. All of the elves would be busy serving the guests in the ballroom, so none of them would be in this part of the manor. She’d have to be careful when taking the hidden stairs down to the cellar, though - the way some of the guests were drinking, the elves might have to fetch new bottles often tonight.

But she was a graceful cat, a master of stealth. No two-legged rat would notice her! She still took the southern stairs, not those closer to the kitchen, of course - a smart cat didn’t take too many risks.

The cellar smelled like wine and dust. She wrinkled her nose while she peered around. At least the floor was clean - her paws wouldn’t leave tracks. Nor would her feet.

She crouched and thrust her wand arm and head inside the door here, casting a quick alarm charm on the stairs inside the wall. It wouldn’t do to get surprised by a house-elf fetching more wine. Then she closed the secret door and approached the wall on the other side, behind the shelves holding wine bottles. The wall between the wine cellar and the stairs leading down into the vault - which were behind the door guarded by the three wizards upstairs.

Hermione squeezed behind the big - and empty - wine barrel in the corner and ran her gloved hands over the wall. Massive granite stones - using her enchanted chisel to burrow through would take too long; even if the elves fetching more wine didn’t spot her, someone would notice Smith’s absence. The mortar holding the stones together, on the other hand, wouldn’t be a problem…

A quick Silencing Charm later, her enchanted tool was digging away, pulverised mortar falling into the enchanted pocket she had stuck to the wall below it. She refrained from tapping her foot as she waited. Minutes passed. Her alarm charm didn’t go off - no elf was coming down. As soon as the chisel had opened a gap above the stone, she pulled out a small periscope and stuck it through. No one was on the other side. No one visible, at least. But even with a Supersensory Charm, she didn’t hear anyone breathing either. Nor could she see any floating markers. And she would bet that Greengrass trusted his spells and the work of the Curse-Breaker he had hired more than his guards - especially after the Bulstrode heist.

Nodding, Hermione set the chisel to completely freeing the stone, keeping an eye on the spiral staircase on the other side. Even when the stone was completely loosened and dropped half an inch, she saw nothing move on the stairs. No ambush, then.

If she removed the stone and changed, she would be able to easily slip through the hole it left… She shook her head. Patience. The stairs behind the wall would be guarded with spells - spells she couldn’t deal with as a cat. She set the chisel to freeing another stone. Halfway through that, a pinging sound in her ear alerted her - someone was coming down the hidden stairs; an elf. Clenching her teeth, she pressed her back against the barrel and lifted her feet up so she was completely hidden. At least the elf wouldn’t be able to detect her with magic.

“Dom Pérignon, Dom Pérignon… where do we have Dom Pérignon? So much French wine… Eckehard, Master Eckehard, he drank good, British port wine, yes, he did. None of this French bubbly stuff, not for him, no! Only good, British wine!”

Hermione clenched her teeth and raised her wand as she heard the prattling creature come closer. She could stun and obliviate the creature if necessary. The risk was acceptable - she doubted that even if the elf suspected something afterwards, they’d dare to bother their employers in the middle of the ball.

“In the barrel? No, no… there! Found the bubbly stuff!”

Hermione closed her eyes, sighing with relief as she heard bottles clink together and the mumbling grow dimmer as the elf walked away. A minute later, her alarm charm went off again - the elf had left. And her chisel had finished. She licked her lips as she lowered herself to the ground. After stretching a little, she flicked her wand, shrinking the two loose stones and creating a hole large enough for her to crawl through - even with her padded chest - if she angled her shoulders.

It was a tight fit, and the edges of the remaining stones dug into her chest and back, but she could squeeze through. Far enough, at least, to have her head and arms inside the stairwell on the other side. Enough to check the stairs for traps and spells.

Of which there were a lot, as she immediately noticed upon activating her mask’s enchantments. It seemed as if each step was covered in several spells. Not difficult spells, but simple alarm charms. It wasn’t a Curse-Breaker’s work, but an amateur’s - the spells reacted to someone setting foot on the steps, not to their mere presence, and they were quite inefficiently arranged and barely layered.

But there were so many that dispelling all of them would take far too much time to complete the heist. They were keyed to an object - probably a ring or necklace. If it were just one spell covering the entire stairs, she would be able to fool it into thinking she had the object, but doing that for every step…

She gritted her teeth. For such a crude method, it was vexingly effective. Any Curse-Breaker would be stymied by the arrangement. But Hermione wasn’t just a Curse-Breaker - she was a professional thief! And she was prepared for such an obstacle.

She checked the walls - Anti-Sticking Charm Jinxes. Clever - but still not clever enough. As her successful break-in had proven, the walls weren’t protected against chisels. Or against climbing hooks.

She quickly - and silently - hammered four hooks into the wall nearby, then used them to anchor herself securely so she could put the shrunken stones back and cover the hole - it wouldn’t do for that stupid mumbling elf to get lost and stumble upon the hole by chance.

Thus secured, she pulled out another hook and a thin rope. The spiral staircase wasn’t very wide, which meant she had to work with some tight angles. Which meant more hooks, but shorter distances. And made it easier to aim.

Not that she needed to aim particularly well - not when she could cast a Banishing Charm strong enough to drive the hook almost all the way through the granite.

A moment later, she had secured the rope and was sliding down towards the next hook on the wall with a smile on her masked face - to think that the very strength of the walls protecting the vault made it easier for her to bypass Greengrass’s defences!

It took six hooks to reach the bottom of the stairs, and four more to anchor herself above the vault door. She was more or less on schedule still - but she had yet to face the biggest obstacle: the wards on the vault itself.

She took a deep breath and started to analyse the spellwork, silently whistling at the sight. Old, powerful and nowadays illegal spells had been layered upon thick stone - and then improved upon during the centuries that had passed since. If Hermione had to analyse the complex interleaved protections that were the result, she’d be still here in the morning.

But thanks to the ward scheme she had stolen from Martin Greengrass’s shop, she didn’t need to do that - she could start on cracking the defences right away. And, even better, the Curse-Breaker had had to alter the layout, changing and even removing some of the more exotic spells, to fit his own work in.

Which pretty much gave her the blueprint to disabling the whole mess. Grinning, Hermione swung down from her spot above the door and started dismantling the vault’s protections.

*****

“Those thieves wouldn’t still be a problem if the Aurors weren’t too afraid to use dark curses!” Anatole Rosier waved his - fortunately empty - glass around as if it were his wand. “They didn’t shirk from doing what was needed back in the war!”

Harry Potter took a sip from his own glass - more to gain a moment to control his temper than because he was thirsty - after half a dozen glasses of pumpkin juice, the temptation to get something alcoholic was becoming quite strong. “Using dark curses is illegal,” he told the drunk wizard.

Rosier scoffed. “That’s no excuse! No one in the Wizengamot would convict anyone who killed those thieves preying on us!”

“Some of us care about the law,” Harry spat through clenched teeth.

“Hah! You didn’t kill the Dark Lord with a Stunner, did you? Of course you didn’t!” Rosier’s scoff turned into a cough.

“Voldemort wasn’t a mere thief, but a mass murderer trying to conquer Wizarding Britain,” Harry pointed out. “And the legalities were covered by Dumbledore as Chief Warlock.”

“Those criminals aren’t mere thieves - they are enemies of the country! On a par with the Dark Lord!”

“They haven’t killed anyone.” They hadn’t even hurt anyone worse than what regularly happened at Hogwarts when tempers ran a little too high in a duelling class.

Rosier shook his head wildly. “They’ve destroyed two Old Families! They have to be stopped - at all costs! If you do not understand that, then you should let someone who does take over!”

Harry snorted. “I’m not hunting the thieves. I’m on the Death Eater case.”

“What?” Rosier blinked, then tried to drink from his glass before realising that it was empty.

“I was only involved in the recent chase because they tried to break into my home.” He bared his teeth at Rosier. “And I can guarantee you that neither I nor my godfather and my friend held back. We do not suffer fools who attack us lightly.”

“They all escaped, didn’t they?” Rosier looked around, then summoned an elf. “More wine!”

“Yes, sir! At once!” The little creature hurried off.

“They were lucky. Dark curses wouldn’t have changed that.” Apart from the Unforgivables. If Harry had used one of those curses… He buried the thought. “Besides, we drove the thieves off. As did the Longbottoms. Unlike others.”

Rosier huffed. “If you’d killed them we’d all be better off.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not about to break the law to capture them.”

“Then it’s time that the law gets changed! I’ll propose it in the next session!” Rosier grinned. “Then we’ll see how the thieves fare.”

Harry gritted his teeth, then forced himself to smile. “That’s very brave of you.”

“What?” Once more, the other wizard looked confused.

“Who do you think the thieves will go after once they hear that you’ve proposed such a change?” Harry inclined his head and left Rosier standing there, gaping. As soon as he turned away, his smile vanished.

The bloody fool!

Harry went past the dance floor and stepped out on to the terrace, where he moved to the shadows and leaned against the wall. A drink would be very nice right now - it would certainly help his mood. There was only so much arrogance and ignorance he could take, and Greengrass’s guests had both in spades. Rosier was one of the worst, but not an exception. Not by a long chalk.

He took a deep breath. The cooler air outside was helping him to calm down. Not that it was actually cold, not with all the Warming Charms layered on the manor’s gardens. He frowned as he looked at the maze-like garden in front of him. Despite his, well, warning, Miss Levesque and Smith had taken a stroll in the garden. And hadn’t returned for, by now, quite a while. Harry knew what that meant - he had done the same with Ginny.

But Smith wasn’t him, and Miss Levesque wasn’t Ginny. Perhaps he should check on them - he doubted that the hedges forming the maze were protected against his glasses… He snorted as he discarded the idea. He had no real reason to suspect that anything illegal was happening in the garden. Smith was a git, but that wasn’t illegal. Otherwise, Draco Malfoy would have been in Azkaban for life.

He chuckled at the thought, then tensed when he noticed someone walking towards him. Two people - they probably hadn’t noticed him yet. Greengrass and Davis, he realised, gritting his teeth.

“...and did you see Pansy? Merlin’s staff, she was so rude to Smith’s date, I should… Ah, hello, Mr… Potter.” Greengrass recognised him and froze for a second, followed, a moment later, by Davis.

Harry nodded at them. “Miss Greengrass. Miss Davis.”

He could see Greengrass swallow - she must have remembered what he had said when she tried to flirt with him at Hogwarts - before she politely smiled. “I hope you’re enjoying the ball.”

“I’m here under orders,” Harry replied. Which she was aware of, of course.

“That’s not an answer,” Davis spoke up, taking a half-step forward to stand next to her friend.

“I’d rather not be here, but I’ll do my duty,” Harry said.

Greengrass was clenching her teeth - he could see her muscles twitch - and remained silent, but Davis scoffed. “Like you did your duty in my home?”

“Like I did when I caught Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry retorted. “You might be more concerned about your gold than your lives, but most people don’t share that view.” He nodded at them, not giving them a chance to reply. “If you’ll excuse me - I have to return to my post in the ballroom.”

He managed to refrain from sneering as he made his way back to the buffet but didn’t bother smiling. He should have, though, he realised when he saw Bathilda coming towards him.

“You look stressed,” she said as soon as she reached him.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “I’m just fed up with all the complaints from the Old Families about how we’re doing our job.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I’ve been lucky so far - people aren’t blaming me. But John’s under a great deal of pressure.”

That would explain why Harry hadn’t seen Dawlish inside the manor - the Auror was avoiding the guests. “I thought Bones agreed with his opinion that we did all we could?”

“She did, but not everyone agrees with her.” Bathilda sighed. “He’s been acting a little weird even towards me.”

“Weird? How so?”

She shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it - he’s just more distant, you know? Sending me home while he keeps working late.” She frowned. “I don’t need special treatment; we’re supposed to be partners.”

“At least you won’t get dragged down with him, should Fudge need a scapegoat,” Harry said, trying to console her.

Judging by the glare she sent him, it hadn’t worked.

*****

**Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998**

Another flick of her wand, a twist and the last protection spell flickered in her enhanced view, then faded. Hermione Granger felt like wiping sweat from her brow despite the fact that the enchantments on her mask took care of that. Even with the stolen schemes and her preparations, disabling the vault’s protections had been more difficult and more time-consuming than expected. She checked her watch - people might be wondering what was taking Smith so long. But she doubted that anyone would go looking for him. Not yet. They’d probably just make jokes about French witches.

But she couldn’t waste any more time. She adjusted the ropes holding her in the air and bent down for a last check of the floor. No spells there that would react to the vault door opening. Good.

She straightened and twisted until she was no longer facing the vault upside down. It was a solid, massive door - but the muggle lock was positively antique. Without the spells to protect it, it posed no challenge to her. She could even pick it without magic - but that would take too much time. Time she didn’t have.

Baring her teeth in anticipation, she swished her wand, then pointed it at the lock. A moment later, the wheel started spinning, and she could hear the tumblers slide back, followed by the faint hiss of air escaping as the door unlocked.

She reached out, grabbing the wheel on the door, then swung forward and twisted her body so her feet touched the wall next to the door. So anchored, she pulled the door open, then let go and used the momentum to swing inside. Detaching her harness from the ropes, she landed in crouch inside the vault.

And as she straightened, she smiled broadly at the sight of over two dozen trunks and chests. Perfect! Most of them were protected by spells - but these were ordinary, common charms Hermione could have dealt with in her sleep; barely more difficult than one of her first training assignments.

Two spells later, the first trunk’s lid flew open, revealing the gold and jewellery stashed inside. Perfect. She shrank the trunk and sent it flying towards her open, enchanted pocket with a silent Summoning Charm. As soon as it had disappeared into her pocket, she checked her watch again. Twenty-nine seconds. Roughly half a minute per trunk or chest.

She got to work.

A quarter hour later, the last chest vanished into her pocket and Hermione walked back to the vault’s entrance. She was running behind schedule, though she should still be safe enough. But she wouldn’t have time to loot more of the manor.

Clenching her teeth, she put one foot on the wheel of the door and pushed herself up high enough to grab the ropes hanging down from the ceiling. She really wanted to plunder the manor’s library. And the bedrooms.

After fastening the ropes to her harness, she pulled herself on top of the door, then started to climb back up the stairs, hanging from the lines she had installed on the way down. She was certain that she had the vast majority of the Greengrasses’s wealth in her pocket now - but they were bound to have some books she hadn’t read yet. And she didn’t want to merely ruin their social standing - she wanted to humiliate them as she had humiliated the Bulstrodes and the Davises. If only she had more time…

At each hook she reached, she vanished the ropes she didn’t need any more and the hooks left behind, followed by a quick Mending Charm cast on the wall. As she had been taught, she’d leave no traces. Let the Aurors wonder how she had managed to get into the vault!

She reached her entrance point after ten minutes. Two minutes later, she was inside the wine cellar again, the wall behind her repaired. She looked around for a moment. So many expensive wine bottles. French, mostly - and muggle. She snorted. Bloody hypocrites!

Disillusioned again, she stepped over to the secret door for the house-elves, then hesitated. She could steal the wine collection. Or vanish it - it wouldn’t take her much time. But it would be discovered as soon as the next house-elf entered the cellar. And, as her alarm charm had informed her while she broke into the vault, one of them did so roughly every ten minutes.

Hermione bit her lower lip. It would be great if Greengrass were informed of her heist in the middle of the ball by a house-elf. The humiliation that would cause…

No. She shook her head. As tempting as it was, it was too dangerous. Not worth the added risk. The news that the manor had been robbed in the middle of the ball would spread soon enough and humiliate the Greengrasses. It would have to be enough.

She told herself that, repeatedly, as she listened for any house-elves nearby, then changed and rushed up the stairs.

*****

“I’m going to… patrol the manor,” Harry Potter told Bathilda when he spotted another drunk Wizengamot member headed his way: Nott’s father.

Bathilda snorted. “You owe me for this.”

“Nott’s your friend,” Harry replied, already turning away.

“Theo’s not his father.”

Harry almost turned back to tell her that the only difference was twenty years or so, but the elder Nott was already too close. Pressing his lips together in a frown, he nodded in passing at Abbot and her date - an older Hufflepuff Harry didn’t know - and stepped out of the ballroom through a side door.

There was a guard in the hallway - not an Auror, one of Greengrass’s - moving towards him. Probably to ask if he had gotten lost. Harry narrowed his eyes at her, flashing his badge in case she didn’t recognise him, and the witch backed off. He was an Auror, even though he wasn’t wearing his robes. And he’d rather work than mingle with bigots and drunken idiots. And, despite Bathilda’s opinion, a patrol through the deserted hallways of the manor was work.

Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

Snorting at his own reasoning, he walked past the guard, towards the back of the house. There were too many guards in the entrance hall, where they had installed the Thief’s Downfall the Ministry had so generously and unsurprisingly provided for the event, to bother checking on them. But the stairs leading up to the first floor…

He turned and climbed them, studying the decor as he went. The Greengrasses had kept to a theme, as far as he could tell - green and gold. At least not Slytherin green and silver. Still, it looked a little gaudy to him. Or perhaps he was just biased.

He reached the top of the stairs and looked around. The left hallway led to the guest quarters - Greengrass had shown them the rooms, ‘just in case’. As if an Auror would sleep on the job. Or fool around with someone.

The right led back to the front, and…

Steps to the left. He turned around, wand sliding into his right hand, as he took a step back, using the corner as cover.

The walls were protected against the enchantment on his glasses so he couldn’t see through them, but he had no trouble seeing through the darkness covering that part of the hallway. His eyes widened - Miss Levesque. What was she doing here? Hadn’t she been with Smith in the garden?

The witch seemed surprised when she noticed him, but only cocked her head as she approached. “Mr Potter?”

“Mademoiselle Levesque.”

“Are you looking for the toilettes?” She turned and pointed behind her. “The guest bathroom is the second door on the right.” She turned back and smiled. “I know we’re supposed to use the ones on the ground floor, but there were a number of witches there...” She shrugged, which did interesting things to her cleavage, Harry noticed. “I wanted to be alone for a while,” she finished with a sigh.

“Ah.” Harry could imagine several reasons for not wanting to share a bathroom with other witches after heading to the garden with Smith. None of them were good. “Is everything alright?” he asked. He wanted to ask another question, but this wasn’t an interrogation.

She started to nod, then stopped and took a deep breath. “Michael wanted to show me the gardens. I ’ad drunk a little too much - but not as much as ’e thought I ’ad.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “What happened?”

“’E got… pushy. Impolite. ’E ’ad drunk too much, I think. I slapped ’im and left to… collect myself.” She ran a hand over her robes. “I didn’t want to be seen like that.”

Harry slowly nodded. That didn’t sound like she wanted Smith arrested - but he couldn’t tell if that was because nothing too serious had happened, or because she was aware that nothing would come of it. Not when the heir of a Wizengamot member was accused by a French witch. They also had been in the gardens for a rather long time.

“’As he returned to the ballroom already?” she asked.

“I haven’t seen him,” Harry said. He didn’t think he’d have missed him - but then, he hadn’t noticed Miss Levesque returning, had he?

“Good.” She nodded, a little jerkily. “I think I will retire now.” She held out her arm. “Will you escort me to the fireplace? Or…” She lowered her arm, looking both shy and vulnerable. “I’m not keeping you from a rendezvous, am I?”

Harry chuckled, gently. “I’m only here because I was ordered to as an Auror.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Am I keeping you from your work, then?” Once more she cocked her head.

He shook his head and offered her his arm. “No, no. Aurors are supposed to help foreign visitors.”

She laughed for the first time he could recall, though it felt more than a little forced. She also seemed less relaxed than when they had danced together - and that had been when he had warned her about Malfoy. To see such a beautiful, charming witch in that state, barely holding herself together...Perhaps he should look for Smith. Do a patrol through the gardens. Have a word with the git in private.

Another thought crossed his mind. “Did you hex Smith?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “I would never raise my wand against the scion of an Old Family.” Before he could push, she added with a sly grin: “But I might have cast a Sticking Charm on the bench. On which he had cast a privacy charm so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

That would explain Smith’s absence. Harry grinned as they arrived at the entrance hall. “I’ll check if he managed to undo the charms.”

She nodded. “Good evening, Mr Potter.”

“Good evening, Miss Levesque.”

After taking another deep breath, she turned and walked away. He watched her step through the Thief’s Downfall - just in case she wasn’t Miss Levesque, or under a spell - but nothing happened. She grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, then turned back to him. To his surprise, she waved at him with a wide grin for a moment before stepping into the green flames and vanishing.

Harry blinked. That hadn’t been the smile of a witch who had just managed to keep her composure after having to deal with a grabby date. That had been a cocky, triumphant smile. The smile of a… He took a step towards the fireplace, then stopped. She was gone already. But…

He whirled around and rushed towards the gardens, already dreading what he would find there.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, December 28th, 1998**

As soon as she stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione Granger turned around and threw another pinch of Floo powder into the fire. “Hog’s Head Inn,” she whispered, then walked back into the flames before the bartender had finished greeting her.

The Hog’s Head Inn looked worse than the Leaky Cauldron - old, worn tables, mismatched chairs and benches and a bar that looked as if it had been used as a battering ram at one point, but the bartender was far more attentive - he nodded at her at once.

“Don’t see too many witches like you here, lass.”

Hermione nodded and smiled. “I’m just passing through - I wanted to lose a pushy suitor.” She pulled out a Galleon and banished it to the old wizard. “If a young man asks after me, please tell him that I went back to the continent.”

He chuckled as he pocketed the coin and neither he nor any of the few guests still present at that hour of the night said anything else as she walked to the door. Outside, she took a deep breath of the cold air. That had been exhilarating. She had robbed the Greengrasses during their ball. She had fooled everyone - even Harry! And she had gotten away with it!

She apparated to London.

*****

**Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998**

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

Harry Potter ignored the complaint from a drunk guest stumbling out of his way - probably the sister of a Wizengamot member, she was about the right age and Harry didn’t recognise her - as he took the stairs leading from the terrace to the gardens in a few jumps. The witch shouldn’t have been blocking his way up there after he had taken care to avoid the ballroom.

At the foot of the stairs, he stopped and touched his glasses. The walls of the manor were protected, but were the hedgerows in the gardens? He muttered a curse when he realised that they were indeed protected against the enchantments on his glasses.

That would make finding Smith take much longer. Harry would have to personally search the maze-like gardens - and he’d likely stumble on several couples enjoying their privacy there. Even though he was justified - he had sufficient grounds to suspect that a crime had been committed - such encounters wouldn’t be pleasant.

Moody wouldn’t care, of course. But Harry wasn’t Moody. On the other hand, he had to do something.

Fortunately, he could get help. The host was, after all, responsible for the safety of their guests.

Harry grinned as he turned to walk back to the terrace and the ballroom. Let Greengrass draw the ire of annoyed couples.

A minute later, he was making his way towards Greengrass through the throngs of drinking and chatting people. The wizard was talking to a few of his fellow Wizengamot members - Harry recognised Fawley and Shacklebolt when he reached the group. Since they were members of the Wizengamot and Heads of their families, Harry was supposed to wait until they deigned to acknowledge him - you didn’t interrupt the Head of an Old Family. Not in Harry’s position.

Harry didn’t care about that, though. “Mr Greengrass?” he said, interrupting Fawley and ignoring the men’s angry expressions. “I need to talk to you about a sensitive matter that has come up.”

Greengrass frowned, and, for a moment, it looked like he’d blow up at him. But then the man slowly nodded and addressed his peers. “Please excuse me. It seems the Aurors guarding us are in need of advice.”

Harry ignored the men’s chuckling as he stepped away with Greengrass.

“What happened?” the older wizard snapped as soon as Harry had cast a privacy charm.

“I have reason to suspect that one of your guests, Michael Smith, has been attacked by his date,” Harry said. “I met her when she was leaving, and she mentioned that Smith had overstepped the bounds of propriety, or attempted to, and, in retaliation, she had left him silenced and stuck to a bench.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to search the gardens and disturb other guests who are currently enjoying the scenery.” He spread his hands. “Unfortunately, the hedgerows are too tall to find anyone sitting down with a Human-presence-revealing Spell from outside.”

Greengrass sighed. “Smith. Of course.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “There’s a spell on the garden that will point at humans inside.”

Harry smiled.

“My daughter can activate it.”

Harry stopped smiling.

*****

**Argelès-sur-** **Mer, Pyrenées Orientales, France, December 28th, 1998**

Hermione Granger, wearing far more practical and far more subdued robes, and having had her face and skin tone restored to their natural appearance, appeared in front of the back door of the holiday home and quickly entered. She found Sirius and Jeanne waiting in the living room.

“Hermione! ’Ow did it go?” Jeanne asked as she jumped up from the couch and moved to embrace her.

“It went well, of course - she’s not frowning,” Sirius said before Hermione could answer.

She frowned at him for that, of course, then nodded as Jeanne pulled back. “I emptied their vault,” she said with a smile before sighing. “I couldn’t loot their library, though, nor their wine cellar or bedrooms. There wasn’t enough time.”

“Bah!” Sirius said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Losing their vault will be enough to ruin them. Did you see Harry there?”

“I danced with him.” Hermione bit her lower lip. She shouldn’t have. But it had been too tempting.

Sirius laughed and slapped his thigh. “Oh, well done!” He probably thought that it was a great prank. Well, it was - but she couldn’t help feeling guilty as well.

Jeanne didn’t share his mirth, though. “That was dangerous.” Her tone made it clear that she meant ‘too dangerous’.

“My disguise was perfect,” Hermione retorted. “He didn’t suspect anything.” Until she had grinned at him before leaving. But that had been needed to ensure that the news of the heist broke during the ball, thus causing maximum humiliation for its host. She sighed and sat down. “I hope he won’t get into trouble for this.” To find out that he had danced with the thief he should have been stopping… she clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t halt her revenge. Malfoy had to be ruined or Wizarding Britain would never have a fair and just government. The corruption was too ingrained.

Sirius scoffed again. “I won’t let that happen. How could Harry have even known that you were a thief?”

“Dawlish might blame him anyway if he needs a scapegoat,” Hermione pointed out. Although if Harry were forced to quit the Aurors, she could finally reveal her secret to him. But he’d hate her for getting him fired.

“Let him try!” Sirius bared his teeth. “He doesn’t have enough support in the Wizengamot for that. Not even Malfoy will back him - certainly not as long as Crouch is still at large. I can get Dawlish demoted, though, if he oversteps his bounds - but I’d rather keep him in charge, or they might replace him with someone who’s actually competent.”

Hermione nodded. Dawlish was a fool. “I’ve already dropped off the loot in a safe house, but I haven’t gone through it yet.”

“Good.” Jeanne nodded. “You checked it for traps, though?”

“Of course.” Hermione nodded emphatically. It wouldn’t do to fall for the same trick they had used to rob the Davises.

“Good!” Sirius leaned forward. “Now tell us everything!”

Hermione smiled and forced her guilt away. She had, after all, pulled off a perfect heist! “I arrived with Smith at eight…”

*****

**Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998**

Greengrass had brought Davis with her to the gardens. Harry Potter should have expected that. It didn’t matter, anyway - this wasn’t an investigation. Not yet.

“Alright,” Greengrass announced. “Let’s help our dashing Aurors find a drunken wizard.”

Davis giggled - the witch probably had drunk a little as well - but Harry simply nodded. He wouldn’t get angry at the needling - not when he had his suspicions about what had actually happened in the gardens and the manor.

Greengrass tapped a stele at the entrance of the maze-like part of the gardens with her wand. A moment later, a glowing map appeared on it. She peered at it, then nodded. “There’s a single person in the eastern corner. They’re the only one who’s alone.”

“That has to be Smith then,” Harry said, nodding. He wondered if they had a similar enchantment in the manor - although from what he recalled from Sirius, the various spells there would likely interfere with such an enchantment - his godfather and Remus had good reason to be proud of the Marauder’s Map.

“Unless Smith freed himself and slunk off instead of returning to humiliate himself,” Davis added.

“He’s already humiliated,” Greengrass said. “His date leaving without him, in a huff? After he tried to seduce her?” She laughed. “Everyone will know that not even a French witch could stand him!”

“She’s from Québec, actually,” Harry pointed out.

Greengrass shrugged with a slight sneer. “There’s no difference.”

“My godfather’s wife would disagree,” Harry reminded them that Jeanne was French, “but let’s go and get Smith.”

Greengrass huffed but led them inside the maze.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the corner.

“The bench’s empty,” Davis stated the obvious. “Did he move while we were walking here?”

Harry ignored her and pointed his wand at the corner. “Accio Michael Smith’s clothes!”

A bound form shot out of the hedgerow and came to a stop in front of Harry’s feet.

“Bound, stunned and petrified…” Davis shook her head. “That’s harsher than what she told you.”

“And she hid him so he wouldn’t be found - then went inside the manor. Unseen.” Harry looked at the two witches.

A moment later, Davis gasped. Greengrass took a second longer before she paled. “No! Impossible!”

*****

“Impossible!” the elder Greengrass snapped, not for the first time, as he stormed towards the heavily guarded entrance to the vault. “She can’t have broken into our vault!”

Harry Potter refrained from commenting. He took in the three guards instead, as they jumped to attention upon noticing their group approaching - though they hadn’t looked like they were sleeping on the job.

“Did anyone enter the vault today?” Greengrass asked. “Anyone, even myself?”

“No, sir,” the apparent leader of the guards answered. “No one entered.”

The older wizard nodded curtly, then looked at the door. “All the spells are still in place, too.” He took out a key. “I’ll check the vault.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Harry pointed out. “Davis was ambushed in his vault.”

That earned him a glare and a scoff. “If what you suspect is true, they have already left. And if not… I assure you that I can handle myself. The defences won’t allow anyone not of my family inside, anyway.” He opened the door, revealing a spiral staircase. “Untouched,” he remarked as he started to descend.

Harry frowned, then sighed and glanced back at where Greengrass and Davis were standing. They had their wands out and were obviously nervous. They also looked rather sober - no sign of their earlier mirth. And Greengrass’s mother had all but dragged the younger daughter, Astoria, away. Ah, well - that wasn’t his problem. He made a point of leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms and watching the stairs.

A few minutes later, Greengrass reappeared. His stony expression told Harry everything he needed to know. He still had to ask. “Empty?”

Greengrass glared at him, then turned his head away without answering. “Daphne, Tracey - you should retire.”

Harry saw Greengrass jerk as though she had been struck, a gasp turning into a shudder. “No.”

“Daphne. Please.”

The girl swallowed, then nodded stiffly. Harry saw Davis squeeze her hand as the two left, heading towards the stairs leading up to the family’s rooms.

“I’ll inform Auror Dawlish,” Harry said. After telling Ron to come and secure the entrance. “I assume the ball’s over?” They would have to evacuate the guests. Even if it was extremely unlikely that thieves who hadn’t seriously hurt anyone so far would work with Crouch, the manor’s security was compromised. They’d have to check the manor to see if anything else had been stolen - or if someone, thief or Crouch, had set any traps.

Once more his only answer was a glare.

*****

“They emptied the vault? On our watch? Why aren’t you down there securing the scene of the crime?” Dawlish demanded as he and Harry Potter walked towards the entrance to the vault, past several guests who were leaving. And talking about the heist.

“I’ve left Ron at the entrance,” Harry pointed out. “Greengrass didn’t remove the spells, so we can’t risk going down there without permission - or a Curse-Breaker.” And the Greengrasses were busy checking whether anything else had been stolen. Without Aurors - despite the threat of Crouch.

Dawlish simply rolled his eyes at the suggestion of using a Curse-Breaker to break into the vault. “How could this happen? You saw the thief!”

He had even danced with her. And escorted her to the exit. Harry clenched his teeth. That witch had made a fool of him! He was grateful that he had cast a privacy charm before reporting to Dawlish. “I saw a suspect. We don’t yet know if she was involved.”

“You’ve met her twice before! Chased her! Don’t tell me you couldn’t recognise her!”

“Her body didn’t match the thief’s. Her hair didn’t match, either;” Harry replied. “And she passed through the Thief’s Downfall. Twice.”

“So there are two witches among the thieves then?” Dawlish snorted.

“Perhaps. Or she had a disguise that wasn’t affected by the goblin’s magic.” Harry looked around. The hallway was cordoned off - Ron had conjured several barriers. The guests had to take the longer route through the gardens to reach the fireplace.

“That’s impossible!” Dawlish shook his head emphatically. “Nothing can withstand the Thief’s Downfall. Not even Polyjuice Potion or the Imperius Curse!”

“Muggles have developed several disguise techniques,” Harry pointed out. He wasn’t sure just how good they were - Mission Impossible masks were fictional, or so Paul-the-Ex-Boyfriend had once mentioned in his usual, arrogant manner - but muggles could disguise themselves.

“Muggles?” Dawlish scoffed. “I want to watch your memories!”

“That’s Sirius’s decision,” Harry snapped.

“Tell him to let us watch your memories, then!” Dawlish stopped walking and glared at him. “Or do you have something to hide, Potter?”

What? “I’ve got nothing to hide,” Harry retorted. He hadn’t recognised the thief - but she hadn’t looked like the witch he had chased twice before. It wasn’t his fault!

“Then prove it!” Dawlish snapped. “I want to see what you did with my own eyes!” He turned away. “Weasley! Stop standing around and make yourself useful!”

Behind Dawlish, Harry shook his head. As if Ron could do anything right now, without Greengrass granting them access to the vault. Dawlish should save his anger and rage for the thieves, not his fellow Aurors.

Movement at the end of the hallway drew his attention. His wand rose before he recognised Luna. She was standing there, almost toppling the barrier, and waving her notepad above her head. “Auror Dawlish!” she yelled. “A word for the press! Is it true that you let the thieves rob another house under your personal protection?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he should be wincing or laughing when he saw Dawlish’s expression.

*****  



	55. Under Pressure

**Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998**

When he was informed of his visitor’s arrival, Balthasar Greengrass toyed with the thought of having his house-elf tell the wizard that he wasn’t home. He didn’t want to see anyone, least of all Lucius Malfoy. And not just because Malfoy still had a fortune worthy of an Old Family while Balthasar had been ruined.

But Malfoy wasn’t someone he could afford to slight. Hadn’t been for years - not since that cursed infantile plot in which Balthasar’s eldest daughter had become involved. So he rose from his seat. “I’ll meet him in the salon,” he said, without bothering to look at the creature, or listen to its response, as he strode out of his study.

A few minutes later, he forced himself to smile and nod when Malfoy entered the salon. “Lucius. Please have a seat. Tea?” It wasn’t quite the time for it, but the niceties had to be observed.

“Thank you, Balthasar.” Malfoy sat down on the armchair facing him as an elf scurried in and set down the tea service.

After tea had been served, Balthasar took a sip and leaned back in his seat. He might be ruined, but he still was the Head of an Old Family. Appearances mattered. “What brings you to my home today?”

Malfoy flashed his teeth in a far too sweet smile. “I wanted to offer you my support in this dark hour.”

Balthasar managed not to sneer or scoff at the obvious lie. He took another sip, then nodded. “Thank you.”

Malfoy sighed. “Who would have thought that these thieves would dare to break into your vault during your Yule Ball? While the Ministry’s finest Aurors were guarding your home?”

‘Finest Aurors’! Balthasar wanted to scoff. Useless idiots would be more precise! Potter had even escorted the thief out, instead of arresting her. He used his cup to hide his mouth and slowly nodded.

“Of course, most of the Aurors were outside, looking for intruders, while the thief entered in the guise of Smith’s paramour.” Malfoy shook his head. “I daresay that French witches won’t be welcome at many manors in the near future.”

“That won’t be much of a loss,” Balthasar said, sneering slightly. “Although I would like to see them try to keep Black’s wife out if they invite him.” He noticed how Malfoy frowned slightly - it was no secret that the wizard had hoped that Black would die without issue so Malfoy could contest whatever will had been made.

Malfoy quickly recovered and smiled at him. “Those who had had to marry French spouses might disagree with that assessment.”

Balthasar didn’t acknowledge the subtle barb. Even with their family ruined, his daughters wouldn’t be forced to seek foreign husbands. Blood still counted that much. “They don’t matter.”

“A bold statement, given your... circumstances.” Malfoy inclined his head.

“We will endure this.” They would. Balthasar wasn’t old - he had decades to rebuild the family fortune so Daphne would inherit his seat upon his death. They still had the manor and the outstanding loans to various kin. And he still had influence in the Ministry - that was worth something as well.

“I admire your spirit. Others would be desperate if they found themselves in your place.” Malfoy sighed again with fake sympathy and thinly veiled amusement.

Balthasar scoffed. “‘If’? Given the demonstrated skill of these thieves, I expect more such robberies.” He bared his teeth at Malfoy to drive the barb home.

The other wizard sniffed. “Some might certainly find that their wards aren’t as impressive as they thought. Others, however, have not cut corners when it comes to the safety of their homes.”

As if he had done that! Balthasar glared at his guest. “They might discover that all their wards and guards won’t be enough. Not even Potter managed to catch the thief.”

Malfoy shrugged in what was - or so it seemed to Balthasar - a rather French way. “The lad underestimated the thieves. Understandably, since they haven’t killed or seriously hurt anyone so far - unlike the Lestranges, whom he caught and killed. I expect that he will take the threat more seriously, and be more motivated to catch them using all available means, now that they’ve humiliated him like this.”

“They escaped him twice before,” Balthasar pointed out.

“It wasn’t his investigation, but Dawlish’s - and they cannot stand each other.”

Balthasar didn’t think Potter was the kind of wizard to deliberately undermine rivals in the manner in which Malfoy hinted, but it wasn’t his problem. Not any more - he had no vault left to protect. “That remains to be seen.”

“Indeed. For now, he’s hunting Barty Crouch anyway.” Malfoy smiled before taking a sip from his cup.

Balthasar shrugged. “Did you merely visit to tell me that Potter will catch the thief?”

“That would be poor form, wouldn’t it?” Malfoy shook his head in apparent disbelief. “No, I came to assure you that despite the unfortunate events that took place last night, you are still a valued member of the Wizengamot.”

Balthasar didn’t bother to hide his sneer now. “Were you afraid that you’d lose another vote? That I might try to make a deal with Black?”

“Of course not!” Malfoy’s smile grew wider. “We both know that you cannot afford another scandal, much less a trial. Not when the fact that your home was robbed while you held a ball will be the talk of our peers for the foreseeable future.”

Balthasar glared at him. “No one will believe that Daphne was the one behind the plot against the mudblood.”

“Won’t they?” Malfoy scoffed. “She started it, after all. But my son wasn’t among those who put forth further claims of stolen goods. I wasn’t among those who profited from the fines levied upon the girl’s family.” He shook his head. “If you went to Black, people would assume he bought your testimony and vote.” In a whisper, he added: “Just as you bought my testimony after the Dark Lord’s death.”

Balthasar clenched his teeth. “We made a deal.” He had paid enough for Malfoy to vouch for him, back when everyone was hunting for hidden Death Eaters, and when a few casual remarks Balthasar had made in the wrong sort of company might have been misconstrued as support for the Dark Lord.

“Indeed, we did. And I expect you to keep fulfilling it.” Malfoy put his cup down and stood. “You will support me when I prop up Potter against the expected complaints and suspicions.” He turned to go - another insult.

Balthasar barely managed to control himself. “Potter loathes you.”

Malfoy stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “He does. But he also takes his obligations seriously. And he has ambitions.”

Balthasar glared at Malfoy’s back until the door closed behind his guest. “I hope I’ll see your face when it’s your turn to confront the ruin of your family!” he hissed.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1998**

Harry Potter took a deep breath as he grabbed a pinch of Floo powder. Today wouldn’t be enjoyable. The Aurors had been humiliated, and they would be looking for someone to blame. And he was the first choice.

“Chin up, Harry - we’ll survive it.”

“Yes, you will! If the Ministry killed everyone who made a mistake, they wouldn’t have any employees left - and certainly no Minister!”

Harry turned his head and smiled at Ron and Luna. “Thank you,” he said.

Luna beamed at him - as usual, Harry couldn’t tell whether she missed or just ignored his sarcasm. Ron grew serious, though. “Sirius won’t let them fire us - or demote us.”

Harry pressed his lips together. That wasn’t as comforting as Ron thought. He didn’t want to depend on Sirius’s influence like that. On the other hand, he didn’t want to serve as a scapegoat, either - it wasn’t as if anyone else had noticed the thief. Neither the guards nor the Aurors. So he sighed and nodded. “I’m still not looking forward to this.”

“Me neither.” Ron turned to Luna and kissed her. “I’ll see you this evening?”

The blonde nodded several times. “Yes! I won’t take long to write my article - I’ve laid it out in my head already,” she added, pointing at her temple, “so we can go eat at that muggle restaurant with the happy food again!”

“It’s ‘Happy Meals’,” Ron corrected her.

“That’s what I said - a meal is food, isn’t it?”

Seeing his friends joke around, Harry wished Hermione were already back from France. “Let’s go - we’re already late.”

Ron snorted. “We did overtime until past midnight yesterday - if they expect us to be back at work at eight, they better pay for our Pepper-Up Potions!” He did step away from Luna, though, and joined Harry at the fireplace. “But you’re right - they’ll think we’re afraid to face them. Let’s go!”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 28th, 1998**

The two Hit-Wizards standing guard at the Thief’s Downfall in the Ministry’s Atrium were smirking as Harry Potter and Ron stepped out of the fireplace and approached them. “Keep your wands holstered,” the witch in charge said. “That is, if you didn’t get them stolen while you slept.”

The other Hit-Wizard chuckled. Harry clenched his teeth and ignored them as he stepped through the archway and felt the enchanted liquid run over him. That the grey robes would enjoy rubbing this in was to be expected. He slowly and carefully drew his wand and dried himself, then waited for Ron to copy his actions before continuing towards the lifts.

“They lose their entire force at Azkaban to a single Death Eater and think they can laugh at us for getting fooled by a thief?” Ron scoffed.

Harry suppressed a chuckle as the snickering behind them turned into growling. Hit-Wizards weren’t the brightest wands in the Ministry, and everyone knew it. “Do you want to start on our reports or go straight to Scrimgeour?” he asked as they entered the lift.

Ron snorted. “Let’s see if we can get the latest news from Bathilda before we get summoned.”

Harry nodded. It was Dawlish’s case, which meant they didn’t know what the Auror had heard from Smith, nor what other evidence had been found in their absence. “Let’s check if she’s alone, though.” He didn’t want to run into Dawlish first thing in the morning.

They didn’t run into Dawlish when they entered the Auror headquarters. They ran into Macmillan.

“Potter?” He acted surprised. “Fancy seeing you here, and so early - already back from France?”

“France?” Harry asked, too surprised to hold his tongue.

“Isn’t your godfather in France with his wife? You usually run to hide behind his robes whenever you make a blunder, don’t you?” Macmillan sneered. “Escorting a thief out - did you carry the loot for her as well, hm?”

A couple of older Aurors sitting at a nearby desk snickered at that. Harry clenched his teeth and ignored them. He couldn’t hex the git for that. “I wasn’t aware that they had identified the thief already.” Macmillan was remarkably well-informed about an event that had happened last night and was still under investigation.

“Of course you wouldn’t be aware of the thief!” Macmillan laughed.

Harry wanted to curse the man’s smile off his face but controlled himself. He felt Ron’s hand on his arm. “Let’s go,” his friend said.

Harry nodded and started towards Bathilda and Dawlish’s office.

“Best keep going until you’re gone!” Macmillan called after them.

“Bloody git!” Ron muttered as soon as they were out of earshot. “And the rest think this is funny, I bet.”

Harry nodded. “Nott will be impossible,” he said.

“Bathilda will keep him in line,” Ron said. “I hope.”

The witch in question didn’t look like she’d keep Nott in line when they entered her office - which was, fortunately, missing Dawlish - a minute later. “There you are! Where were you? I’ve been waiting for your reports!” she snapped at them, interrupting Harry’s greeting.

“What?” Ron stared at her, apparently as surprised as Harry at their friend’s temper. “We just arrived - we barely had five hours of sleep.” Searching, or rather, trying to make the Greengrass give them permission to search the manor, as well as checking if anything else had been stolen, had taken a long time.

Bathilda was frowning - and twitching slightly, Harry noticed. Her robes didn’t look rumpled, but… “How many Pepper-Up Potions did you take?” he asked.

“I’m on my second,” she replied. “Why?”

Harry managed not to wince in response.

Ron didn’t. “Blimey - you shouldn’t take more than one!”

She scoffed again. “Everyone - Scrimgeour, Bones, Fudge and the entire Wizengamot - wants to know what happened at the ball. John and I have been working through the night! And we need your report!” She glared at Harry. “You’re the only Auror who saw the thief up close!”

Harry had even danced with her. He forced himself to smile. “So you know that she’s the thief?”

Bathilda frowned. “She’s the main suspect. Smith was obliviated - he doesn’t remember anything after entering the gardens. Why would she do that if she had only defended her honour? John thinks that Smith discovered that she was a thief.”

“She might have wanted to keep him from embarrassing her if she went along with him before he went too far,” Harry said. He didn’t think that was the case, though - he had seen her smile, right before she disappeared in the fireplace.

“She arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and immediately left through the Floo Network again. We got the records from the Floo Network Authority - she travelled to the Hog’s Head Inn in Hogsmeade. And according to the inn’s owner, she was going back to the continent. We checked her room - she left her baggage there - but everything is either transfigured or charmed.”

“Copies,” Harry said. “She did a runner, then.”

“Yes.” Bathilda sighed. “We sent requests for information to Québec and France, but we haven’t received any answers yet.”

Harry doubted that they ever would. Québec was in ruins after their war with Maine, and France… rarely cooperated with Britain in such matters. Perhaps he should ask Jeanne to make some inquiries at the Court…

“I need your reports!” Bathilda repeated herself. “Please,” she added, sounding a little more like her usual self.

“We’ll get started on them right away,” Harry assured her. “But only if you promise not to take a third Pepper-Up Potion!”

That earned him a scowl and a glare, but he insisted.

*****

Harry Potter hadn’t managed to write more than a rough draft of his report when he and Ron were summoned to Bones’s office. Bones, not Scrimgeour - the political pressure on the Corps must be growing rapidly.

“Guess we should be lucky we’re not meeting Fudge, huh?” Ron said as they approached the Head of the DMLE’s office.

Harry nodded, but he was already focusing on the upcoming conversation. If he didn’t want to rely on Sirius’s influence and protection, he’d have to marshal his thoughts and be ready to defend himself.

And he really didn’t want to depend on Sirius. He wanted to fight corruption and nepotism on his own terms.

After knocking on the door, they heard a sharp “Come in.”

Before the door closed, Bones snapped: “Aurors Potter and Weasley. Finally returned?”

“We were just told you wanted to meet us, Ma’am.” Harry nodded at her, then at Scrimgeour and Dawlish.

Dawlish huffed, scowling at them, but Scrimgeour merely nodded.

“The Wizengamot is in an uproar over this. This is the third time an Old Family’s manor was robbed - and under the very nose of the Auror Corps. The Minister was quite clear that this cannot stand.” Bones laced her fingers together and stared at Harry and Ron. “While you were the first to notice that there was something amiss, Auror Potter, you only did so after the suspect had already left the premises.”

“There was no reason to suspect anything before that point, Ma’am,” Harry replied.

Dawlish scoffed. “You danced with the thief! And you didn’t notice anything suspicious?”

“No, I did not.” Harry clenched his teeth before he could snap that no one else had noticed anything at all.

“Really?” The Auror shook his head. “You stumble upon her leaving the private area of the manor and don’t suspect anything?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Dawlish was obviously trying to turn him into a scapegoat. “Her explanation made sense.”

“I bet it did!” Dawlish scoffed again. “Did you help her carry the loot as well?”

“Auror Dawlish,” Bones cut in, and the man relented. The witch looked back at Harry. “That you not only danced with her but also escorted her to the fireplace doesn’t look very impressive. Especially considering the fact that you encountered her twice before.”

“And let her escape both times,” Dawlish muttered.

“I didn’t let her escape!” Harry snapped. “She got away because she is very agile, very skilled and very lucky.” He turned to meet Bones’s eyes. “Should I have arrested Michael Smith’s date for using a guest bathroom or getting lost in the manor? Or for leaving in a huff? He invited her. Both passed through the Thief’s Downfall, so there was no magical compulsion or disguise. I don’t think the Wizengamot would approve of Aurors investigating and arresting their scions’ partners.”

“A few of them might be in favour of such a policy,” Scrimgeour said, his lips twisting into a thin smile.

Harry snorted. Bones’s frown merely grew a little more pronounced.

Dawlish, though, all but growled: “After she admitted to you that she had assaulted a guest - her date - you had sufficient reason to arrest her.”

“She admitted to slapping him and leaving him stuck to a bench,” Harry said. “That wouldn’t even get a detention at Hogwarts. And if she were the daughter of a Wizengamot member, you wouldn’t have dared to mention that.”

“But she isn’t,” Bones cut in. “And the esteemed members of the Wizengamot are well aware of that fact.”

Harry scoffed. “The law’s supposed to treat everyone the same.”

“And Aurors aren’t supposed to get fooled by thieves,” Bones replied.

“There was nothing I could have done. I only realised something was off when she dropped her act right before she vanished,” Harry said.

“A likely story!” Dawlish snorted.

“It’s the truth,” Harry spat. “And I was the only one to notice anything - no one else did.”

“Because they were busy dancing with their girlfriends!” Dawlish retorted, glaring at Ron.

Ron glared back. “Our orders were to act as if we were guests, mingle with the real guests in the ballroom and be ready to protect them. We weren’t even supposed to patrol the manor. Harry did that of his own volition, and that’s the only reason we even discovered the theft before the ball ended!”

“You weren’t ordered to let thieves escape either!”

Dawlish really was trying to blame them for this, Harry realised. “Once again: There was nothing we could have done differently.”

“Prove it! Show us your memories - of the whole evening - in your Pensieve!” Dawlish took a step forward, and Harry almost expected him to draw his wand.

“Sirius hasn’t yet returned from France,” Harry pointed out. “And it’s his Pensieve.”

“I’m sure he’ll offer us its use as long as it will serve to protect you.” Dawlish’s voice was dripping with contempt. Harry wondered what kind of pressure Bones and Scrimgeour were putting on the Auror.

“We cannot force a member of the Wizengamot to let us use a family heirloom,” Scrimgeour pointed out.

“How convenient,” Dawlish muttered. “And I guess you also cannot control what your girlfriend is publishing in her father’s rag?” He glared at Ron.

“The Quibbler isn’t a rag!” Ron gritted his teeth. “And yes - she does her job, I do mine, both without interference.”

“You weren’t doing your job!” Dawlish exclaimed. “That’s the problem!”

“Enough!” Bones snapped. “Impress upon your godfather the importance of using the Pensieve; this is the first time we got a good look at the thief’s face - and we know she wasn’t disguised.”

“Not magically, at least,” Harry pointed out. “She might have been using muggle methods.”

“Which are inadequate,” Scrimgeour retorted. “I concur - we need to watch your memories.”

Harry nodded. “I can ask Sirius, but it’s his decision.” Although Harry didn’t think his godfather would refuse. These thieves had already tried to break into their home - they had to catch them!

“I think that even though Mr Black has considerable influence in the Wizengamot, not many of his peers would accept a refusal to provide crucial help to our investigation. I doubt that he would be able to keep protecting you under such circumstances.” Bones didn’t show any expression on her face as she met Harry’s eyes.

For a moment, he wanted to throw his badge at her. Show her that he wouldn’t let himself be held hostage so they could force Sirius to hand over the Pensieve. But he managed to control himself and nodded instead. Curtly. “I’m sure he is aware of that,” he managed to say.

Bloody politics!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1998**

Hermione Granger flicked her wand and another trunk’s lid flew away, revealing its contents - rows of leather bags with Gringotts’ sigil burned into them. More money! She smiled as she levitated the bags out, then frowned as she started to cut them open - most were filled with Sickles or even Knuts, not Galleons.

“Don’t make such a face,” Mr Fletcher said from where he was checking a chest for poison, “It’s still a small fortune, and that’s only one trunk.”

She huffed. “I would hate to find out that they had hidden a substantial part of their fortune elsewhere.”

“If they did, they were richer than anyone knew,” Sirius said, dropping a bag of Galleons on the pile himself. “And I don’t think they hid their wealth. They were fond of grand gestures, after all - such as the Yule Ball.”

“Which was their undoing.” Hermione nodded. Brought down by their own pride and vanity - a fitting fate for the Greengrasses.

She finished sorting out the coins, then started on dividing the heaps into orderly stacks. She needed to know how much loot she had secured before she could give out the others’ cuts.

“I would ’ave expected some traps in those chests,” Jeanne said.

“There were spells on them,” Hermione said, directing the floating coins with her wand. “But they weren’t enough to stop me.” Or even bother her.

“Quantity may have a quality of its own,” Mr Fletcher cut in, “as the traps on the stairs proved, but barely any over two dozen trunks and chests? That’s not enough to make it count. If they had hired Martin Greengrass to do this, it might have been different, but they didn’t.”

“I would have had his notes in that case and been prepared,” Hermione said. “But I think we’ll have to expect more defences inside the vaults from now on, since we have proven, three times now, that we can get into vaults.”

“Yes,” Mr Fletcher said. With a grin, he added: “Of course, adding more defences and traps to a vault’s interior can also create opportunities to break in - as Greengrass demonstrated, unless you yourself are an expert, you can’t do it yourself.”

Hermione cocked her head at him. “You think they’ll hire more Curse-Breakers?”

“Probably - but seeing as you went through Greengrass’s wards, I think some of them will also look for alternatives.”

Alternatives? Hermione frowned, then her eyes widened. “Dragons, like Gringotts?”

Mr Fletcher chuckled. “Probably not dragons, but other guard beasts are a distinct possibility.”

Hermione nodded. “We’ll have to break into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, then.” And other departments.

*****

An hour later, Hermione Granger finished vanishing the last empty trunk. All the loot from the Greengrass Vault had been sorted - technically, at least. She glanced at the pile to her left. The artwork would need an expert to appraise it - none of her friends knew enough about art. And since it was stolen loot, they had to be very careful, even when going to muggle experts who’d be obliviated afterwards. She wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t as if they needed to sell the art.

The magic artefacts would need further study - which would take more time than Hermione could currently spare. Even though she was very curious about some of the older items; a few had spells she had never seen on them.

But all the coins had been sorted and counted, and neatly stacked. “Time to divide the money!” she announced.

Mr Fletcher, as expected, held up his hand. “I didn’t do anything in this heist.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You helped with establishing the disguise, checked if the Smiths suspected anything, risked capture in the diversion and did all the legwork for the break-in at the Curse-Breaker’s that got us the schemes. You will take your cut and like it!” she added with a glare and a frown.

Sirius and Jeanne laughed as Mr Fletcher sighed. Hermione’s mentor wasn’t giving in that easily, though - he was worse than her mum and grandmother when they fought over who would be allowed to pay the grocery bill when shopping together during the holidays. “Look, I’ve already got more gold than I need,” he said. “More gold than I can spend - without raising suspicions,” he added when Sirius opened his mouth. “And I have no family to inherit anything. Giving gold to me is a waste.”

“Not giving your fair share wouldn’t be right,” Hermione retorted. He was still putting himself down! “And just because you don’t need more gold now doesn’t mean you won’t need it in the future.”

“You could always donate it to our ‘buy off the Wizengamot’ fund,” Sirius cut in. “Politics are expensive.”

Hermione glared at the dog. Their own cuts of the loot were more than enough to finance their takeover of the Wizengamot - once Malfoy was ruined, at least. They wouldn’t even have to spend Sirius’s family fortune. Not any more, at least.

“And with the way we’re ruining Old Families, there’ll be both a need and an opportunity to invest in businesses soon,” Jeanne added. “We can do a better job than the Old Families as well.”

“People would wonder where a drunkard like me got a fortune,” Mr Fletcher pointed out.

“We can arrange for cover stories,” Sirius said, shrugging. “Use some of the muggle ways, if needed. Or have you invest through us.” He grinned. “No one questions that the Blacks are the richest family in Britain!”

Mr Fletcher didn’t look convinced, so Hermione spoke up again. “If you don’t want the gold, I’ll put it aside in a trunk for you here.”

Her mentor chuckled. “I can’t win, can I?”

She grinned. “No, you can’t.”

“That’s settled then!” Sirius announced, chuckling. “Let’s go upstairs now and act as an honourable member of the Wizengamot. I bet my esteemed colleagues are frothing at the mouth and quivering in their dragonskin boots!”

Hermione cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing.”

“Huh?”

She took a deep breath. “I think we need to tell Harry the truth. And Ron.” Before anyone could respond, she went on: “He’ll be in trouble for this - they’ll look for someone to blame, and he is the most obvious choice.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t want to lie to him any more.” Not when he’d return from work angry and hurt this evening.

Sirius shook his head. “No. They won’t be able to turn him into a scapegoat. If they try, I’ll shut them down. But if we tell him what we’ve been doing, he’ll quit his job. I know him.”

“We’ve escaped from him three times already. That hurt his reputation,” Hermione retorted. “Which he needs for his plans. If you simply spend gold for him, he won’t be happy either.”

“His plan isn’t going to work as long as Malfoy and his cronies are in the Wizengamot.” Sirius shook his head. “All we need to do is finish your revenge, and then we can reform the Wizengamot, and Harry gets to clean up the Ministry.” He smiled broadly.

Hermione clenched her teeth. It wasn’t as simple as that. And what about her career? “So we leave him ignorant? His whole life?” She didn’t want to live a lie. It was already difficult enough not to tell him everything. But she couldn’t betray her friends either.

“He’s an Auror,” Mr Fletcher said. “They aren’t exactly on the side of thieves. Remember what I taught you - don’t tell anyone about your work!”

“He’s our friend first,” Hermione replied. “He wouldn’t arrest us.”

Her mentor didn’t look like he shared her conviction. But he didn’t know Harry.

She shook her head, but before she could tell Mr Fletcher that he was wrong, Sirius spoke up again: “If you feel that strongly about this, I’ll talk to Harry. I’ll sound him out - find out what he thinks about this.”

“This?” Jeanne asked.

Sirius made a sweeping gesture. “Well, the whole politics and Ministry thing. I’m not going to tell him about our heists.” Hermione saw Jeanne and Mr Fletcher relax at that. “I’ll just check whether he’s having second thoughts about his career.”

Hermione nodded. That sounded like a good idea. “But if we tell him, then I want to do it.”

She owed Harry that.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 28th, 1998**

“Let’s go home,” Harry Potter said, already flicking his wand to store his paperwork for the night.

“Are you sure?” Ron glanced at the clock. “It’s barely five.”

Harry knew what he meant - they had arrived quite late - just before noon. Arriving late and leaving early didn’t help anyone’s career. But he was fed up. “Yes,” he said. “I want to talk to people who don’t care more for their career than about justice.”

“Bathilda’s still waiting for our reports,” Ron pointed out.

That was true. Harry hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll tell her that we have to head home to talk to Sirius - just like Dawlish wanted.”

Ron chuckled at that and stood, sending his report flying into his drawer with a flick of his wand. “True enough. Do you think we can count dinner as working hours?”

Harry grinned. “It would be funny, wouldn’t it?” And show their superiors that two could play that game. And it wasn’t as if it would matter anyway, as long as Sirius protected them. He pressed his lips together at the thought. “But let’s not do it. We’re better than that.”

“Alright.”

They headed over to Bathilda and Dawlish’s office. The door was slightly open, so Harry knocked and then pushed it fully open. “Bathilda?” She was alone, he noted with both relief and regret. He’d have liked to tell off Dawlish.

Bathilda was at her desk and perked up. “Your reports!” She exclaimed, beaming.

“What are you still doing here?” Harry asked. “And did you take another Pepper-Up Potion?” Or two?

“I was waiting for your reports,” she replied. “And no - I took a nap in the early afternoon. John insisted,” she added.

At least the git looked out for his partner. Or he didn’t want to deal with the trouble it would cause should Bathilda collapse. “Good. But you can go home - we won’t finish our reports today,” Harry said.

“What? It’s barely five!” She shot up, glaring at them.

Harry almost took a step back. “I know, but Dawlish insisted that he wants to see my memories of the encounter with your suspect, which means I need to talk to my godfather.” She didn’t look like she thought that excuse was sufficient, so he added: “And I would rather not talk to him when he wants to retire for the night with his wife.”

“Oh.” Bathilda hunched over slightly, probably remembering the Blacks’ reputation. “I guess that’s true.” She sighed. “And I told John that I’d finish the report today…”

“Blame us,” Ron said. “Everyone does it.”

“Especially Dawlish,” Harry added.

“That’s not right!” She frowned. “Everyone’s under a lot of pressure. No one wants to be the next Macmillan.”

‘Everyone’ probably meant Dawlish. And that meant Bathilda would suffer as well. Harry shrugged. “Well, blame us if anyone criticises you.” Thanks to Sirius, they could handle it - Bathilda couldn’t. “And go home and get some more sleep.” He smiled, then left with Ron.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1998**

“Letting Dawlish access our Pensieve?” Sirius’s dark expression made it obvious to Harry Potter what his godfather thought of the proposal.

“Bones and Scrimgeour are backing him - it’s the opportunity they’ve been waiting for. Bones hinted that she might tell the Wizengamot that you were obstructing the investigation, should you refuse to help the Ministry,” Harry explained, sliding a little forward on his armchair.

“The Wizengamot won’t stand for it,” Sirius retorted, shaking his head as he leaned back on the couch. “No one wants to set such a precedent. The Wizengamot controls the Ministry, not the other way around.”

“I don’t think that the Wizengamot will stand on principle. Not if they face the loss of their power,” Hermione sitting in the armchair next to Harry’s, cut in. “Besides, Harry needs this to disprove the accusations, right?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s really necessary.” The jealous Aurors wouldn’t let a little thing like the truth stop them, anyway. They were too happy at Harry having at last made a blunder. “But it would help with Bones and Scrimgeour.”

“I can handle them. Malfoy already sent a note - he wants to discuss ‘the recent attempt to deflect the blame for the thefts on Aurors who are investigating more important cases and were just helping out’.” Sirius bared his teeth. “As long as Malfoy is afraid of Crouch and wants you on the case, Bones and Scrimgeour can’t touch you at all.”

“But I don’t want to be known as your protege!” Harry snapped. “And I really, really don’t want to owe Malfoy anything!”

“We owe him payback,” he heard Hermione mutter and nodded at her.

He looked at Sirius. “Please.”

Sirius sighed. “Alright. But it stays here - and just Dawlish. If Bones tries to push for more, I’ll tell her exactly where she can stick her demands! Some people have forgotten that the Blacks were feared for a reason!”

“You should let Bathilda watch the memories as well,” Ron, looking up from his enchanted mirror, added. “She’s a nice witch and working with Dawlish.”

Harry nodded, then winced when he saw Hermione scowl.

“Alright, two people then.” Sirius scoffed. “They really shouldn’t pull you away from your own case all the time, though.”

“That only happened once,” Harry said. “The other times we were involved because it looked like a Death Eater attack.” On their home.

“It shouldn’t happen at all. Crouch is a murderer - the longer he’s at large, the more people will suffer.” Sirius shook his head.

“Why are they attacking you so much, anyway?” Hermione asked.

Harry clenched his teeth for a moment before answering. “I encountered the main suspect as she was leaving the manor and was fooled by her story of how her date had been too forward, forcing her to slap him and stick him to a bench in the garden, so I let her go.”

“And you danced with her before that,” Ron added unhelpfully.

“You danced with the thief?” Sirius suddenly grinned widely. “Was she beautiful?”

Hermione was scowling, Harry noticed with a glance as he stared, then glared at his godfather. Sirius should know better! He shook his head. “She was ‘dolled up’ - you know, revealing robes, lots of makeup, expensive jewellery and complicated hairstyle. She probably needed all that work to look attractive. I only danced with her so I could ask her about what Draco Malfoy had been telling her.”

He glanced at Hermione, but she was still scowling - even worse than before! He probably had overdone his denial.

*****

“A word, Harry?”

Upon hearing Sirius, Harry Potter stopped short before the stairs leading to the first floor and turned. “Sure.” He glanced around. Hermione was still in the dining room, talking to Jeanne. “As long as you’re not condemning me for dancing with a thief,” he added with a frown. “I don’t know why she was so angry - I said that the thief wasn’t really beautiful and that I only danced with her because of Malfoy!” At least she had calmed down during dinner.

Sirius shrugged but grinned. “Women are one of the great mysteries of our time. Trying to understand them leads to madness.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Are you quoting one of your magazines at me?” One of his magazines from the seventies.

Sirius coughed. “Let’s go to my study.”

“Alright.”

Once they were seated in Sirius’s study - in conjured armchairs at the window - Sirius sighed. “I was a little flippant earlier, about the whole business with the thief. Sorry.”

Harry waved his hand. “Don’t worry.” Compared to the reaction of the other Aurors - or Hermione’s weird anger - Sirius’s jokes had been harmless.

“But I do worry,” Sirius said, leaning forward. “So please tell me: How bad was it at work?”

For a moment, Harry thought of lying. Or downplaying the issue. But his godfather deserved an honest answer to his question. “It’s bad.” He sighed and leaned back. “The other Aurors - some of them, actually, a lot of them - are heckling us. Mostly me, but Ron’s getting his share of it for dancing with Luna at the ball, instead of, say, spotting and catching a thief no one else noticed.”

“Well, you noticed her, didn’t you?”

“Too late to do any good,” Harry said. “And only because she grinned so…” He clenched his teeth. “...so smugly at me right before she disappeared.”

“Ah.” Sirius nodded. “I see.”

“Really?”

“Well, I can imagine it.” His godfather sighed. “But this… heckling. Is anything being done about it?”

Harry snorted. “There’s nothing you can do about it. They haven’t forgotten what happened to Macmillan and this is their opportunity to get some payback. Macmillan is one of the worst, of course.”

“I’m sure I can do something,” Sirius said. “If not through Bones or Scrimgeour, then through some of my colleagues in the Wizengamot. Have them talk to their proteges and relatives about how to treat my godson. We do have a reputation for a reason, you know.” He grinned.

“No!” Harry blurted out, shaking his head emphatically. That was the last thing he wanted: Sirius bailing him out, like Mrs Wilson when Dudley and her son had gotten into a tussle in kindergarten. “I mean, please, don’t do anything like that. We’ll manage. It’ll blow over.” He had gone through worse, after all.

“If you say so.” Sirius frowned. “But I’ll have to intervene with Bones and Scrimgeour anyway - if I don’t, they’ll assume I’ve cut ties with you.”

“What?” Harry stared at him.

“That’s how the game is played,” Sirius said. He shrugged - in a rather French way, Harry thought. “If your protege gets into trouble, you’re supposed to do something about it.”

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up a little. “It’s worse than I thought!”

“That’s the Wizengamot for you.” Sirius snorted. “Everyone at the Ministry is so used to their meddling and intervening, it’s taken for granted - and the absence of any meddling is seen as a message.”

“And it’s not ‘do your duty according to the law’, is it?” Harry snorted.

“Well, Bones would probably do that - if no one else intervened,” Sirius said.

“Which is unlikely,” Harry said, closing his eyes again. The Ministry was a worse mess than he had thought.

“It makes changing anything very difficult,” Sirius said.

Harry looked at him. “You’re not thinking of giving up, are you?”

“Of course not!” Sirius grinned. “But, since you asked, I have to ask: You’re not thinking of abandoning your own plan, are you? Cleaning the Ministry of corruption and nepotism?”

“Of course not!” Harry shook his head. If he let adversity discourage him, he wouldn’t have been able to defeat Voldemort. “Someone has to clean up the Ministry.” And Harry couldn’t see anyone else doing it - everyone else already seemed to be part of the system.

“I’m just asking because if you’re planning to stray from using strictly legal means to achieve that, I’d like some advance warning so I can cover for you.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding,” Sirius said, laughing. “But don’t tell me you haven’t been tempted to stop playing nice - I dream of hexing my esteemed colleagues every time they try my patience. And you don’t want to know what I dream of doing to my not so esteemed colleagues.”

Harry sighed. He didn’t want to lie, but... “Doing so would ruin everything I’ve already achieved.” Which wasn’t that much, he had to admit to himself. But that didn’t mean it was nothing. “You can’t enforce justice with illegal means.”

Sirius frowned. “Technically, Dumbledore acted against the law during the war against Voldemort. The Order wasn’t exactly a legal organisation.”

Harry was all too aware of just how illegal Dumbledore’s actions had been. And his own, of course. “But that was during a war.” An undeclared war, but a war nonetheless. “There was no other way to defeat Voldemort. We’re not at war any more - that excuse isn’t valid any more.”

Sirius nodded, then grinned toothily again. “It would simplify things if we were still at war, though.”

Harry scoffed. “Don’t joke about that.” At least he hoped that his godfather was joking - it sometimes was hard to tell.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 29th, 1998**

“Please come in, Mr Malfoy.”

Hermione Granger would have rather cursed Malfoy than greeted him politely, but appearances had to be maintained in the Wizengamot. And that included those of Sirius’s personal secretary. She had to play her role in public if she wanted their plans to succeed.

No matter how much she loathed the man who framed her and did his best to ruin her life - and had barely nodded at her in return as if she were beneath him. Besides, if Sirius could smile at the scum, then she could do so as well. Or better - she had been trained to fool people like Malfoy, after all, and had done so numerous times.

She motioned towards the seat at the wall. “Please have a seat. I’ll inform him that you’ve arrived.” She turned to the door to Sirius’s office in the Wizengamot, next to her desk - a remarkably muggle-like arrangement for such an old office. Indeed, appearances had to be maintained, but a little grandstanding was part of the game as well. Malfoy would be well-aware that Sirius didn’t use his office very often, unless a Wizengamot session took a break, and had only come to the Ministry today because he didn’t want to meet with Malfoy at Grimmauld Place, or in Malfoy’s home.

“He is very busy, I suppose, given Potter’s predicament.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at her, nor even giving the impression that he was addressing her. That irked her as much as the man’s reminder that Harry was in trouble.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she knocked on Sirius’s door. “Your eight o’clock is here, sir,” she announced in her best muggle secretary voice.

“Send him in!” came Sirius’s reply.

Hermione opened the door and turned to Malfoy, her smile growing more honest when she caught the slight frown on his face at Sirius’s tone. Her mood improved even more when she saw him frown again at her following him inside and taking up a position next to the door - behind his back and to the side. Just out of his sight, unless he turned his head.

Malfoy couldn’t protest her presence - not without acknowledging that she wasn’t beneath his notice. But he couldn’t ignore her either - even though he was well aware that she wouldn’t do anything to him. Not here.

It was a small, petty thing, but Hermione loved seeing the man squirm - or, at least, imagining him squirm; Malfoy was much better at hiding his reactions than his son, though he wasn’t perfect.

“Morning, Lucius,” Sirius greeted him. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you, Sirius.” Malfoy’s smile was as fake as Sirius’s as he sat.

“You asked for a meeting to discuss this ridiculous attempt to blame Harry for Greengrass and Smith’s blunders, I understand?” Sirius came straight to the point - rude, but not a true faux pas.

“I wouldn’t call it ridiculous - your godson didn’t grow suspicious until it was too late, despite his close proximity to the thief,” Malfoy said.

“He was the only one to suspect and notice anything,” Sirius retorted. “Blaming him for doing more than anyone else managed seems ridiculous to me.” He bared his teeth. “Of course, I’m well-acquainted with how ridiculous the Ministry’s justice is.”

Malfoy didn’t show any reaction to that barb; he would be used to and prepared for it, of course. “Indeed, though it’s still a little embarrassing.”

“More so for the Aurors and, of course, for Greengrass and Smith.” Sirius shrugged. “It’s not as if the Aurors could be expected to harass the date of an Old Family’s scion.”

“Unless they have sufficient reason to suspect they’re not who they appear to be.”

“Which wasn’t the case here.” Sirius shrugged. “Of course, Smith and Greengrass will try to blame Harry for their own faults, but Greengrass is ruined, and Smith doesn’t have a leg to stand on - Harry might have let the thief go, but Smith’s heir invited her to the ball in the first place!”

“That is correct, but not everyone might see it that way,” Malfoy answered.

“They need glasses, then. Or treatment at St Mungo’s, so they aren’t confunded any more,” Sirius retorted.

Malfoy chuckled at that, though it sounded false. “No matter what, Smith and Greengrass do have friends in the Wizengamot - and influence in the Ministry. Although, should other members with a less biased view of things speak up in your godson’s defence, this whole affair would be quickly buried - as it should be.”

“Members like you?”

“Indeed. I intend to ensure that such petty concerns do not negatively affect your godson’s career.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose.” Sirius didn’t hide his scepticism this time.

“Potter’s the best Auror the Ministry has left. And the most honest, too, according to all I’ve heard.” Malfoy smiled. “Yet he’ll need more support than you can give him to fulfil his ambitions, won’t he?”

Hermione almost snorted. Was Malfoy seriously trying to buy off Harry and Sirius by offering his support?

Sirius shrugged. “He’s still young; who can say what he’ll do once he’s caught Crouch?”

Malfoy nodded. “He’s still learning. But he must have realised how the Ministry works.”

“Oh, he has.” Sirius nodded slowly.

Malfoy smiled again.

Hermione clenched her teeth at the insinuation that Harry would ally himself with Malfoy for his career. Harry wouldn’t do that. No matter how frustrated he might become.

“Well, enough talking about the distant future. We are in agreement then that Harry’s not at fault here?” Sirius said.

Malfoy nodded.

And that was what mattered.

*****

“It feels like we’re running away,” Ron muttered as they entered the lift.

“We’re not running away,” Harry Potter replied, a little testily - they had gone over this before. “Lots of Ministry employees take their breaks in a café.”

“We generally don’t, though,” Ron said as he hit the button for the Atrium.

“So?” Harry shrugged. “Besides, taking a break in our office is worse.” Macmillan would spread rumours that they spent all of their working hours on a break and Nott would likely try to have Bathilda get them to come to the break room.

“True,” Ron agreed. “I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Harry said. “But would you prefer to take a break in the Ministry mess hall?”

Ron chuckled and shook his head. “I still don’t understand how the Hit-Wizards can eat there without puking afterwards.”

Harry nodded. Though he was less concerned about the quality of the food there than about the Hit-Wizards who were using it almost exclusively. Getting sneered at by fellow Aurors was one thing, but suffering the same from the grey robes? He scoffed.

The doors opened into the Atrium, and they found themselves face to face with Bathilda. He managed not to wince. “Hi, Bathilda.”

“Harry? Ron?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you taking a break today?”

For a moment, Harry thought about lying. But not to her. “We are taking our break in Diagon Alley today,” he said.

“Oh.” She looked at Ron. “Are you meeting your girlfriends?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “No, Hermione’s busy working.”

“And Luna’s helping her dad distributing The Quibbler today,” Ron added.

Bathilda huffed. “I’ve already read it. What was she thinking, writing this?” She pulled out an issue and pointed at the headline: Auror Failure Endangering Niffler Population!

Harry struggled not to grin. He had read the article as well, of course.

Ron frowned. “She’s pointing out that, so far, the effects of the thieving spree on magical creatures have been overlooked.”

“She’s claiming that Nifflers will go extinct because they’ll be caught and used to track down the stolen gold! That’s rubbish!”

Harry hadn’t seen Bathilda snarl and sneer before. It wasn’t a good look on her.

“Historically, Nifflers have been used to search for treasure,” Ron replied as his eyes narrowed.

“Not to hunt down thieves!” Bathilda scoffed. “Your girlfriend also claims that Nifflers will find less gold in the wilderness since wizards are keeping better track of their money in response to these thefts! And she blames all of it on us not catching the thieves!”

“Nifflers were used after the Goblin Rebellion of 1752 to track down any gold the defeated goblins had been hiding,” Ron retorted. “There’s historical precedent. And you can’t deny that people are being much more careful with their money. At least Old Families,” he added with a toothy grin.

Harry realised two things right then and there: First, Ron was probably spending a little too much time with Luna. And second, Harry should get Ron away from Bathilda before the two had a falling-out. He stepped between them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I want to get to Diagon Alley before my break’s over,” he said. “You can talk this out later.” Much, much later, if Harry could help it.

Fortunately, Bathilda remembered that she didn’t have the time to waste discussing Luna’s article either, and Harry didn’t have to literally drag Ron away.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, December 29th, 1998**

As they approached Brandon’s Café - a recent discovery with good tea, better coffee - a rarity in Diagon Alley - and great pastries - Ron was still ranting. “I don’t know what her problem is - it’s not as if Luna mentioned her or even claimed that it’s all Dawlish’s fault. And it’s common knowledge that the thieves have escaped us three times now.”

Harry Potter shrugged. “She’s under a lot of pressure.” Probably by Dawlish, too.

“Just like us,” Ron replied as he opened the door. “And we have it worse… Merlin’s beard!”

“What?” Harry went for his wand before he saw what had prompted Ron’s outburst: The café was filled with wizards and witches in light grey robes.

“We could have gone to the mess hall for this,” he heard Ron mutter.

He shook his head and adjusted their privacy charm to cover for him drawing his wand. “They’re not Hit-Wizards, but foreign auxiliaries.” Mercenaries, mostly.

“They’ve been hired to free more Hit-Wizards for reserve and patrol duties,” Ron responded. “They are under the Head Hit-Wizard’s command. They work with the Hit-Wizards. Sounds like Hit-Wizards to me. And their robes just need to be a little darker, and they’d look like Hit-Wizards.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do you want to look for another café then?”

“Hell, no!” Ron snorted. “Let’s get a table.”

As they walked through the café, Harry noticed that he hadn’t been the only to go for his wand. A mercenary with a nose that put Snape’s to shame and a thick beard - Albanian, probably, if Harry recognised the language he heard from the man’s table correctly - was slowly stashing his own wand without letting Harry and Ron out of his sight as they passed.

It seemed as if at least one of the mercenaries the Ministry had hired were worth their pay if the man had reacted to Harry drawing his wand. Moody would approve.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 29th, 1998**

Harry Potter’s mood, already bad after yet another afternoon filled with paperwork and snide remarks, didn’t improve when he finally got home and noticed that both Crookshanks and Hedwig were laying siege to Mr Biggles’ habitat.

At least it looked like it - Hedwig was sitting on top of the terrarium, picking at the latch holding the lid in place, while Crookshanks was sitting in front of it, staring at the snake inside. Neither acknowledged his return.

Harry shook his head and dropped his wand on his desk as he slipped out of his Auror robes. “I’ve told both of you: Mr Biggles isn’t for eating.”

Hedwig turned her head to glare at him for a moment, then renewed her attempt to pick the terrarium’s lock. Crookshanks didn’t react at all.

Harry scoffed. His owl’s jealousy was getting worse - it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t speak owl. “It’s locked with a spell. Unless you can cast an Unlocking Charm. You won’t ever open that,” he told her.

The owl stopped her futile efforts, then turned her head to eye his desk. No, his wand.

“Don’t even think about it!” he told her, picking it up.

“They’re dumb. But what can you expect from a bird?” Mr Biggles commented. “Just because they’ve got claws and wings they think they are so superior!”

“Well, owls eat snakes,” Harry pointed out.

“Not me!” Mr Biggles managed to give the impression that he was snorting. “They can’t touch me in here!”

Hedwig barked and flew over to land on Harry’s shoulder. Smiling, he reached out to stroke her plumage when he felt her beak hit the top of his head. “Ow!” He glared at her instead. “I’m not going to stop speaking Parseltongue just because you dislike it!”

That earned him another peck on his head before the owl flew away to land on her perch.

“Yes! Flee, you feathery fool!” Mr Biggles crowed.

Harry sighed, rubbed his head and sat down on his bed. His colleagues were sneering at him, his pets were making a scene and his girlfriend would be in a bad mood as well, after Sirius’s meeting with Malfoy.

“What a bloody day!” he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning back until he was half-lying on the bed.

A second later, he felt a heavy weight settle on his stomach and chest, and something hairy brush over his face, slapping his nose. “Crookshanks, get off!” he snapped without opening his eyes.

“Oh, he likes you! See, I’ve been telling you that you just need to be nicer to him!”

He opened his eyes and made a grab for the tomcat’s tail blocking his vision. “Hermione?”

She was standing in the doorway. “Yes. Sirius finally finished his meeting with Fudge.” She walked inside and sat down next to him - and started to pet Crookshanks. Who was still occupying Harry’s torso. And digging his claws into Harry’s skin as he purred. “Such a good cat, you are!”

Harry coughed. “What happened with Fudge?”

“After Sirius and Malfoy talked to him, he apparently was convinced that you’re not at fault at all, and will impress his opinion on Bones and Scrimgeour.”

He closed his eyes and sighed.

“You don’t sound relieved.”

He sighed again. “I’m just sick of Sirius having to bail me out each time something goes wrong.”

“He means well,” she replied. Judging by the purring noise Crookshanks kept making, she hadn’t stopped petting the cat.

“I know. It’s not his fault that the Ministry’s so screwed up. All the Aurors are blaming me. And, to a lesser degree, Ron.”

“They’re just jealous,” she said.

He looked at her. She was frowning, then biting her lower lip. “I want to apologise to you.”

He blinked. “For what?” What had she done?

“For getting angry at you last night over what happened with the thief. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Ah.” He nodded. He still didn’t quite understand why she had gotten so angry, but he didn’t want to pry either. It was probably Paul’s fault. His eyes widened slightly. Had that git cheated on her? Did that explain Hermione’s reaction?

“Harry?”

“Sorry.” He smiled at her. “I just remembered that scene again.” He reached out to squeeze her thigh. “It’s OK. All of us are under a lot of pressure, I think.”

She frowned for a second, then nodded. “Probably,” she said.

After a moment filled with Crookshanks’s purring, Harry chuckled. “So, I guess we will skip asking each other how our days were?”

He saw her scowl for an instant before she nodded with a smile. He had been right, then.

She leaned over, dislodging Crookshanks with a light touch of her shoulder - Harry felt a brief pang of envy at how easily she could drive the cat away without getting scratched - and laid her head on his chest. “Let’s just stay like this until dinner.”

“Yes.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, December 30th, 1998**

Hermione Granger eyed the dusty floor in the tunnel carefully. It didn’t look like it had been disturbed since she had been here the last time, but she wasn’t the only one who could cover her tracks with a few spells. The wall in front of her, though, didn’t show any signs of tampering either, and the few charms she had placed on it were all still in place.

It looked like the passage Dumbledore had shown her and Mr Fletcher, back before his last fight with Voldemort, was still unknown to others, especially to the Ministry.

She snorted. It looked like - but she had to check, of course. Assumptions got thieves caught - or killed.

Hermione flicked her wand, and a small hole appeared in the wall before her. Large enough for a man of average size like Mr Fletcher to pass through with a little effort. Or for a graceful, lithe cat to comfortably walk through. Well, but for the nasty dust clinging to her fur. She’d have to carefully clean herself afterwards.

The room - if you could call a former part of the storm drains which had been walled off two hundred years ago that - was as dusty as she remembered. That didn’t matter, of course. What mattered was the ladder there, leading up. And the wards on the manhole cover above.

She activated her mask’s enchantment and studied the protections, smiling as she realised that they hadn’t been modified - Mr Fletcher’s modifications were still in place and would provide her with an easy way to enter the Ministry clandestinely.

She could start planning the rest of her next heist now.

*****


	56. Storm Clouds

**Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1998**

“Are you feeling better? Did having a rest help?”

Michael Smith had to struggle not to scowl openly at his mother’s question. She was asking after his health, but he knew what she meant: ‘Are you still insisting on not attending our New Year’s Ball?’ He put the buttered scone down and looked at her. “I didn’t sleep very well, Mother,” he replied. “Tossed and turned for the whole night, barely got a wink of sleep.” He wasn’t entirely lying, of course - he had lain awake for hours. And he wasn’t feeling well. Not at all.

Who would be feeling well after they had been utterly humiliated like he had? He clenched his teeth before he started cursing like he had done yesterday. To be duped like a muggle by that despicable thief! She had made him into the laughing stock of British society! He was well aware that everyone was mocking him behind his back, even the scum of Britain - mudbloods, blood traitors and the rabble in Knockturn Alley. Ordinarily, they wouldn’t have dared thinking about disrespecting him, but after this?

“Perhaps more rest would help. Or a visit to St Mungo’s.” His mother raised her cup and took a sip. “You shouldn’t have to miss our own ball.”

He turned his scoff into a cough. Of course, his absence would embarrass her - everyone would know the real reason he wasn’t attending the ball. But he couldn’t face his so-called peers and their mocking, fake smiles. “I would rather not risk making a scene if I suddenly had a relapse,” he said. Not attending the ball - avoiding his responsibilities - was bad, but should he lose his temper and curse Malfoy, or anyone else mocking him, then that would be much, much worse.

No matter how satisfying it would be to see Malfoy screaming on the ground, his smug smile replaced by a rictus of agony as he rotted from the inside… Michael hid his smile with his scone. That was the most powerful dark curse he knew. The most impressive as well - but casting it in public would see him in Azkaban no matter the provocation. Britain wasn’t as tolerant as the Byzantines had been, alas.

His mother had finally understood what he had been hinting at and nodded. “I see. Please get more rest, then.” She smiled at him. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He pressed his lips together. She was trying to console him, but he knew she was disappointed in him - and with good cause. He had brought shame on the family by leading a thief into Greengrass Manor. A wizard of his status and experience was supposed to know better than to be fooled by a common harlot.

Although he couldn’t help feeling some satisfaction that while his lapse in judgement had embarrassed himself and his family, it had ruined the Greengrasses. It was poetic justice that their downfall would be caused, if indirectly, by the fact that no British witch of good breeding had deigned to accompany him to the ball. If they hadn’t been so stuck-up over his meaningless affair, he wouldn’t have been forced to invite a foreigner.

“Where is Father?” he asked, changing the subject. His father usually ate breakfast with them.

“He is looking over our protections,” his mother answered. “We actually need a Curse-Breaker for that, but with everyone in a panic, we couldn’t get a hold of one in time.”

Michael nodded. His father wasn’t a professional Curse-Breaker, but he had excelled in Arithmancy, gaining an Outstanding N.E.W.T.  

Not that it would help much, in Michael’s opinion. Not against a thief who broke into the Greengrasses’ vault in an hour. “Will we have guards inside the vault?” he asked. It was the obvious solution, in his opinion. The thieves had always fled when they couldn’t fight from ambush. A few guards would, therefore, drive them off.

“Zacharias and Melchior will stand guard in our vault during the ball.”

And they would miss the ball as well. Michael smiled. “Good.”

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, December 31st, 1998**

Most people, when they envisioned a trip to Knockturn Alley, thought of dark evenings, with the Alley shrouded in shadows and the side-alleys barely more than pitch-black holes between buildings, where hags and worse monsters lurked. They imagined looking over their shoulders, anxiously expecting an attack as soon as they showed any weakness.

Michael Smith wasn’t most people. He was the scion of an Old Family - and a man well-versed in the Dark Arts. He strode through the Alley without a care, his bearing telling the riffraff that he was not to be bothered while his cowl hid his face.

After his humiliation, seeing the scum shy away from him felt good. Very good. If only they knew what he could do… no one would dare mock him - or, worse, pity him for having been fooled by a thief. He almost wished that some fool or other would accost him - give him an excuse to vent his anger.

But none did, and he reached his goal, Sarah’s Stash, without the catharsis of a fight. It was better so - he would have had to vacate the premises, had he used his favourite spells on anyone, even in Knockturn Alley - but he was still disappointed. He wanted, needed to hurt someone, something, before his anger and frustration tore him apart.

Scowling beneath his cowl, he entered the shop. Sarah’s message had merely stated that she had found something of interest to him - nothing else. She was very cautious, but she had a knack for finding obscure and illegal tomes, and she had yet to disappoint him.

He looked around in the dimly lit shop for the old witch - there.

“Hello.” She nodded at him with her customary smile, revealing yellow and slightly too thin teeth. Hag blood in her ancestry,

“Hello.” Michael nodded curtly. He had no intention of lingering any longer than necessary. “I heard that you found something of interest.” Dare he hope that it was the Aztec grimoire - translated, of course; the Aztecs Blood Priests hadn’t used tomes but codices, most of which had been destroyed - he had been seeking?

“Yes.” She nodded again, still smiling. Slightly vacantly, he noted. And she wasn’t showing any anticipation of a sale.

He drew his wand and cast a Shield Charm. Something wasn’t right. There! Something moved behind the shelf to his right!

His Reductor Curse tore the shelf apart, sending parts and pieces flying. He was already moving, his next curse - the Gut-Rotting Curse - striking the figure half-hidden in the dust cloud.

The figure didn’t scream. He blinked. How…? Whirling around, he aimed his wand at Sarah, who was still standing there, smiling. It wasn’t her, but who…

A spell slammed into his Shield Charm, shattering it and bowling him over. He rolled over his shoulder and came up with his wand already moving - but couldn’t spot the attacker. Disillusioned! He started to cast the Human-presence-revealing Spell, but another curse struck him before he could finish, and he felt his limbs lock up as he fell to the ground. No!

“Good reflexes, decent curses, but you haven’t been in a real fight yet, have you?”

He didn’t recognise the voice, but the mocking tone… something - a foot - pushed into his ribs and he was flipped over on to his back.

His assailant was a man, rather shabby looking. Large, ugly nose and a thick beard.

Michael had never seen him before. But the man’s smile sent chills down his spine.

“Been dabbling in the Dark Arts, have we?” The man shook his head. “You bought a number of interesting artefacts as well - you show real promise, indeed. But needs must. And I need something from your collection.”

The man’s wand flicked, and Sarah collapsed. Then he pointed the wand at Michael.

“Imperio.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 31st, 1999**

That oaf! That idiot! Entering her home as if he owned it! And at a time when she should be getting ready for the New Year’s Ball! Hermione Granger wanted to hiss and chase him out. Instead, she pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t bare her teeth and nodded. “Auror Dawlish. Auror Meringworth.”

“Miss Granger.” He narrowed his eyes at her, then looked around.

“Hello.” Meringworth smiled, but she was an Auror as well - and working for Dawlish, which made her just another intruder.

“Sirius and Harry are preparing the Pensieve,” she said with a thin smile. Did he expect them to wait for him so he could be greeted as if he were an honoured guest instead of an intruder? She almost snorted. “If you’ll follow me?” She gestured at the door leading to the hallway.

He scoffed but nodded. “You’re part of the family now, huh?” he said as she opened the door.

“Our private life is none of your concern,” she replied with narrowed eyes.

“Of course not.” He scoffed again.

Was he still hung up on his theory that she was a gold-digger or even a black widow? She narrowed her eyes at him again but didn’t deign to respond.

He kept looking around as they walked down the hallway. Nosy, she thought. Like a dog sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. And Meringworth wasn’t much better, although she managed to look like she was merely curious. “Don’t worry about getting lost,” she said with a sweet smile, “We’ll escort you to the fireplace afterwards.”

He glared at her, then showed his teeth. “I’m sure you will,” he said. “You have too much to hide, don’t you?”

“Are you insinuating something, Auror Dawlish?” she snapped. How dare he take that tone with her in her own home!

“Not at all. Everyone has secrets they don’t want to get out, right?” he said, with a mocking undertone that made her want to rake her claws across his nose.

Fortunately - for him! - they reached the door to the living room, to which Harry and Sirius had temporarily relocated the Pensieve.

“Ah, Auror Dawlish. Auror Meringworth. You made it!” Sirius said, acting as if he had had his doubts and was positively surprised.

Hermione grinned at the expression on Dawlish’s face when the idiot realised he was being mocked. That’d teach him to accuse Harry of making a blunder when it was his own fault - as if Hermione was such a clumsy thief that she’d need the Aurors to make mistakes, anyway!

She hurried away, though - she had to make up the time wasted on the idiot and his helper. This was her first ball as Harry’s date, and she needed to look perfect! Or as perfect as her role allowed, anyway.

*****

**Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1998**

Hermione Granger was graceful and lithe - like a cat. And experienced; in her guise as Miss Merriweather, she had been the belle of the ball in the past - of this particular ball, at least: the New Year’s Ball at Smith Manor.

But Hermione Granger was known as the slightly clumsy secretary of the notorious Sirius Black and recent lover of the Boy-Who-Lived, and she couldn’t afford to disprove that. No matter how much the snide comments from the gaggle of bigots around Parkinson and Malfoy that she overheard in passing irked.

Especially not when she had danced in another guise - Mlle Levesque - only a few days ago with Harry Potter, as well as Michael Smith, the son of today’s host, and was Britain’s most wanted witch.

And so she had to portray herself as Harry’s eager and pretty, but not overly graceful, date, as well as a debutante, for this ball.

Though, if she was honest, it wasn’t that grating. She did love dancing with him, after all. And she was, after so many years, if not used to the insults and slights, then used to ignoring them - one could hardly work as the muggleborn secretary of a member of the Wizengamot and not learn that particular skill.

The music changed, slowing down - a change of pace she welcomed enthusiastically, as it allowed her and Harry to dance much closer together than before. She almost purred when he gently pulled her towards him.

And she almost hissed when she heard the next comments - they must have drifted a little too close to the group around Parkinson and Malfoy.

“Look at her throwing herself at him! Shameless!” Parkinson spat, a little louder, Hermione thought, than usual.

“What can you expect from a muggleborn who didn’t even finish Hogwarts? We should be grateful she’s not trying to cover herself in mud - muggles do that when they gather to dance.”

Malfoy, apparently, had found a socially accepted way to associate her with mud - although she wondered if his mixing up muggle open-air concerts and dances wasn’t based in actual ignorance instead of merely bigotry. He certainly was dumb and arrogant enough for either possibility.

She felt Harry tense under her hands and bent forward slightly to whisper into his ear: “Let them talk - they can’t do anything to us. We’re here to enjoy ourselves.”

She saw how he forced himself to relax. “Alright.” After a moment, spent moving a little further away from the bigots surrounding Malfoy and Parkinson, he added: “You’re much more forgiving than I am. I want to hex their mouths shut.”

“They’re idiots who are not worth making a scene about and ruining our evening,” she replied. Of course, it was easier to appear magnanimous if you knew that both Parkinson and Malfoy would face the ruin of their families soon enough.

“And it’s a good sign that they are whispering about me,” she added with a smile untouched by the pang of guilt she felt, “instead of about the Greengrass heist.” Especially since Harry breaking the law and attacking Malfoy and Parkinson might neatly solve the issue of him still sticking to his plans as an Auror.

He nodded. “I was half-expecting Malfoy to try and needle me, despite his father’s deal with Sirius.” He looked around. “I guess that is why Smith is ‘not feeling well’ instead of attending the ball in his own home.”

She snorted. “Malfoy’s father will have told him to behave - he wants you to owe him. That he apparently thinks belittling me is acceptable just shows how stupid he is.”

“Or how drunk,” Harry replied.

She scoffed. “Those are the same thing.” Only an idiot would get drunk at a ball so soon after the Greengrass heist had shown how dangerous that could be. An idiot - or someone who had realised that the logistics for two such heists happening close together were too hard even for Britain’s most famous thieves. But Malfoy certainly wasn’t that smart.

She noticed that Harry was looking around while trying not to appear to be doing so. “Are you looking for Sirius? He’s on the terrace with Jeanne and Doge, I think,” she said.

“Ah, thank you.” He smiled at her. “But I was looking at Zabini’s date, actually.”

She struggled not to scowl - why would he be looking at other witches when he was at the ball with her? “Oh?”

He nodded. “She’s very beautiful and apparently Italian - I don’t want to be fooled by that damned thief again.”

Hermione’s smile dimmed a little as she realised that Harry would be spending a significant amount of time staring at pretty witches even when dancing with her.

And it was her own fault, sort of.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, January 1st, 1999**

“Smith really wasn’t feeling well last night,” Ron commented, his voice deadpan, upon entering the shop in Knockturn Alley the Auror patrol had secured.

Harry Potter nodded, staring at the twisted corpse on the floor, then at the half-rotten witch behind the counter. Fortunately, a Bubble-Head Charm took care of the awful stench. It couldn’t do anything about the gruesome sight, but as an Auror, you didn’t let that affect you. Or acted as if you didn’t. Inappropriate jokes were part of the act. Especially in front of the regular patrol, whose members looked more than a little green in the face.

He bent down and waved his wand. “Looks like a variant of the Bone-breaking Curse.” All of the man’s limbs were broken in multiple places and bent along the breaks.

“Yes,” Ron confirmed. Smith had died hard, judging by the expression on the corpse’s face.

Harry nodded at the older witch. “That was a dark curse for sure. A slow one, too.”

“Someone wanted to make it look like they killed each other?” Ron cocked his head. “He hit her with a lethal but slow curse, and she killed him with a curse of her own before succumbing to his?”

Harry nodded and surveyed the shop. It had been looted extensively, but the corpses hadn’t been touched as far as he could tell - even hags didn’t want to eat flesh cursed by the Dark Arts. “To hide the real murderer. Or one of them had an accomplice.”

“That’s possible too.” Ron’s tone told Harry that he didn’t think it’d be that simple. Harry didn’t think so either - this looked and felt like a set-up.

“Bet the wands match the curses used?” Ron grinned.

“Sucker bet,” Harry grunted.

The sound of steps coming closer made him turn around and lift his wand slightly. Just in case. The Auror at the door snapped to attention, but that didn’t mean anything.

“Potter? Weasley? What are you doing here?”

Dawlish. Harry didn’t bother hiding his frown.

“Hi, Harry. Hi, Ron.”

“Hi, Bathilda,” Ron said,

“We’re the Aurors on duty to investigate murders today,” Harry answered, nodding first at Bathilda, then, curtly, at Dawlish. It wasn’t quite punishment detail - Bones and Scrimgeour had admitted, after Dawlish had viewed his memories, that his actions had been ‘reasonable’ - but the change of shifts had been a little too close to the Greengrass robbery to be a coincidence. And ‘reasonable’ wasn’t exactly praise.

“Well, you can stop now; we’re taking over.”

“You’ve got a case already,” Harry retorted. “A big case.” And one with which Dawlish wasn’t having much success, even though he seemed to have escaped censure for the robbery taking place under his watch - the man must have cashed in some favours, in Harry’s opinion - and had also seen Harry’s memories.

“This is related to our case,” Dawlish snapped. “Smith is an important witness in it.”

“Was an important witness,” Ron added. “Unless the Wizengamot has authorised Necromancy and didn’t tell us.”

Harry chuckled at the joke, but he wouldn’t put it past the scared Old Families to do something like that in their panic - it had taken a concerted effort by Sirius, Doge and Croaker to quash the most recent proposal to authorise the Aurors to use the Unforgivables. To think the Head Unspeakable had to point out the corrupting effects of those spells…

“This is no laughing matter!” Dawlish snarled - the man looked ready to draw on Ron, Harry noticed. “I suspect Smith was killed to prevent him from identifying the thief at the New Year’s Ball last night.”

“The thieves didn’t do this,” Harry snapped. They were cocky, cunning and far too competent, but they hadn’t seriously hurt anyone so far.

“And why would you think that?” Dawlish sneered. “Growing fond of them, perhaps?”

“What?” Harry bared his teeth. “Are you crazy?”

“It would explain why they keep escaping you.” Dawlish scoffed.

“Please,” Bathilda said, “let’s focus on the case. We won’t catch any criminals if we fight each other.”

Dawlish snorted but at last held his tongue.

Harry clenched his teeth as he nodded. “It might be connected to our case,” he said. “We won’t know until we’ve investigated further.”

And he certainly wouldn’t let Dawlish take over until then!

*****

**Kent, Smith Manor, January 1st, 1999**

Eleanor Smith was quite composed for a witch who had just lost her son. As a member of the Wizengamot, that was to be expected of her, but still… Harry Potter knew Sirius wouldn’t be as calm and polite if Harry had been murdered.

“This is his room,” she said, flicking her wand to open the door. “I trust you will be able to deal with the spells he used to protect his privacy.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned away and started to walk back towards the living room. Apparently, she was more shaken than she showed - leaving the Aurors like that wasn’t something usually done in her circles, Harry knew. He certainly wouldn’t let anyone snoop around in his home without watching them. Far too easy to plant a curse or set a trap. Or rob your vault.

“Well, are we able to handle whatever curses Smith might have used to protect his privacy?” Ron asked, peering through the doorway.

Dawlish, as expected, scoffed. “Don’t tell me that you’re afraid of a few curses.”

“We’re Aurors, not Curse-Breakers,” Harry shot back.

Dawlish huffed, but Bathilda put her hand on his arm, and he remained silent.

Harry snorted and walked up to the doorway. “Entering the room should be safe enough - I don’t think Smith cared to clean up after himself.” Which meant he’d have had to let the house-elves enter.

Harry still checked for spells with his glasses but didn’t find any on the door or the floor. He looked for traps next, but the walls and floor were protected against his glasses. He stepped inside.

“Looks like you’re skilled enough at Curse-Breaking - you’re still alive.” Dawlish snorted and followed him.

“Every Auror should be able to at least spot spells, even if they can’t deal with them,” Ron said. “Every decent Auror, at least, according to Moody.”

“Please.” Bathilda tilted her head and frowned at all of them as she spoke. “Let’s just do our work.”

Dawlish clenched his teeth - Harry saw his facial muscles contract - but the older Auror nodded. “Let’s work on our case.”

“Some spells on the trunk there,” Ron announced, pointing at a polished trunk of dark wood.

“That’s a school trunk - those are probably just the usual jinxes to keep it safe from other students,” Bathilda said.

“Or that’s what a dark wizard would like you to think,” Harry said, taking a step forward to put himself between her and the trunk.

“That’s what Moody would say, right?” Bathilda correctly guessed.

“Yes.” Ron nodded. “There are more spells on the bookshelves and the desk.”

“Figures.” The witch sighed. “So we need a Curse-Breaker.”

“I’ll call Abigail. Abigail Smith,” Harry said. At Bathilda’s expression, he added: “No relation to the Old Family.” Unless Abigail’s ancestors hadn’t been as muggle as she claimed.

*****

“Basic stuff on the trunk - wouldn’t have needed me for that; won’t touch anyone with a Shield Charm,” Abigail said, flicking her wand at it. “But since I’m here…” She grinned.

Harry Potter nodded. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Bloody Moody,” Dawlish muttered. “Can we get to the bookshelves and desk now? I’d like to get on with my investigation.”

“Your investigation?” Abigail frowned and looked at Harry. “I thought it was yours.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he explained.

“Ah. Politics.” She nodded with a broad grin that pulled her half-paralysed face into a grimace. Harry and Ron were used to it, but he saw Bathilda flinch. “That’s not a problem in my business. Whoever is alive at the end gets the gold,” the Curse-Breaker went on.

“What?” Bathilda sounded shocked.

“I’m kidding,” Abigail replied. “Mostly.” She peered at the bookshelf, flicking her wand again. “Oh, those are nasty spells. Dark ones, too. This will be interesting.” She got up and checked the desk. “And worse here! Oh, that’s new as well. Not very effective, but original!” She sounded pleased.

Curse-Breakers. Harry glanced at Ron, who shook his head. “How much time will you need?” he asked.

“Mh… two hours at most, I’d say,” she answered without looking up. “Whoever cast these spells didn’t know much about Curse-Breaking.”

Harry nodded. “Alright. We’ll leave the room, then, so you don’t get distracted.” And get a wall between them and the witch. Just in case. Ron was already moving.

They left the room. After a moment’s hesitation, Bathilda and Dawlish followed them.

Outside, Harry rolled his shoulder. “So... two hours.”

“Plenty of time to go back to the Ministry and finish my preliminary report,” Bathilda said.

Dawlish frowned. “I’ll stay here in case something comes up.”

Harry frowned. The git just didn’t want anyone else to check the room without him. Well, two could play that game. He smiled. “I think we can get Madam Smith’s testimony in the meantime.”

“We’ll have to talk to her again as soon as we have more information from Smith’s room,” Bathilda pointed out.

She was correct, of course - but this wasn’t about Smith. This was about Dawlish trying to steal their case.

*****

“No, Michael behaved completely normally yesterday morning. He told me that he wasn’t feeling well and would have to miss the ball, but there wasn’t anything else out of the ordinary.” Madam Smith’s face showed no emotion, but Harry Potter noticed that she was gripping the handle of her teacup very hard and was trembling slightly.

“Did he say anything about going to Knockturn Alley?” Dawlish asked.

The witch frowned at him. “I just said that he told me that he wasn’t feeling well enough to attend our ball, so, of course, he wouldn’t go out.”

“Of course,” Dawlish said. “And he never mentioned Knockturn Alley or a witch named ‘Sarah Kohlmeier’?”

“Never.” Smith shook her head slightly.

“Did he mention the Dark Arts?” Harry asked before Dawlish could pose another question.

“No,” Smith answered - a little too quickly, in Harry’s opinion.

“Not even in the context of Defence against it?”

“He did talk about it in that context, in general terms.” Smith’s smile seemed frozen. “He was interested in the plight of the New World, which was how this thief managed to gain his trust.”

“Do you think he might have seen or remembered something that could have threatened the thieves?” Dawlish cut in. “Did he ever talk about hunting them himself?”

“No, he didn’t…” Smith trailed off. “But he wouldn’t tell me that, of course - I’d have forbidden him from risking his life. Perhaps…” She trailed off again.

Harry forced himself not to scoff at Dawlish’s leading questions. “Why would he do that?” he asked. “They escaped from the entire Auror Corps; would he really have thought he could succeed where we failed?” If Smith had thought so, he was a worse fool than Harry had thought.

“Perhaps he didn’t trust the Aurors,” Dawlish said.

“I was asking Madam Smith,” Harry snapped. What was the idiot thinking?

“Perhaps we should check if Curse-Breaker Smith is done with the room,” Bathilda said with a strained smile.

“Good idea,” Harry said, rising from his seat. It hadn’t been two hours yet, not even close, but it was better than having a row with Dawlish in front of Smith.

As expected, Dawlish quickly followed his example, and they followed Madam Smith to her son’s room.

“I was about to send an elf to call you; good timing,” Abigail said as soon as they approached the room. “All done here. Whoever cast those spells knew a lot about the Dark Arts, but not much about detection and alarm charms.”

And unless Smith had managed to sneak a dark wizard in to do this, he had been the one to cast the spells.

“He had some dubious friends,” Madam Smith said. “He never introduced them to me; I thought they were simple wastrels trying to abuse his generosity, but if one among them was a dark wizard…”

“Then it looks like he lent your son his library,” Ron said, pointing at the books on the shelves. The recently enlarged shelves.

Dawlish frowned but took a closer look. Then his eyes widened, and he whistled. “I haven’t seen so many illegal books since the Borgin and Burkes robbery.”

“Check the extended desk, too - lots of artefacts!” Abigail added.

“Planted, I am certain,” Madam Smith said. “It would have been easy for the thief to fool my son into sneaking her into his room.”

“If she had access to your manor, perhaps we should check whether anything was stolen.”

“I personally checked yesterday and this morning,” Madam Smith told them, looking as if she had bitten into a sour lemon. “Nothing was amiss.”

“Doesn’t look like the thieves’ work then,” Harry said, shrugging. “And why would she use such expensive books to frame him? There are cheaper ways.”

“To destroy my son’s reputation and embarrass me, Auror Potter,” she snapped. Looking at Dawlish, she added: “Can I trust that you will be handling this case with tact and discretion?”

“Of course,” Dawlish replied.

Harry almost snorted. Another reason not to let the git take the case from him and Ron: They wouldn’t cover this up.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 1st, 1999**

“...and the dark curse that was cast with Smith’s wand matches the description of a dark curse in one of the grimoires we found in his room,” Harry Potter said, looking at Scrimgeour. “The page was bookmarked, so it was likely the last curse he learned.”

“From the way you worded it, you don’t believe that Smith cast the dark curse that killed Kohlmeier.”

“It’s a little too neat,” Harry replied.

“It feels like a set-up,” Dawlish added. “Our most important witness, killed by Knockturn Alley scum, less than a week after the robbery?” He shook his head. “That’s no coincidence.”

“We,” Harry said, nodding at Ron, “suspect it’s related to our case. Something was missing from Smith’s desk - something that was very well protected. And in light of Smith’s obvious fascination with the Dark Arts, it is likely to be both rare and dangerous.”

Dawlish snorted. “That doesn’t mean Crouch is involved. It wouldn’t be the first time some foreign dark wizard killed to get a rare book.”

“From the implements we found, Smith was dabbling in blood magic,” Harry retorted. “Like Voldemort was.”

“The Dark Lord and Crouch weren’t behind every dark curse cast in Britain,” Dawlish said.

“Assuming that there’s some unknown foreign dark wizard behind this while Crouch is still at large is irresponsible,” Harry shot back. “There aren’t that many dark wizards who’d dare to do such a thing. And assuming that this is the work of the thieves runs against everything we know. They haven’t seriously hurt anyone so far - even witnesses.”

“None of the witnesses were as close to them as Smith,” Dawlish insisted.

“They could have easily obliviated him before robbing Greengrass’s vault,” Harry retorted. “Killing him days after that makes no sense.”

“Enough.” Scrimgeour raised his voice slightly. “The fact that Smith is a potential link between the robbery and this possible double-murder cannot be denied.” Dawlish started to smile. “However, Auror Potter is correct - this doesn’t fit the modus operandi of the thieves.”

“They disguised themselves as Death Eaters before!” Dawlish snapped. “Who says they won’t go farther?” After a glare from the Head Auror, he managed a “Sorry.” through clenched teeth.

Scrimgeour nodded. “So, you’ll have to work together on this case until you can determine who’s correct.”

Dawlish pressed his lips together and looked as if he had trouble controlling himself.

Harry almost smirked. He wasn’t too happy about having to work with Dawlish, but it was better than losing the case to the biased idiot. And Dawlish’s expression was quite funny.

*****

“So, which lead will we investigate first?” Ron asked a few minutes later, back in their office.

Harry Potter snorted. It wasn’t as if they had any decent leads - and Ron knew that. The patrols had found no witnesses yet, no informers had had anything to report so far and either Kohlmeier hadn’t kept any records, or the murderer had taken or destroyed them. Harry was betting on the latter. “Let’s send the usual forms to France and Prussia asking for help.” It wouldn’t do any good, but with Dawlish on the same case, they had to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, or he’d try to use that against them.

Ron nodded. “Imagine if we actually got some help from foreign ministries!”

“Well, if anything hints at a foreign connection, we can investigate in person. And we can ask Jeanne to look into it.”

Ron shrugged. “Her friends didn’t find anything about Levesque.”

“I didn’t expect them to have any success,” Harry replied. “These thieves are British - they know us too well to be foreigners.”

“They could have British accomplices,” Ron pointed out. “If they were all British, why didn’t we already know of such skilled thieves?”

“They might have done less spectacular - easier - robberies,” Harry replied. “Worked up to the Manors.”

Ron didn’t seem convinced. “We don’t know about any particularly skilled but not spectacular robberies before last year, though. Would they really have gone from petty crime to manors?”

That was a good point. Harry sighed. “So they might be foreigners.” Which meant they would need help from foreign ministries. “We might have better luck checking the foreign newspapers for reports of daring robberies than officially asking for information.”

Ron snorted. “Well, the thieves aren’t our case - not our problem.”

Harry glared at his friend. “We’re still Aurors. I’ll tell Bathilda our theory.” She might be able to investigate that - and, or so Harry hoped, occupy Dawlish with something more constructive than trying to blame Harry for everything and demonising the thieves.

“Better wait until tomorrow’s break,” Ron said. “Unless you want to talk to Dawlish again.”

He didn’t. Harry checked the clock on the wall - it was already too late for an afternoon break. “Tomorrow then.”

“Until then - fill out the Prussian and Polish forms!” Ron handed a stack of parchment over to him.

Harry stared at them. They were written in German and Polish, respectively, with spaces left to enter the names of the subjects. You were supposed to write a new letter, using the form as a base, but most Aurors didn’t bother - why should they make such an effort if it never led to anything? He snorted. “Has anyone actually checked these forms? Perhaps there was a mistranslation, and that’s why we never get any useful replies.”

“Percy checked them during a brief internship in International Cooperation,” Ron answered. “Said they were old-fashioned but correct. Apparently Crouch senior did the forms himself - and he spoke every European language.”

Harry frowned. If that ran in the family, Crouch would have an easy time hiding in other countries.

Perhaps he should investigate that angle in France.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 2nd, 1999**

“...and even though the situation is not as dire - yet - as to justify authorising the Aurors’ use of the Unforgivables, we have to do something.”

Hermione Granger wanted to roll her eyes at Parkinson’s lies. The man had been among the most fervent supporters of the proposal to let the Aurors and Hit-Wizards use the Unforgivables. In a transparent ploy, Malfoy had proposed a ‘compromise’ to members who were outraged by this - only the Imperius Curse would be authorised.

It had taken a comprehensive explanation of the reasons that the Unforgivables were banned by the Head Unspeakable to bury that proposal, and now Parkinson was acting as if he had never proposed it.

“The Aurors are spread thin in order to guard all of us against the last Death Eater and the thieves, but no war was ever won by defending yourself. What we need are more wands out looking for the thieves,” Parkinson went on. “This requires training and experience, however. Fresh Aurors and Hit-Wizards won’t be of much use in those roles.”

Unless they were Harry and Ron, Hermione thought. Harry had almost caught her - twice, so far.

“And skilled, experienced witches and wizards are neither cheap nor, usually, willing to move to Britain. I, therefore, propose to offer a significant reward for the thieves’ heads.” Parkinson grinned. “This will attract mercenaries and bounty hunters from all over Magical Europe who will hunt the thieves on their own time, with the Ministry’s gold only spent once they succeed.”

Hermione’s sharp hiss was lost in the noise of the chamber’s reaction to Parkinson’s proposal.

“We’re already hiring foreign mercenaries, and now you want to invite even more of them? And have them act without any ministerial supervision or control? Are you mad?” An old wizard - Shacklebolt, she noticed - yelled over the murmurs of his colleagues.

Parkinson sniffed and raised his chin. “The foreign wands we hired have served well so far.”

“None of them have served longer than a few weeks,” Shacklebolt retorted. He’d know - one of his relatives was among the top Aurors in the Corps.

Sirius spoke up, using an Amplification Charm to make himself be heard. “And why should the Ministry offer a reward? Traditionally, such bounties were put up by families.” He grinned. “The Blacks certainly did so in the past, as did others.”

Parkinson glared at him. “If the Ministry puts up a bounty, not only does this offer more control over the foreigners’ actions, but the amount will be larger, therefore attracting more skilled wizards and witches.”

Sirius scoffed in return. “If you cannot afford a decent bounty, then I don’t think you need to be afraid of anyone robbing you.”

Parkinson gasped at the implied insult, and Malfoy rose before the man could stammer out a response. “This is not the time to try and belittle your rivals, but the time to stand together against a menace to us all.” Malfoy nodded at Sirius. “Your own home was targeted, and the Aurors drove the thieves off. Would you really leave others bereft of similar help?”

“Aurors and Hit-Wizards, not foreign mercenaries, helped defend my home,” Sirius shot back. “Do you think hired wands driven by greed will respect our laws? They’ll do what they want in order to find the thieves, no matter who gets hurt in the process. If we do this, we will end up with our Aurors spread even thinner since they’ll have to respond to mercenaries harassing our own!”

“If more of our families are ruined, Britain’s social order might collapse,” Rosier cut in. It didn’t look as if the Chief Warlock was bothering with enforcing protocol today. “If that happens, many more will be hurt - and those same greedy foreigners you fear will descend upon all of us!”

Parkinson nodded. “By offering the bounty through the Ministry, we retain control. Anyone who breaks the law will be denied a reward - that will keep them in line!”

More people were nodding, Hermione noticed. She pressed her lips together. Sirius wouldn’t be able to sway the Wizengamot this time. They’d have to deal with mercenaries soon enough. She snorted. Bounty or no bounty, they wouldn’t catch her anyway - but they might complicate matters. And other people might get hurt.

It couldn’t be helped, though. She was tempted to ask Sirius to propose putting up a bounty on Crouch, to put more pressure on that criminal, but Sirius couldn’t reverse his position like that. Not so quickly, at least. And the Chief Warlock was already calling for a vote.

Well, Harry and Ron could do without more interference from idiots. Dawlish trying to take over their cases was already more than enough trouble. And she owed Dawlish payback for his role in Malfoy’s plot, so she had to do something about him anyway. Perhaps frame him for a petty crime - see how he liked it.

No, she was better than that. And she wanted a more fitting revenge. Now, humiliating him and not only getting him removed from the case but also ruining his career, on the other hand...

*****

**London, St Mungo’s, January 3rd, 1999**

The hospital was more crowded than usual, Harry Potter noticed when he and Ron arrived in the entrance hall. Of course it would be - it was Sunday. With all the overtime and irregular working hours, as well as the need to keep an eye on Dawlish to deal with any underhanded stuff, he was starting to lose track. Moody would tear him a new one for such a lapse.

Harry would like that, actually. It would mean that their mentor and superior would be back to normal and not in a coma. A coma from which he had just woken up, according to the message they had received.

He cleaned soot from his Auror robes - they had left from the Ministry, where they had been looking for past thefts related to the Dark Arts, and cleaning them after stepping through the Thief’s Downfall set up in the entrance hall was much more difficult - and took a step to the side when the fireplace lit up behind them.

Another red robe stumbled out of the Floo connection - someone Harry recognised. “Wood?”

Auror Wood - cousin of Oliver Wood - turned to face him. Her left arm was stuck to the front of her robes, and there was more dust than soot on her face and in her hair. “Potter? Weasley? What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Moody. He’s supposed to have woken up today,” Harry replied.

“Got a broken arm - a pair of stupid Prussians didn’t want to come quietly after cursing a hag,” she answered his unspoken question. “One clipped me with a Bludgeoning Curse before I stunned him.” She bared her teeth. “I hope I won’t have to take Skele-Gro. Brad said it was a clean break, but he’s no Healer.”

Harry winced in sympathy. Skele-Gro was very painful and even more annoying. “Well, don’t let us hold you up,” he said.

“Although if Moody’s in a bad mood we might join you,” Ron joked. At least, Harry hoped that his friend was joking.

Five minutes later they were on the fourth floor. “I wonder why they didn’t put him there,” Ron said as they were passing the Janus Thickey Ward. “They said he’d be out for months.”

“Probably easier to keep him safe in a private room,” Harry replied. “Or they have some grace period before they officially give up on curing you.”

Ron nodded. The turned the corner and saw Moody’s door - the two Aurors standing guard made it easy to find.

Harry nodded at them. “Mackenzie, Davis.”

They nodded back. “Potter, Weasley.”

“How is he?” Ron asked, looking at the door.

“He’s still twitching, can’t really move and demanding his eye and leg,” Mackenzie said.

Harry patted his pocket. “We’ve got them here - didn’t trust the hospital to keep them safe.”

“Good. Let’s hope that that’ll shut him up.”

Harry, knowing the old Auror very well, didn’t think so, but he smiled and said nothing. That’d teach them to talk like that about Moody.

Harry knocked - three times - then loudly said. “It’s us - Potter and Weasley.”

“Don’t curse!” Ron added.

Mackenzie and Davis laughed. They must have never entered the room when Moody was awake, Harry realised.

As expected, they were staring at the tip of a wand when they opened the door. A wavering tip - Moody really was still twitching. Shaking would be more precise, Harry thought. But he was glaring at them with his one eye. “P-p-o-t-t-er?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded and closed the door behind them, then - slowly and carefully never pointing his wand in Moody’s direction - cast a privacy charm on the door, then turned around with a sigh.

Convincing Moody that they were who they claimed to be and weren’t bespelled would take some time, with Moody unable to properly cast. The hospital wasn't about to move the Thief's Downfall for them - and Moody wouldn't trust it anyway.

*****

“...and the thieves used the Yule Ball at Greengrass Manor to break into the manor vault and clean it out. The witch posed as Michael Smith’s date and fooled everyone - even Harry,” Ron said.

Harry Potter winced as Moody shakingly turned his head to glare at him.

“Foo-oo-led y-you?” the old Auror managed to say despite the curse still affecting him.

Harry nodded. “Yes. She completely fooled me - told me Smith accosted her and she left him silenced and stuck to a bench in the garden. And I, foolishly, believed her. Until she smirked right before she vanished through the Floo Network.”

“Loo-ong C-Con.”

Harry was glad that, with his speech impaired, Moody didn’t bother wasting any effort on scolding him. And also felt guilty about that. He nodded. “Yes. She conned him into inviting him to the ball weeks ago, as far as we know.” He saw Moody open his mouth again, and quickly added: “Smith was obliviated at the Yule Ball and murdered on the day of the New Year’s Ball. The murderer set it up as if he and a Knockturn Alley witch - Sarah Kohlmeier - killed each other with dark curses. Dawlish thinks the thieves killed them. We think it’s Crouch.”

“P-p-proof?”

“None,” Ron said. “But Smith was collecting dark books and artefacts, including blood magic grimoires. So we assume the worst - that Crouch is behind this.”

And was now in possession of another dark grimoire.

“G-g-g-good,” Moody stammered. “D-d-d-don’t t-t-t-trust a-a-a-ny-o-o-ne.”

Harry pressed his lips together. To see Moody like this, helpless - mostly - and suffering… He wanted to console the man, but he knew that Moody would hate it. At least Moody’s prosthetics were not affected by the lingering dark curse - this time, it was his good eye that was moving erratically.

“So, how long until you’re back on duty?” Ron asked.

Harry glared at his friend but held his tongue. That was rather insensitive. But making an issue out of it would be even worse.

“M-m-m-months,” Moody snapped.

That sounded like two months at the earliest. Better than what Harry had feared and worse than he had hoped. “We’ll keep you informed about the case until then.”

“G-g-guards.”

“There are two guards around you at all times,” Harry said.

“N-n-n-not e-e-enough f-f-f-or C-c-c-crouch!”

He was right, Harry realised. If Crouch wanted Moody dead, he’d probably be able to get into the hospital. It wouldn’t be easy - they knew what tricks he had used in Azkaban, and had improved security accordingly, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate the last Death Eater.

“W-w-w-woke up.”

Harry nodded. Until now, the Healers hadn’t known if Moody would ever wake up again. Crouch wouldn’t have felt the need to risk his life and plans to deal with a comatose Auror. But now… There was only one thing he could do. “We can move you to Grimmauld Place.”

“G-g-good.”

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1999**

Hermione Granger was proud of her self-control. Even in the face of disaster, she didn’t lose her composure and start yelling at her stupid friends. No matter how stupid they were. Bringing Mad-Eye Moody into their home? The most paranoid and most experienced Auror? Whose enchanted eye could see through most things? What were they thinking!

She pressed her lips together and clenched her teeth as she glanced at Sirius. He knew what was at stake and could shut this nonsense down!

“We’ll have to find a trustworthy Healer to treat him before we can move him in,” the stupid dog said. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

Harry nodded. “But we can’t take too long - it’s not safe enough at St Mungo’s.”

“What about using him as bait to trap Crouch?” Hermione said. “Wouldn’t that keep him safe as well?” And out of her home.

Harry smiled at her, though he shook his head. “We don’t have the wands to keep an ambush ready around the clock. Even with all the foreigners freeing up Hit-Wizards, we’re still short of competent people.”

“Yeah,” Ron added. “Most Hit-Wizards didn’t make the cut to become Aurors.”

That wasn’t exactly correct, Hermione knew. The requirements for becoming an Auror were stricter and covered more subjects, but the Hit-Wizards were generally more focused on fighting and chose their careers accordingly. Although they also were, on average, less skilled overall. “I don’t think it’s wise to leave our prison in the hands of foreign mercenaries,” she said. They could be bought, after all.

Of course, that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t take advantage of that weakness, should it become necessary. And, speaking of weaknesses… She looked at Harry. “Doesn’t his eye see through walls?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. It has a very powerful enchantment on it.”

“So he will be able to observe the entirety of the house, at all times?” Hermione frowned at him. Didn’t he realise what that meant?

Apparently not. “Yes. He’ll be able to spot any intruders,” Harry said.

She pressed her lips together to keep herself from blurting out her first response. “That includes the bathrooms and bedrooms, I take it?”

Harry’s smile disappeared. “Err… I think so.”

“Perhaps we should look into protecting those areas against his eye,” Hermione said in a flat voice.

“That’s a good idea. We’ll have to find a trustworthy Curse-Breaker, I think,” Sirius said.

And they’d have to move the loot anyway - Hermione didn’t think they could trust Moody to tell them if the enchantments weren’t working against his eye. The paranoid Auror wouldn’t surrender such an advantage.

If only the stupid dog had stood his ground! But he didn’t seem able to deny Harry anything.

Other than the truth about them, of course.

It really was entirely his fault.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, January 4th, 1999**

Harry Potter sat on the porch of The Burrow, Warming Charms keeping the cold at bay, as he looked at the frozen pond across the garden. The white snow covering everything - mostly; it was more of a dusting - appeared particularly bright under the full moon. It would make it hard for anyone to sneak up on the house on the ground - it would be almost impossible to hide their tracks, and even low-flying brooms would disturb it.

They had to get through the wards first, anyway, of course, and that was easier said than done. He snorted. He didn’t doubt that the thieves - everyone knew who you meant if you said ‘the thieves’ these days - could sneak through the wards easily since the protections had to cover too much ground thanks to the Quidditch pitch, but the Weasleys were too poor to be one of the thieves’ targets.

Crouch, on the other hand… Fortunately, the Death Eater wasn’t an expert Curse-Breaker, and Bill had spent quite a bit of his visit to the Burrow further improving the wards. Ron’s family was safe.

Steps behind him made him draw his wand before he realised it was Ron. Ron and Luna.

“There you are!” his friend said, taking a seat next to him. “Hiding from the witches?”

“If he is, it’s a poor spot,” Luna added as she sat down in Ron’s lap. “We could see you from the living room.”

“I’m not hiding,” Harry replied. He wasn’t - not really. “I’m just enjoying the fresh air. Much better than London.”

“Ah!” Luna nodded. “That makes sense. The Bubble-Head Charm can only do so much, after all.”

Ron nodded, though his glance told Harry that he didn’t believe him. “Ginny’s not mad at you any more, you know.”

“I know.” It still felt a little awkward. Especially with Hermione now being known as his girlfriend.

“And Hermione isn’t mad at you either,” Ron went on.

“She looked a little angry, though,” Luna cut in, cocking her head in what looked like an attempt to keep both of them in view while still keeping her cheek pressed into Ron’s chest. Which resulted in her looking at Harry upside down. “But at Sirius.”

“Yes.” Harry wasn’t entirely certain what that was about. He had offered to house Moody for the duration of his convalescence without considering what that would mean for their privacy, so if anyone were to blame, it should be him, not Sirius. Well, his godfather had assured him that he’d take care of the issue. He had also assured Harry that a little exhibitionism never hurt anyone, but that wasn’t something Harry wanted to think about.

At the very least, he now knew that telling Hermione about the spells on his glasses would be a bad idea, given her reaction earlier today.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Luna said, still with her head cocked back as far as possible.

“The sky?” Ron asked.

“The moon. That’s the real curse of werewolves, you know.” Luna sighed.

“Hm?”

“They can’t ever enjoy the beauty of a full moon any more.”

Harry thought that werewolves would disagree with that, but it was a beautiful sight. If only...

The sound of more footsteps behind him interrupted his thoughts, and he turned, ignoring Luna’s sound of protest as Ron twisted around to cover their rear, nearly dislodging his girlfriend in the process.

“Hermione!”

She nodded, then rubbed her arms before casting a Warming Charm. Silently, and without the usual wand movements. If only she were as skilled with Shield Charms… Harry forced the thought away and smiled at her. “Joining us?” he asked.

“The fresh air is nice,” she answered, with a smile of her own.

She didn’t sit in his lap, but she sat down next to him, their thighs touching, and leaned into his side as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“Sorry about Moody,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.” Though he’d do it again anyway - Moody wasn’t safe in St Mungo’s.

“It’s OK,” she answered, resting her head on his shoulder.

For a little while, they enjoyed the view of the snow-covered garden in silence.

Until Luna spotted what she claimed was a Snow Nargle. The chase lasted ten minutes and utterly wrecked the scenery.

*****

 


	57. Muddled Waters

**Staffordshire, Stafford, Doxey Marshes, January 10th, 1999**

Oliver Spears smiled as he walked along the snow-covered field. The sun was barely up, and few people would be out and about, fewer still braving the cold of the marshes. It was perfect for bird watching. He had already spotted a goosander and a great crested grebe, but he hadn’t yet seen the little egret that lived in the small creek near the old willow.

Movement on the water caught his eye, and he quickly brought his binoculars up. Perhaps… no, it wasn’t the beautiful bird, just a piece of ice that was floating downstream - must have broken off.

And it wasn’t the only piece of ice - lots of broken ice was floating down the creek. He frowned. That was unusual. Had a cow tried to cross the frozen pond from which the creek sprang? They usually knew better.

His eyes widened. What if another birdwatcher had fallen into the pond? He hadn’t heard anything, but… He quickened his steps and climbed the low hill ahead until he could see the pond.

He was breathing heavily as he raised his binoculars once more - he wasn’t growing any younger, after all, and his early morning walks were a little too leisurely to do much for his endurance, even though he took them much more often since his retirement - but he had been correct: There was a man in the pond! But he was standing in the water and didn’t seem to be in any danger of drowning. His mode of dress, though…

Oliver pressed his lips together. He wasn’t one to judge others - more than one acquaintance had called him ‘eccentric’ for wearing his beloved Alaskan fur hat on his excursions from autumn to spring - but he didn’t think colourful bathrobes were proper garments for leaving your home. If the man down there was confused, he might require help getting back to his home. Which, Oliver thought with a guilty feeling, might have orderlies searching for him already.

It took him ten minutes to reach the pond - he didn’t want to risk slipping and falling; his old bones were not as sturdy as they once were - and the man hadn’t moved out of the pond despite the cold - he had even been bending down, as if he were searching something in the icy water. He definitely needed help.

Once he was close enough to be heard without shouting, Oliver cleared his throat. “Hello?”

The man turned around, the ball on his stocking cap whipping up and down as he straightened, and Oliver realised that what he had taken for a white scarf from afar was actually his hair. Up close, the man’s robe looked even worse - a soaked through patchwork of bright, clashing colours.

That he was standing in freezing water while wearing wet, heavy clothes didn’t seem to affect the man’s mood. “Good morning!” He returned Oliver’s greeting with a broad smile. “How may I help you?”

Oliver blinked. He wasn’t the one in need of help - he was sensibly dressed and staying out of the pond. He cleared his throat. “Ah, I was wondering what you are doing here.”

“Ah!” The man’s smile never wavered. “I’m looking for abnormal heat sources.”

“Abnormal heat sources?” Oliver repeated. What?

The man nodded several times, his stocking cap whipping around. “Yes. You see, I noticed that the mosquitoes are breeding - there are lots of eggs in the water - and they usually only do that in spring, when the weather’s warmer.”

“You found mosquito eggs in the water?” Oliver couldn’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“Yes. I was looking for an exotic bird in the area when I noticed mosquitoes laying eggs in the water.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a vial. “See? Culex pipiens!”

Oliver took a step closer, carefully avoiding getting too close to the pond or the man, and peered at the vial. The insects inside were house mosquitoes, as far as he could tell. And active. He looked at the man. “You caught those outside?”

“In the marshes!” the man replied. He pulled out another vial. “Here are samples of their eggs. Freshly laid.”

Oliver couldn’t tell mosquito eggs from other insect eggs, but he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “I see.” He nodded. “Pardon my manners - Oliver Spears.”

“Xenophilus Lovegood. Pleased to meet you.”

Oliver pointed at the pond. “But if there were hot springs, wouldn’t the water be warmer?”

“Ah.” Lovegood rubbed his chin. “If they expired, the water would grow colder again, wouldn’t it?”

“A localised heat source? Did someone dump something in the pond?” With the marshes being part of Stafford, a few uncouth people used them for dumping their trash, but a working heater, or something that gave off heat… Oliver blinked. “Culex pipiens, you said, right?”

“Yes.”

As a passionate bird watcher, Oliver knew about the various food sources for his ‘prey’. “Their diapause is actually regulated by the daylight cycle, not the temperature.”

“Oh.” Lovegood blinked. “That would be harder to change, wouldn’t it?”

Oliver laughed. “I would say so, indeed. Although…” He frowned. “You might be able to manage it with lamps.” Perhaps - he didn’t know. “But such bright lights would be noticed.” Obnoxious people like Mrs Baker-Bradbury from across the street would have pestered him about it as if he owned the marshes. The old biddy should lock up her cats to keep them from killing innocent birds instead of bothering him with whatever nonsense caught her fancy.

“Hm. That wouldn’t be too hard, I think,” Lovegood said. He was holding a wooden stick in his hand, Oliver noticed, and prodded the vial with it. “But perhaps the solution is simpler. Perhaps the mosquitoes have been… treated with something.”

“Pardon?” Oliver shook his head. “Treated? Like with a pesticide?”

“Ah… yes?”

He frowned. “But the mosquitoes wouldn’t survive in the cold. And neither would their eggs. And that would mean starving birds in spring and summer!” At least those who depended on insects as their main source of food. Who could conceive of such an atrocity?

“You mean this might be an attempt to kill birds?” Lovegood looked as aghast as Oliver felt.

“Not directly, I think,” Oliver replied. “But someone might have attempted to eradicate mosquitoes without considering the effects on the ecology. Short-sighted fools!” Mosquitoes weren’t that bad, as long as you didn’t live too close to water. In Britain, at least.

“I see.” Lovegood nodded firmly. “This is important; people need to know about this!”

“I fully agree,” Oliver said, nodding. “I shall write a letter to The Times. And I’ll inform the Staffordshire Wildlife Trust; they will know how to react to this.”

They nodded at each other and parted ways. Oliver didn’t realise that he had completely forgotten to ask about Lovegood’s garments and residence until he had returned home. Although in hindsight, it was obvious that Lovegood was not a confused man in need of assistance, but merely another, slightly more eccentric, naturalist.

A kindred spirit.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 11th, 1999**

Hermione Granger stepped out of the fireplace with a slight stumble and followed Sirius to the Thief’s Downfall, walking, as usual when they were in the Ministry, one step behind him - appearances had to be upheld, after all, especially in politics. And it helped her cover if she was seen as an eager, though slightly clumsy, muggleborn - not a graceful witch who moved like a pureblood through the Floo Network. Even though she loathed the act - to be seen stumbling while a dog didn’t…

She sniffed as Sirius walked through the archway and let the liquid wash over him. The two guards - one Hit-Wizard and one mercenary; the robes didn’t quite match - were more attentive than she had thought - at least the mercenary with the beard was; the Hit-Wizard seemed more relaxed. She glanced at their faces to memorise them - just in case she ever encountered them during a heist. It paid to know which guards were more attentive than most.

And, in her role as Sirius’s secretary, she could unobtrusively study a reasonable number of guards in the Ministry as she came and went.

They waved at her, so she stepped forward, closing her eyes just before the liquid hit her face. She resisted the urge to shake her head as soon as she had passed the magical waterfall no matter how much she wanted to - that would be going a little too far in maintaining her cover. Instead, she calmly dried herself with a quick charm.

“They should really enchant the liquid so that it evaporates without needing a charm,” she complained to Sirius as she joined him.

“It actually does - just not quickly enough for some people,” he replied with a smirk.

“Water evaporates as well, given enough time,” she retorted with a huff.

“See, a little bit of patience is all you need.” He chuckled and turned towards the lift.

She refrained from rolling her eyes as she followed him across the Atrium. Two more guards stood at the stairway. That wasn’t much of a presence for a Monday morning during which a session of the Wizengamot would be taking place. If she were in charge of the Ministry’s security, she’d have a couple pose as visitors - but she had a feeling that the Minister would prefer more visible security, to reassure and impress the Wizengamot. Had Bones overruled him, or were the Aurors and Hit-Wizards stretched too thin already? If they were using mercenaries in the Atrium, handling the visitors, the latter sounded more likely, but that could have been merely an oversight.

Hermione could find out, of course - she could obtain the entire guard schedule. Sirius could act concerned about the Ministry’s security and demand the information - but that might draw too much attention. She really didn’t want anyone in the Auror Corps to associate them with inspecting the Ministry’s security. That might cause someone to suspect her, should her next heist be discovered.

As they were approaching the lift, she noticed an Auror watching them from the stairs. Dawlish. She almost snarled when she recognised him - that idiot had not only thought that she was a thief when Malfoy framed her, he had also been convinced that she was a dark witch who’d attacked Harry. And he was meddling with Harry’s case to cover up his own mistakes.

But why was he standing there, on the stairway, watching the Atrium? Had Bones punished him with guard duty? That seemed unlikely - Scrimgeour had, after all, let him keep investigating the heists despite his blunder.

She kept her face expressionless, of course. It wouldn’t do to let Dawlish know she had noticed him. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether he might be there for her. First the way he’d acted when he visited Grimmauld Place to watch Harry’s memories and now this… did he suspect her?

That would complicate matters. Dawlish was an idiot, but it would be harder to provide an alibi if he planned to keep her under observation - no matter how clumsily it was done.

Perhaps something needed to be done about him.

But they had other things to worry about right now. Like relocating their loot.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 12th, 1999**

“That’s our new secret base?”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at the dog’s complaint. “That’s where we’ll be storing part of our loot,” she corrected him. They’d leave the stolen gold at Grimmauld Place with the rest of the Black Fortune. Whether they would also be planning their heists in the muggle building here remained to be seen - she would prefer to do the planning in Mr Fletcher’s flat. That would also help with keeping him more involved.

He snorted. “It looks rather shabby for the gold I paid.”

“That’s the point - no one will suspect anything,” she explained. And Harry didn’t know about this building, so he wouldn’t be able to invite over old Aurors with enchanted eyes to recover from dark curses - she still wasn’t certain she wouldn’t one day find Moody sunning himself by the pool in their vacation home. “And spells will keep out any muggle who tries to break in, anyway.” With a frown, she added: “And it would have been far less expensive if we didn’t have to rush this thanks to you inviting the most paranoid Auror into our home.”

He frowned at her as if it were her fault and not his. “Weak wards,” he commented.

“They’ll be strong enough,” she retorted - she wasn’t a specialist, and neither was Mr Fletcher, but they could put up decent wards. Mr Fletcher had started already, and she’d help out as soon as she had the time. “And they’ll only cover the basement anyway - secrecy will be the building’s best defence.” She scoffed. “Now get moving. We need to finish this before Harry returns from work.”

And they’d need to find a Healer they could trust as well.

She shook her head as she entered the old house. So much trouble just because the Aurors couldn’t even be trusted to protect their own!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 12th, 1999**

Hermione Granger stared at the plans on the table in the basement - a conjured table, of course - the furniture left in the room wasn’t exactly meant to be used for planning. It was also slightly distracting, at least for people with an imagination, like her, but Mr Fletcher had refused to offer his flat for their planning. Although they had planned other heists and missions in his flat before, Hermione couldn’t fault him for that - it was his home, after all, and would have been put at risk by doing so, even if she didn’t think the risk would be particularly great.

But it meant that they’d have to find a new base, or lair, after this - despite her expectations, Harry had already found a Healer acceptable to Moody. Of course, looking up old friends of the Auror whom Moody didn’t completely distrust had greatly expedited that task.

And had forced her to accelerate her own plans. It was quite ironic how Harry managed to disturb the next heist without meaning to. Which meant they couldn’t afford more meddling by Dawlish.

But the heist came first. She pointed at the plan in front of her. “I’ll sneak in through the tunnel, as before. That puts me close to the second floor of the Atrium. From there, I have several ways to reach both the Floo Network Authority and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Mr Fletcher grunted. “Doing both in one night is pushing it. I don’t like it.”

“It’s less dangerous than pulling two separate heists,” Hermione replied. “I would need to find two alibis, and then another for the actual Parkinson heist.” She glanced at the dog; if Harry were aware of their secret, this wouldn’t be necessary.

The dog, though, shrugged with a wide smile. “It’ll be alright - it’s not as if the Ministry’s well-guarded once you’re inside. Wouldn’t want to bother the important people working late,” he added. “Or those having ‘workplace affairs’.” He winked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Not for the first time, she cursed whoever had introduced him to _those_ muggle magazines.

“That won’t let her stroll around safely,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “With Crouch still at large, they’ll step up security at night as well.”

“We don’t know that,” Sirius pointed out.

“We can find that out if we work late at the Ministry this week,” Hermione cut in.

“I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” Sirius objected.

“You haven’t stayed at the Ministry longer than you had to,” Mr Fletcher told him. “You have always worked at home whenever possible. If you start changing that, people will notice.”

“I could leave my secretary there to search the archives or something like that,” Sirius replied.

“That’ll get her noticed,” Mr Fletcher countered.

“I’ll take that risk,” Hermione said quickly. “Doing it once won’t raise too much suspicion.”

“Dawlish already suspects you,” her mentor retorted.

She pressed her lips together. “We might need to do something about him. Discredit him somehow. If he fixates on me, it’ll be harder to pull off a heist.” And she owed him a debt of vengeance.

“We’ll stay in France more often,” Sirius said. “Dawlish can’t do anything there. Other than standing in front of our door and being ignored. The French certainly won’t lift a wand to help him in any way.”

“That won’t make us look less suspicious,” Hermione pointed out. “Quite the contrary, in fact. And if Harry starts to suspect us…” She trailed off as she narrowed her eyes at Sirius.

“He’s harassing Harry as well,” Sirius pointed out. “I don’t think Harry will believe him.”

“Harry’s not an idiot,” Hermione said, a little hotly. “We won’t be able to fool him forever.”

“We just have to fool him for two more heists,” Sirius said. “And he’s hunting Crouch, not us.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She hadn’t agreed to stop doing heists. She hadn’t decided to continue her career, either, of course. But it was her decision, not Sirius’s. “But since our main targets are also targets for Crouch - especially Malfoy - the likelihood of Harry being involved in our heists is very high.”

“Dawlish is already on shaky ground,” Sirius replied. “After he fails to catch us at our next heist, he’ll be removed from the case.”

“That might not stop him,” Hermione muttered. And he deserved worse.

“Wouldn’t be the first time a disgraced Auror pursued a case on his own,” Mr Fletcher added.

Jeanne looked like she had an idea about dealing with that, but she didn’t say anything. Hermione assumed that that meant she would prefer to deal with Dawlish in a more violent fashion - her friend was French, after all.

Sirius waved his hand, dismissing the argument. “It would be the first time a disgraced Auror dared to harass a member of the Wizengamot. There are few things on which my esteemed colleagues agree, but that we can’t let some disgruntled Auror bother us is one of them.”

He did have a point, Hermione had to admit. “But simply failing to catch us might not be enough to get him removed from the case. We might need to do more than that.”

“As long as you don’t plan to announce the heist in advance,” Mr Fletcher said with a chuckle. The dog and even Jeanne joined him.

Hermione glared at them. She had been thirteen when she had had that idea! She cleared her throat. “I thought something humiliating would be best,” she said with great dignity. Something worse than unknowingly escorting her to the Floo connection, as Harry had done. “And I have a few ideas…”

*****

There was a rock on top of Mr Biggles’s habitat, Harry Potter noticed as he entered his room to change before dinner. And a few more rocks lay on the floor. He moved closer. The lid wasn’t even scratched - it took more than that to break the reinforced glass. But who would do this? He looked at the snake lying directly beneath the lamp. “What happened?”

“Huh?” Mr Biggles looked up. “Oh, you’re back.”

Harry pointed at the rock above the snake. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Did the rock simply appear there?”

“No. But it did nothing to my home.”

“And how did the rock get there?” Harry asked, controlling his temper. Snakes, even when they could talk, weren’t the brightest animals.

“The owl dropped it. It and the others.”

“Hedwig?” Harry blinked. “She dropped rocks on your terrarium?”

“Yes. Stupid, isn’t it?”

Harry wasn’t quite so sure. If the ceiling had been higher… “I shouldn’t have let her watch those nature documentaries,” he muttered. “The things she picks up…” Sometimes his owl was a little too clever.

“What did you say? I only heard the gibberish you humans sprout at each other,” the little snake complained.

“Nothing,” Harry answered.

“Ah.” Mr Biggles seemed to accept that answer and squirmed a little to reposition himself under the warm lamp.

“Was Crookshanks around?” Harry asked.

“The fat cat? No. Probably didn’t want to get hit by rocks.”

Harry shook his head. At least Crookshanks hadn’t been involved in this attempt on Mr Biggles’s life - Hermione was far too protective of the fat little monster.

Although Harry wasn’t looking forward to explaining to Hedwig that she wasn’t allowed to eat the snake and shouldn’t be jealous. Again.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 12th, 1999**

Harry Potter blinked as he entered the kitchen for breakfast and noticed that there was an issue of The Quibbler next to the Daily Prophet. That was late for the January issue - although he couldn’t remember if, with the holidays, that was normal for The Quibbler. He sat down and filled his cup with fresh tea, then glanced at the Prophet as he reached for some croissants. The front page wasn’t very interesting - another ‘in-depth article’ about the danger the ‘Manor Thieves’ posed to wizarding society which just regurgitated the last few articles about the criminals. An article about the poor victims of the thieves, which was a thinly-veiled attempt to ensure everyone knew that they had been ruined. At least, that was his impression.

He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the table before taking another sip from his cup and spreading some butter on his croissant. Kreacher, of course, huffed - the elf still wasn’t overly fond of foreign, especially French, cuisine - but Harry didn’t feel like eating a scone right now.

Sirius entered, yawned and then blinked. “Where’s Ron?”

“He stayed the night at Luna’s,” Harry answered.

“Ah!” Sirius filled his own teacup. “Good sense of priorities!” He nodded at his own words. “Hermione’s still asleep I take it?”

Harry sighed. “You know her.” His girlfriend - even though she still claimed they weren’t in a serious relationship - loved to sleep in. And hated to be woken up by Harry getting up. Though she did look rather cute when she hissed at him while half-awake.

“Not as well as you do,” Sirius replied with a chuckle.

Harry huffed. “We’ll be moving Moody here this afternoon,” he said.

“That healer checked out then?”

Harry nodded. “To Moody’s satisfaction.”

“Did he make him take Veritaserum?” Sirius asked.

“It’s an effective way to vet someone,” Harry answered. “And it’s not illegal if taken voluntarily.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sirius shook his head. “He’s not going to try and make us take Veritaserum, is he?”

“No. He trusts Ron and me.” Because they could have killed him in the hospital and hadn’t. Harry knew that Moody would have liked to use Veritaserum on Sirius and the others. But the Auror knew how Sirius would react to that proposal. And Grimmauld Place was much safer for him than St Mungo’s even without such assurances.

Sirius snorted. “We fought together in the Order, and he doesn’t trust us?”

“Constant vigilance.” Harry grinned.

“He’ll never change.” Sirius shook his head and grabbed The Quibbler. “And neither will Lovegood,” he added, holding the magazine up and pointing at the cover. “‘Conspiracy against birds’?”

“What?” Harry blinked.

Sirius opened the magazine and skimmed the article. “He claims he’s discovered a dark conspiracy to starve the birds of England by exterminating mosquitoes. Dark curses are used to make the mosquitoes come out of… diapause?”

Harry shrugged. “Never heard that word.” Hermione would probably know, but she was sleeping in, as usual.

Sirius grunted and read on. “Ah, it’s like hibernation.” He shook his head. “Lovegood thinks that a dark wizard is behind it and asks for the Auror Corps to investigate. Apparently, the extinction of Jobberknolls will deprive us of Veritaserum, therefore preventing the Aurors from exposing the dark wizard behind the plot.”

“I’ll ask Ron to investigate.” Harry regretted his joke almost at once - others, like Nott, might heckle Ron over this and make fun of Luna. And that wouldn’t end well.

“He has probably investigated it already, since it’s written by Luna’s father,” Sirius replied.

Harry pressed his lips together. Ron was taking The Quibbler a little too seriously these days. He focused on buttering his next croissant.

“Oh!” Sirius laughed out loud. “The Quibbler also has a new name for your favourite thieves! And has revealed the secret of their success!”

“What?” Harry looked at his godfather. “The secret of their success?”

Sirius nodded. “The thieves have discovered a way to duplicate the powers of Nargles. They can become invisible, fly and cause confusion among their victims and enemies.” He shook his head and laughed even louder. “And that’s why the so-called ‘Manor Thieves’ should be more correctly named ‘Night Nargles’ according to The Quibbler. Hermione will love it!”

Sirius’s tone told Harry that Hermione would loathe it. “I didn’t think she felt so strongly about The Quibbler’s theories,” he commented. At least, not in his experience.

“Oh, I don’t think she does. But ‘Night Nargles’? Can you imagine her using that name when talking about the thieves?”

“No, but she won’t have to,” Harry said.

“Well, I love the name!”

Harry sighed. He just knew this wouldn’t end well.

*****

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth. ‘Night Nargles’! Who would come up with such a silly name? She had told them they needed a better name, hadn’t she? But no, her choices hadn’t been good enough, and her plan of leaving calling cards had been vetoed, and now they were stuck with either ‘Manor Thieves’ or ‘Night Nargles’! Bland or silly.

She glanced at the stupid dog next to her. She knew which name he preferred, of course.

As if he had read her thoughts, he turned to her and beamed. “Smile, Hermione - we wouldn’t want Moody to suspect that you’re not happy to harbour a hero while he recovers from wounds taken while fighting Death Eaters!”

“He’s not here yet,” she pointed out. And she could play the role of friendly hostess perfectly well. Not that it was her role, anyway. Jeanne was the lady of the house.

“He’ll be here any minute,” Sirius said. “With Healer Corner, Harry and Ron.”

Another intruder who would frequent her home every day. She huffed. “We should have bought a muggle house for him.”

“That was never an option,” Sirius told her. “Not for Moody. He would have been helpless without guards, even with strong wards - and he wouldn’t trust most people to guard him, anyway.”

She huffed again. Which meant Harry and Ron would have had to guard the paranoid Auror. Which was impossible, seeing as they were needed at the Ministry. Even though it would have solved the issue of Harry being caught up in their heists.

This was turning into a dreadful day, she thought before she plastered a smile on her face when the fireplace lit up, and four people stepped out of the green flames. Or, to be more precise, Harry, Ron and the Healer stepped out while Moody fell through and had to be caught by the others.

The old Auror muttered colourful curses, stumbling and shaking as he tried to stand without help, and Hermione felt guilty at seeing how badly he was still doing. He had, after all, been cursed fighting Death Eaters who wanted to kill her and her family and friends.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Sirius said, smiling widely as he approached the old wizard propping up Moody. “You must be Healer Corner.”

“Of course he is,” Moody snapped. “We wouldn’t bring an unknown wizard with us. Frederick, this is Sirius Black, his wife Jeanne and his secretary, Hermione Granger. Everyone - this is Frederick Corner. Good Healer.”

“Welcome to our ’ome,” Jeanne said.

“Can you do your polite chit-chat after you’ve dumped me in my room?” Moody growled. “Hearing any more useless platitudes about my curse makes me vomit.”

Faced with such rudeness in her own home, Hermione’s guilt quickly vanished.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 15th, 1999**

“Let’s take a break,” Harry Potter said, standing up. “With Bathilda, I mean.” They hadn’t taken any breaks with her this week yet. It wouldn’t have been fair to drag their problems with Macmillan and the other idiots into her break. But the heckling had grown less throughout the week, and so it should be OK now.

Ron looked up from the old reports he was reading - dating back to the Blood War - and frowned. “Alright.” He stood and stretched. “This is pretty pointless anyway. It’s not as if the Aurors back then had any clue about Crouch being a Death Eater nor did they find any of the Lestranges’ hideouts.”

“It’s not as if we have anything else to do,” Harry replied. “If you prefer, we can swap, and you can sift through those records of Crouch Sr we were able to find.”

“No, thanks,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Any luck with finding a suspicious gap in the records? Or some missing gold?”

Harry scoffed. “If I had, I’d have told you. Crouch either didn’t plunder his father’s estate or was too careful in erasing his traces. I haven’t checked every record yet, though.”

Ron grunted. “We’ll still have to check all the properties. He could be running a double-bluff.”

“Too dangerous,” Harry retorted as they stepped out of their office. “Not his style.” They would have to check the properties anyway, of course, just to cover all the bases.

“He might have changed - losing the Lestranges might have affected him.”

Harry shook his head. “He was fine for over a decade without them. I don’t think losing them changed him. He was a fanatical follower of Voldemort, and even after the Dark Lord’s death he hasn’t acted recklessly.”

“Attacking Azkaban and Gringotts seems pretty reckless to me.” Ron shrugged as they passed the notice board - there was nothing new on it.

“He had careful plans for these attacks,” Harry said. An Auror sneered at him, but he ignored her. Things were slowly improving, but they were far from fine yet.

“Not that careful, though.”

They were still arguing back and forth as they entered the break room. Bathilda and Nott were already there.

“Good Morning, Bathilda,” Harry greeted her. “Nott.”

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Ron.” Bathilda smiled, but it looked a little forced to Harry.

“Potter. Weasley. Not hunting Nargles?” Nott, on the other hand, was smirking.

A glance told Harry that Ron was already clenching his teeth. Harry quickly scoffed. “Really? You’ve been waiting days to use that? That would have been pathetic even for Malfoy.” He shook his head. Nott drew a breath through his bared teeth, as expected, but Harry continued before the other Auror could respond. “Are you really going to ruin our first break this week with your childish insults?”

“Theo, don’t,” Bathilda said. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you bicker.”

Harry smiled as Nott gritted his teeth - the idiot should have learned that long ago. Although Bathilda didn’t look as cheerful as she usually did.

“Dawlish making you do too much work again?” Harry asked her as Ron handed him a cup.

“Ah…” She bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath and shook her head. “No, no.”

“You look a little stressed,” Ron added.

“She’s been like this the whole week,” Nott cut in, glaring at them.

Harry glared back - as if they would have made things better for Bathilda if they had ruined her breaks by dealing with idiots harassing them.

“I’m alright.”

“No, you aren’t,” Ron said.

“I told her that already.” Nott wasn’t letting this go, as if this were a competition.

“It’s nothing,” Bathilda said. “Really.” She smiled, though it still looked forced to Harry. “So, how are you doing?”

“Digging through old records and reports,” Harry said, with an overly dramatic sigh. He wasn’t about to push her during their break.

“And then we have to check out old buildings and properties,” Ron added. “Boring.”

“Reading old reports isn’t boring,” Nott spat. “It’s important.”

“For an archivist, perhaps,” Ron retorted. “But we’re trying to catch a dangerous Death Eater, not a twenty-year-old grammar mistake.”

Harry sighed as the bickering started again.

*****

An hour later, Harry Potter knocked on the open door to Bathilda’s office - Dawlish was in a meeting with Scrimgeour. “Hey,” he said when she looked up.

“Harry?” She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to invite you to have lunch with Ron and me - in muggle London,” he said.

He watched as she smiled, then frowned. “Oh… I can’t, sorry. I’m too busy today for an extended lunch.”

He made a point of looking at her desk, which was not as thickly covered in parchment as usual for her, then at her.

She blushed slightly and pressed her lips together. He waited. He didn’t even raise his brows - not much, at least. He merely looked at her. He knew her, after all.

She didn’t last a minute. “John’s always asking me what you and Ron are doing,” she said, looking at her desk. “He hasn’t told me what he’s working on, he just has me fetching reports from the archive. About the battle with the Dark Lord, mainly.” She looked up and added in a low voice: “I don’t know what the problem is between you, but I don’t want to be dragged into it.” She shook her head. “And if I have lunch with you, John’ll expect me to tell him all about it.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Harry said.

That earned him a glare. “I’m not going to hide things from him! He’s my partner!”

He held up his hands. “Sorry, you’re right. I should have known better.”

She huffed, but her frown faded. “Yes, you should.”

Harry let her vent a little more before leaving. She needed it, in his opinion - she was too nice for her own good.

But he was frowning when he walked back to his and Ron’s office. Dawlish was even worse than he had expected. Did he really want their case that badly?

And how much further would he go?

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 15th, 1999**

“...and Dawlish seems more interested in what we’re doing than in actually catching the thieves.” Harry Potter shook his head as he finished his ‘report’ to Moody and leaned back on the conjured chair next to the old Auror’s bed.

“He’s trying to get Bathilda to spy on us, the bloody git!” Ron added. “Just because we made him look bad.” Harry’s friend was standing, but he wasn’t pacing any more.

“We’ve been keeping tabs on his investigation,” Harry admitted, “but just to avoid repeating what he’s already done.”

“Or fixing what he’s bungled.” Ron scoffed. “I doubt he could find a lead if it were burned on to his arse.”

Moody grunted. “N-n-not so d-d-d-dumb.”

“Dawlish?” Harry asked, frowning.

Moody nodded - Harry had quickly learned to tell that gesture from his usual trembling. He still had to be stuck to the bed, or he might fall out of it if he had one of his ‘lapses’, as Corner called them.

“He thought Hermione had cursed Harry back in 1995.” Ron shook his head. “The man’s barmy.”

“T-t-trust no-o-one.”

Ron scoffed again, but Harry slowly nodded. “Suspecting her is one thing - though trusting Malfoy and Skeeter isn’t exactly smart - but spying on us? Does he think we’re the thieves?”

Ron laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“C-c-c-could f-f-f-frame y-you.”

Harry didn’t quite gasp, but he drew a sharp breath. “You think he could try to frame us? Is he crazy?”

“It wouldn’t work,” Ron said. “How could he fake any proof that Scrimgeour or Bones would take seriously?”

“I-i-i-ins-s-s-side j-j-job.”

This time, Harry gasped. “Do you think _he_ is one of them?”

“Merlin’s arse!”

“P-p-p-possib-b-ble. C-c-c-constant v-v-vig-g-gilance!”

Harry muttered a curse under his breath. If Dawlish were one of the thieves, then he could plant stolen loot on them - it wouldn’t be enough proof for a conviction, but there would be suspicions, and it would make Ron and Harry look like fools again for letting the thieves plant loot on them. “He might be trying to throw suspicion on us, away from himself. And that way, we wouldn’t get the case once he’s relieved for incompetence.” Or because he sabotaged it deliberately.

“Meaning, someone else gets it,” Ron added.

And unless Shacklebolt and Tonks could be spared from their regular duties, whoever replaced Dawlish wouldn’t be that skilled. Especially if Bathilda were fired together with Dawlish. “No wonder he’s hiding things from her!” Harry exclaimed. “Bathilda, I mean. He might be setting her up as a scapegoat, too.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron gritted his teeth. “The thieves have stolen so much, he wouldn’t need a big cut to be set for life, even if he only warned them of our plans.”

“If he set me up with the witch…” Harry pressed his lips together. The thought made him almost as angry as the idea that Dawlish, of all people, could have managed to fool them so thoroughly. He shook his head. They had no proof that this was true. Not yet.

“But he might just be a typical rotten Ministry employee more concerned with his career than doing his job,” Ron said. “I’ve heard stories from Dad and Percy - he wouldn’t be the first to go that far.”

“But we can’t assume that. If he is working with the thieves, we have to stop him. That means we have to investigate him. And without him noticing.” Harry sighed. “And without Bathilda noticing.”

“You don’t think that she’s one of the thieves as well, do you?” Ron asked, staring at him.

“D-d-don’t t-t-t-trust a-a-any-o-one.” Moody stammered.

“No, I don’t think so.” Harry couldn’t see the earnest witch as a thief, much less as the brazen witch who had played him for a fool. She would have had to keep the act up for years, starting at Hogwarts. “But she might reveal us to Dawlish, even if she doesn’t want to - she’s not the best liar.”

Ron nodded. “And she doesn’t deserve more stress.”

Harry blinked as he had another thought. “He doesn’t have to be a thief - he could also be working for Malfoy, trying to find leverage on us. Or trying to fabricate some.”

“Possible. Doesn’t change the fact that we need to investigate him,” Ron said. “Something’s wrong there.”

“G-g-g-good th-th-thinking!”

Moody’s smile hadn’t been improved by the lingering curse. On the contrary. But it still made Harry feel better. Their old mentor was helping them again.

*****

Harry looked rather distracted, Hermione Granger noticed during dinner. Ron as well. Or rather, they looked preoccupied with something. She studied them during the main course - entrecôte Café de Paris. First very subtly, then increasingly obviously, until she was openly staring at Harry and he finally noticed.

“Hermione? Is something wrong?”

“That would be my question,” she replied with a frown. She nodded at Ron. “Both of you have been absent-minded during dinner. What’s on your mind?” She pressed her lips together. She didn’t like prying, but she liked worrying about him and Ron even less. And they had a weekend planned in France, too.

“Ah…” Harry trailed off, which was a very bad sign.

She narrowed her eyes at him. Sirius, who had been talking about baby names with Jeanne, was paying attention as well.

Harry sighed. “We didn’t want to ruin dinner.”

“With what?” Hermione snapped through clenched teeth. She could almost feel her hackles rising. Or would, had she been in her cat form.

“You know that Dawlish is spying on us, right?” Harry asked.

“You told us that, yes.”

“He wanted to make Bathilda spy on us as well,” Harry said. “We discussed it with Moody, and we think there’s more to this than just Dawlish trying to steal our case.”

“Or save his assignment,” Ron added.

“What?” Hermione frowned.

“It’s possible that he’s one of the thieves,” Harry said with a serious expression.

“What?” Hermione gaped at him. That bumbling idiot who had helped ruin her life - had helped the attempt to do so, at least - a member of her group? A thief? That oaf?

Sirius snorted. “Dawlish part of the Night Nargles? Be serious!”

Hermione shot him a glare. That wasn’t the name of their group! And he was one to talk about being serious!

“We are,” Harry said with a wry smile. “What if he’s just playing the fool? Moody said he wasn’t dumb, and he is one of the most experienced Aurors.”

“He’d be in the perfect position to sabotage the investigation,” Ron added. “He knows all our plans, he gives the orders to the Aurors on site, he can get rid of any traces they leave, overlook any leads and misdirect our efforts.”

Hermione had to refrain from glaring at her friend. They didn’t leave any traces during their heists! And there were certainly no leads! They were professional thieves. Well, Mr Fletcher and herself. Jeanne and Sirius were amateurs at best. Enthusiastic ones.

“He might have sicced the witch on me,” Harry growled. “To make me look bad and prevent us from taking over the investigation when his bungling gets him removed.”

The dog snickered. When both boys looked at him, he shook his head. “I think that’s a little far-fetched. You weren’t supposed to be in the hallway where you met her, were you?”

“He probably told her to embarrass me should an opportunity present itself,” Harry retorted.

“That presumes that he isn’t just one of the thieves, but actually in charge of them,” Hermione pointed out. “That seems unlikely.” Impossible would be more precise!

“He might have just made suggestions,” Ron said. “But the important thing is that if he’s one of the thieves, he could plant stolen loot on us to divert attention and suspicion away from himself.”

That idiot couldn’t do that! Hermione hissed through clenched teeth before she reminded herself that Dawlish wouldn’t be doing that because he wasn’t part of their group.

Harry must have misinterpreted her expression. “Don’t worry!” he said quickly, “We can prove our innocence - if need be with Veritaserum. But having the thieves plant stolen loot on us would be embarrassing, and probably keep us from taking over the investigation.”

“Ah.” Hermione nodded. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, actually. She bit her lower lip at the selfish thought - Harry and Ron didn’t deserve to suffer like that. “Do you really think he’s a thief, though?”

Harry shrugged. “He might merely be trying to sabotage us to save or advance his own career. But we have to assume the worst.”

“And I don’t fancy getting sabotaged for his career, either,” Ron added with a toothy grin. “Plus, his stupid plotting is hurting Bathilda.”

Harry nodded at that, Hermione noted with disapproval. That was Dawlish’s fault, too!

“So, what are you doing about this?” Sirius asked.

“We’ll investigate him. Carefully, of course,” Harry said. “If he’s one of the thieves, we’ll find out.”

“He wouldn’t have stolen loot himself, would he?” Sirius asked. He was glancing at her, Hermione noted. She knew what he meant.

“That would be very unlikely,” she said. “He would be aware of how stolen goods can be traced.” She wasn’t about to plant stolen loot on Dawlish, no matter how fitting that would be. It would point the man at Harry and Ron - and at her.

But she wanted to do something about the idiot more than ever.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 17th, 1999**

Hermione Granger checked herself with the help of a conjured wall mirror. Her suit, boots and gloves were perfect. No tears, no stains, no specks of dust on any of them. Her hair was covered by her wig - she’d leave no traces, no strands of hair. Nothing a bumbling fool like Dawlish would need to vanish. She frowned at the thought of needing such help and picked up her mask. A quick Polishing Charm later, she checked the spells on it. It wouldn’t do to suddenly be forced to cast and recast all her spells. But everything was fine. And she looked fine as well. Very fine.

“Are you nervous or vain? You’ve been watching yourself in the mirror for ten minutes now.”

She snorted at Mr Fletcher, who was visible in the mirror, standing behind her, before turning around. “I was making sure that I’m perfectly prepared for the heist,” she informed him.

“Ah.” He nodded, but he was grinning. “Don’t be nervous - Sunday night is the best time to sneak into the Ministry. It’s practically deserted, and those who are on duty are generally there as a punishment or because they’re new.”

“I know,” she said, frowning - that was, after all, why they had picked tonight for the heist. Unlike Friday and Saturday night, there were fewer incidents on Sunday night as well, which meant a reduced shift.

He chuckled. “You’ve snuck into the Ministry before - and at a time when people were more alert.”

She nodded. The day Harry had faced Voldemort. The day Dumbledore had died. “Let’s hope today won’t be as dramatic.”

“It shouldn’t be.” He tilted his head slightly. “Unless you’re planning to do something more than we’ve planned.”

“You taught me better than that.” She smiled at him.

He frowned, though. “I taught you better than going for two targets in the same heist as well.”

They had been over this. She grinned. “Breaking in once means less danger of being spotted.”

He grunted in response. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

He scoffed at that, shaking his head. But he was smiling again, and when she walked past him, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 17th, 1999**

Mr Fletcher had been correct - the Ministry was deserted on a Sunday night, Hermione Granger noted as she looked at the Atrium from a balustrade. It was perfect for a heist. And it meant Harry wouldn’t be calling her since, as far as he knew, she was already asleep in France, and he needed to go to work early on Monday and therefore had returned to Grimmauld Place for the night. And to relieve Ron who had been guarding Moody.

There were two guards in the Atrium, at the Thief’s Downfall. One Hit-Wizard and a mercenary. The foreign wands weren’t yet entirely trusted, then, or two mercenaries would have been stuck with this despised shift.

She silently snorted. Not that it would change much - as far as she could tell, none of them were very competent. Certainly not competent enough to stop a lithe thief from roaming the building as she pleased. She didn’t think that either of the two guards had cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell. Not that it would help them - her spot was beyond the range of the spell.

Grinning, Hermione stepped back from the balustrade and headed towards the stairs. The headquarters of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was on the fourth floor and that of the Floo Network authority on the sixth floor, two floors below. She’d work her way down.

When she reached the stairway, she changed - just in case the guards were more competent than she thought. As a cat, she was practically invisible in the dark hallways of the Ministry, but she carefully checked at each corner before moving down the next flight of stairs. Overconfidence was as deadly for a thief as sloppiness, and the two often went hand in hand, as Mr Fletcher had taught her.

The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was utterly deserted. They didn’t even have a single employee on duty. They probably thought any incident with a magical creature could wait until Monday. Hermione snorted and changed back, then disillusioned herself - just in case there were spells to detect animals left active in the department’s headquarters.

She checked; there were none. Nor were there any protections she could spot. At least not on the desks - the cages for captured creatures would be warded, but those were further back. And of no interest to her.

She was here for their files. Especially the ones concerning personnel and licences for certain families. Such as the Parkinsons.

Seeing a shift planner, with careful notes, next to the desk of the Head’s secretary was a pleasant surprise - that would cut down the time spent rummaging through the personnel files. She quickly noted down who among the department’s staff was currently out for a vacation or a foreign trip, then looked for the filing cabinets.

It didn’t take her long to find them, and even less to find the files she needed - the department’s paperwork was up to standard as well. A couple of Doubling Charms later she had a set of files of her own. And collecting hairs from the various desks took only a few Summoning Charms.

The files covering the licences to keep dangerous magical creatures were a different matter. They were filed according to the creatures involved, not the families or individuals involved. The staff probably knew by heart which creatures the Old Families kept. Unfortunately, Hermione didn’t recall exactly what creatures the Parkinsons kept - back in her first year, she had done her best to ignore the bigoted witch’s bragging instead of paying attention.

Ah, the follies of youth. She shook her head as she started to sift through the alphabetically-ordered files.

She didn’t have to look long before she found a licence for the Parkinsons - for a pack of Crups. She shook her head - of course, the bigots would love muggle-hating dogs. Unfortunately, it was an old licence, dating back decades - apparently family members didn’t have to take any tests when they inherited Crups, only when they bought one - and therefore not too likely that the department would now have additional questions. Not impossible, but not very likely.

She went over the other files until her eyes widened and she almost whistled. The Parkinsons had recently acquired a Sphinx! Those were traditional guardians for treasure, but had fallen out of favour with the advent of Gringotts vaults - goblins were less aggressive towards humans than Sphinxes, and less capricious as well.

A challenge, but a manageable one. Hermione grinned as she copied the files, idly wondering whether the creature could be bribed by offering her the Parkinsons’ Crups as food. She’d have to read up on their behaviour first, though.

Smiling, she was about to leave the Department when she froze. That noise… She activated the Supersensory Charm on her mask and cursed under her breath.

An alarm was sounding two floors above her - in the Auror Office.

*****

 


	58. Trapped

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 17th, 1999**

The Sunday night graveyard shift was the worst. Evelyne Blishwick hated it. Working when everyone else was enjoying the weekend was bad enough, but having to spend the night standing guard in the deserted Ministry, with sleep as the biggest threat? And then, as usual, having the late or even graveyard shift again on Monday? She wouldn’t see her family and friends until Tuesday, at the earliest. Unless Selwyn was in a particularly bad mood - then it would be Wednesday.

Though, truth be told, she didn’t particularly mind missing her family. Dad was a nasty drunk and Mum still ragged on her for her less than stellar N.E.W.T.s - after three years! Not even joining the Hit-Wizards, with the recruiting bonus, had been enough to shut the witch up. Who cared that Evelyne could’ve become an Auror if she had passed her Potions N.E.W.T.? Who wanted to be an Auror, anyway, and patrol Knockturn Alley or chase down escaped pets?

She scoffed. At least Hit-Wizards had important duties - guarding Azkaban and the Ministry, and supporting the red robes when they had trouble handling criminals. Which was all the time unless they were dealing with first-years pranking each other in Diagon Alley.

Useless red robes! What good did it do if you could find a dark wizard but couldn’t arrest them? Not that they could find any dark wizards, anyway - if the Aurors weren’t so incompetent and had caught Crouch already, Evelyne wouldn’t be stuck guarding a service lift and staircase.

A service lift! As if Crouch would break into the Ministry, fight past the guards in the Atrium and then use the service lift to sabotage the Air-Cleaning and Air-Refreshing Charms in the attic! She scoffed again. That had been tried before, when the Dark Lord had attacked the Ministry, and there were now Air-Cleaning Charms on every floor. Whatever poison spell Crouch might use wouldn’t make it past them. Guarding the service lift was completely pointless. The sort of duty you should give one of the foreigners.

But no, according to Selwyn, this was a ‘critical post’ and therefore couldn’t be trusted to the foreigners. She rolled her eyes. Weren’t they hired to free up Hit-Wizards for more important duties?

And the worst thing was that she was alone and couldn’t talk to anyone. Fighting sleep was getting harder and harder. Brown, who had had this shift last week, had told her that he had cast an Alarm Charm to wake him up if anyone came close and then slept through the whole night, but that had been all talk - not even Brown was so stupid as to risk doing that. It was bad enough if Selwyn caught you asleep at your post, but if you had deliberately slept through your shift?

She shuddered. Well, she’d manage - she had a potion for emergencies. Which really should be standard issue for such a shift and so covered by the Ministry. But the Old Families didn’t give a damn about their own guards. Things had been different when the Blishwicks had been an Old Family, but that had been over two hundred years ago. Nowadays, though, if you weren’t a relative of an Old Family, you got the short end of the wand. In your face.

She grinned. At least three more Old Families would join her own in mediocrity soon enough. Served them right! If they only…

A wailing alarm interrupted her thoughts. She drew her wand. An attack? On the Ministry? Now? She took a few, quick breaths. An attack would have come through the Atrium. She would have heard that, wouldn’t she? Unless the attacker had silenced everyone - but who had sounded the alarm then?

Was someone sneaking up on her, disillusioned and ready to kill her? She wet her suddenly dry lips and cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell, hoping the incantation wouldn’t draw attention to her.

Her hallway was clear. She took a deep breath, relieved. If someone had been sneaking up… someone was coming! She heard footsteps. Getting closer. Someone was running.

She aimed her wand down the hallway. If anyone attacked her, she’d stun them… Gasping, she realised that she had forgotten to cast a Shield Charm!

“Prote…”

She gasped when a Hit-Wizard - no, a mercenary, the robes were a lighter grey, and no Hit-Wizard she knew had such a full beard or such a large nose - rounded the corner and flicked her wand towards him.

The man ignored her pointing her wand at him. “Blishwick! There’s an attack on Bones Manor! All Hit-Wizards are to report to headquarters at once! I’m your relief!”

Bones Manor? Someone was attacking the boss? Evelyne gasped again. “Alright!” she snapped. “Who’re you?”

“Veton Hyka.”

The accent matched the name. She nodded and started to run.

She noted with relief that she wasn’t the last of her shift to reach headquarters and quickly saluted Selwyn - where had he come from? Had he been working on a Sunday? Or were the rumours that he slept next to the fireplace, wearing his robes and waiting for an alarm, true? “Blishwick present, sir! I was relieved by Hyka,” she added - it wouldn’t do if the old wizard thought she had left her post.

“Yes. I sent him,” he growled. “Join the rest.”

Evelyne hastily obeyed, moving to the slowly growing group of Hit-Wizards. Half a dozen so far. The only one she knew well was Theresa Boot. “Theresa? Do you know what’s going on?” she asked in a whisper as Selwyn was talking to an Auror.

“Someone’s attacking Bones Manor with Fiendfyre,” her friend replied in a whisper. “That means it’s Crouch! We’re going to provide support to the Boy-Who-Lived!”

“Ah.” Evelyne pressed her lips together and tried not to tremble. Crouch. And Fiendfyre. That was bad. But Potter would be there. The Boy-Who-Lived knew how to fight Death Eaters - he had defeated the Dark Lord himself! “Good.”

“Good?” Theresa looked at her. “Are you one of his admirers? Remember how he bungled the Greengrass robbery?”

Evelyne glared back. “He killed the Lestranges!” she whispered. Who had killed so many Hit-Wizards in Azkaban - Evelyne’s older colleagues still talked about that.

“You are!” Her friend giggled - though it sounded forced. They were going into combat, after all. Their first real fight.

Evelyne sniffed. “So what? He’s handsome, rich and famous.” And not arrogant - he was, after all, dating a mudblood. Though, seeing as that thief had seduced him, he had to be looking for a better witch. So maybe a witch from a pureblood but not wealthy family had a chance…

Selwyn’s bellow interrupted her fantasy. “Alright! We’re headed to Bones Manor. The wards are holding the Fiendfyre at bay - for now. We’ll support the Aurors engaging the attackers. Auror Potter is in charge of the operation, but I’ll be giving you your orders. Move!”

Evelyne swallowed drily and moved. Her first real fight. Against the worst dark wizard currently active in Britain.

She really hoped that the Boy-Who-Lived was as good as people claimed.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 17th, 1999**

Hermione Granger held her breath as she pressed herself against the wall and listened. Lots of people were running above her - but she couldn’t hear anyone running downstairs, towards her. And the words and orders she could make out - the Supersensory Charm was a little too effective, letting her hear too many people to properly understand any of them - didn’t mention intruders or thieves, but an attack.

She sighed with relief, then bit her lower lip in sudden worry. This kind of reaction - a general alert and scrambling Aurors and Hit-Wizards - could only have two possible causes. And since she was currently here, that left Crouch.

The cacophony of people yelling at each other suddenly ceased, and she could focus on one voice. “...to Bones Manor. The wards are holding the Fiendfyre at bay - for now. We’ll support the Aurors engaging the attackers. Auror Potter is in charge of the operation, but I’ll be giving you your orders. Move!”

She gasped. Harry - and Ron - would be facing Crouch again. And Fiendfyre. If she hurried, she could help… She clenched her teeth. She didn’t know exactly where Bones Manor was located, just that it was somewhere in Oxfordshire - Harry had mentioned that once. And even if she knew where it was and managed to reach it - what could she do? She was a thief, not an Auror. And her mere presence would do more harm than good, given her reputation - and put her at considerable risk.

She briefly closed her eyes, hating herself, as she heard the Hit-Wizards and Aurors rush towards the fireplaces. She couldn’t help Harry.

But she could continue the heist. Especially since if she didn’t, her plans would be ruined. Gritting her teeth, she checked the stairs, then ended the Supersensory Charm and sneaked downstairs, towards the Floo Network Authority.

The attack on Bones Manor meant that instead of a lone employee ready to react to a problem in the middle of the night, there would be several employees checking the connection to the manor and the whole network. That would complicate matters. On the other hand, the employees would be quite distracted.

She bared her teeth - she hadn’t come this far to let a bunch of maintenance wizards scare her off. Disillusioned, she approached the door and studied the spells on it - or, as it turned out, the lack of spells on it. A Silencing Charm, a Dirt-Repelling Charm that looked rather sloppily cast and an Alarm Charm most likely serving to alert whoever was on night duty that a visitor had arrived.

It was child’s play to defuse the Alarm Charm and then drill a small hole in the lower part of the door for her periscope. No one was watching the door - she didn’t see anyone in the entrance area. Good.

Hermione quickly widened the hole in the lower part of the door with a small saw until it was large enough for a lithe cat. A quick change and squeeze later, she was inside the office, darting behind the closest desk.

There, safely hidden from view, she changed back, vanished the sawdust - she needed to enchant her tools to do that automatically - and repaired the hole with a quick Mending Charm.

Another Supersensory Charm told her that no one had noticed her and that everyone was focused on re-opening the connection to Bones Manor - even though they couldn’t do anything about the Anti-Floo-travel Jinxes from here. Perfect.

She disillusioned herself and silently made her way to the room at the back of the office area - the centre of the Floo Network Authority: the big map, carved into gleaming marble, representing Wizarding Britain’s Floo Network. Runes covered the edges - not unlike on the Pensieve at home - and delicate lines glowed. Those would be the active connections, or so it seemed - some lit up with a flash for a moment, others glowed steadily but not as brightly. Floo transports and Floo calls, she presumed.

Two wizards and two witches were staring at a blinking spot - Bones Manor, unless another Floo connection in Oxfordshire was currently being blocked. She made a mental note of the location - just in case; Bones wasn’t on her list - then looked for the spots indicating the Parkinson and Malfoy Manors. Cumberland and Wiltshire, respectively. The miniature manors rising from the map were barely visible, but she managed to find them.

Then she took a step back and pondered the situation. The four Ministry employees did look quite focused on their task. They wouldn’t notice a few charms added to the map. Or so she thought.

But she would have to cast silently, and the charms were rather complex - whoever had invented them hadn’t spent much time refining them, in her opinion. Mr Fletcher hadn’t said who had taught them to him, but she suspected it had been Dumbledore; for a thief such as herself, these charms were very situational, but they would have been invaluable for a spy - say, for the Order of the Phoenix. Not that she would press her mentor, of course.

She shook her head. She had a task to do. Taking a few deep breaths - silently, of course, she raised her wand and pointed it at the map, then started to weave it in a complicated pattern. And hoped that the spells on the map hadn’t been changed in the past twenty years.

They hadn’t, she found a minute later, fighting the urge to wipe sweat from her face - her mask’s spells were taking care of that. No alert, no sudden glowing indicated her addition of a special listening charm to the spells on the marble. Smiling, she repeated the spell on the representation of Malfoy Manor.

That left the more complex sound-altering charm. Biting her lower lip, she went over the motions in her head. Just in case. Then she started casting.

She took her time, moving her wand very carefully - casting silently meant she didn’t have to time the movements to the incantation, but any minor mistake would affect the results to a much greater degree than when casting normally.

When she finished the spell without mishap two minutes later, she shivered with relief and leaned against the wall for a moment. Then she smiled. She had done it - now all that was left was to leave the same way she had entered: gracefully and without anyone realising she had ever been here.

She left the offices the same way she had entered them - she still didn’t want to risk opening the door, despite that being much faster - then readjusted the Alarm Charm on the door. The main stairs would be too dangerous, she decided - Aurors and Hit-Wizards might still be arriving, to relieve or reinforce others, and there might also be messengers.

She’d take the service stairway instead.

*****

**Oxfordshire, Bones Manor, January 17th, 1999**

“Bloody Hell! Crouch’s been busy!”

Harry Potter nodded in agreement with Ron’s outburst. Three Fiendfyre blazes surrounded the Bones Manor, and they were spreading rapidly - soon they would form one big conflagration. And the wards of the manor wouldn’t withstand that - they wouldn’t last much longer even if the Fiendfyre stopped growing, or so he thought.

He muttered a curse of his own under his breath - as the Auror in charge, he had to appear confident - and addressed the Aurors and Hit-Wizards on site. “Status report!” he barked.

Most of them jerked. One Auror - Smith, Harry thought - answered: “They keep recasting the Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes, so the Boneses are trapped in the manor.”

Which meant that the attacker was still around. They should have spread out and started looking for them already. Harry clenched his teeth - this wasn’t the time to snap at them. “Everyone, cast a Human-presence-revealing Charm! Then spread out - on brooms - and find the dark wizard. He has to be in range of the manor! Brown, you and Wilkinson keep dispelling the Jinxes!” He took a deep breath - the Bubble-Head Charm kept the stench of the fires away - and added: “I’ll keep the fire at bay until the Boneses are safe.”

“And I’ll watch your back,” Ron added.

Harry nodded. Crouch would know that he couldn’t stay hidden and keep casting the jinxes. So this had to be a ruse - or a feint. And since the Prophet had covered Harry and Ron’s actions in the previous clashes with Crouch extensively, the Death Eater would be aware of who had killed his accomplices and dealt with the Fiendfyre. Which meant that this was a trap for them in particular.

He sneered, baring his teeth as he rushed towards the closest blaze and drew the Elder Wand. They’d turn it into a trap for Crouch.

But holding the cursed fire at bay turned out to be more difficult than he had expected. It was already at the wardline, which meant that Harry had to conjure stone walls inside the flames. That meant they were quickly consumed. And he had to conjure walls between himself and the flames, to protect himself and keep the cursed fire from spreading even further.

Which meant that despite the Elder Wand’s power, it was impossible. The best he was able to manage was to slow down the spread of the fire and keep some of the pressure off the manor’s wards. He wouldn’t be able to save the manor. Or much of the lands around it. All he could hope for was to buy enough time for the rest of the force to find Crouch and force him to stop recasting the jinxes that kept the Bones locked inside their manor. Or hope that Crouch took the bait and came after him.

Harry was about to conjure another wall between the cursed fire and himself when the ground near him exploded. His Shield Charm took the brunt of the blast, though, and held, but he was still pushed to the side, which almost ruined his spell-casting.

“We’re under attack!” he heard Ron’s voice both through his badge and from his left.

He glanced up - there was a marker floating twenty yards above him. Ron was already casting, and two red spells flew towards the marker. One hit a shield - Harry caught a glimpse of the flashing lights as it shattered before he sent a Piercing Curse upwards himself.

That one missed, as did his follow-up Bludgeoning Curse, and then he had to conjure another wall since the one he had just created was crumbling to ashes already - far more quickly than before.

And the fire had grown in size - wide enough to start enveloping his wall. He took a few steps to the side, his Shield Charm weathering another, not quite so close, Blasting Curse, and conjured two more walls.

That bought him a few more seconds. He whirled round and kept moving, raising his wand to support Ron, who was sending curse after curse at the still disillusioned Crouch. They had to take him out quickly before the Fiendfyre grew out of control and consumed everyone and everything around it.

Harry quickly cast two Cutting Curses, but Crouch was flying erratically, and both missed. Aurors and Hit-Wizards started to converge on them - finally! - and more spells flew at the Death Eater. They weren’t well-aimed, though, and Harry didn’t see any hits.

He had to conjure more walls. He could feel the heat now - he needed to retreat further. He flicked his wand, halting the fire for another few seconds, then ducked when the fire roared up behind the wall - and grew in size.

He knew what that meant: the wards had fallen and the cursed fire was ravaging Bones Manor. He tapped his badge. “As soon as the Boneses are safe, cover the area in Anti-Apparition Jinxes to stop Crouch from escaping!”

Harry ignored the idiot asking if the family was safe already - someone would report it as soon as they knew - and glanced at Crouch, who was flying above and between the roaring flames. Was he crazy? Was that why he hadn’t fled already and, instead, kept sending badly aimed curses at Harry and Ron?

Badly-aimed curses… and mostly Blasting Curses. Harry muttered another curse just as Ron finally hit the disillusioned attacker with a Bludgeoning Curse that sent the marker tumbling down - towards the conflagration.

Harry snapped his wand up. “Accio Death Eater robes!”

The marker flew towards him, barely missing the flames reaching for it, and slammed into the ground a yard away.

“Finite Incantatem!”

A wizard in smouldering Death Eater robes appeared. He wasn’t moving. Harry stunned him anyway - twice.

“Harry! Watch out!”

His last wall had crumbled, and the fire was racing towards him. A flick of his wand conjured a new stone wall in its path, and the flames crashed into it as if they were a tidal wave, quickly overwhelming it.

But another wall appeared, blocking the fire - Ron’s work. And more walls appeared - solid ones. Followed by tons of sand falling onto the flames - the Unspeakables had finally arrived.

Some Aurors cheered, but Harry summoned the Death Eater again. The man’s robes were still smoking but there wasn’t any Fiendfyre on him. His chest was caved in, though - and there was blood seeping through the fabric.

“That was too easy,” Ron said.

Harry pulled the mask off. Broken eyes stared into the smoke-covered night sky. The wizard was dead.

And it wasn’t Crouch.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 17th, 1999**

As she went up the service stairs, Hermione Granger was tempted to take a detour on her way out of the Ministry. It wouldn’t take that long to break into Undersecretary Umbridge’s office, and the documents and whatever else Hermione found in there might be useful in dealing with the bigoted witch. Hermione hadn’t forgotten that Umbridge had tried to send her to Azkaban, after all. And the ugly witch was also doing all she could to oppose Sirius’s proposals in the Wizengamot, so if she were to be forced out of office - or sent to Azkaban herself, see how she liked it! - that would be one less obstacle to reforming Wizarding Britain.

She was very tempted, but she wouldn’t do it. She was already a little behind schedule, and Umbridge could be dealt with easily once Sirius controlled the Wizengamot. It wasn’t as if her efforts were very effective, anyway, thanks to Sirius’s gold.

Still, if she had the time… Hermione bared her teeth at that thought.

She reached the flight before the Atrium and cast a Supersensory Charm. Several people were talking - the guards at the fireplace, she realised. There weren’t many Aurors and Hit-Wizards around, so it was easier to follow what they were saying. It seemed that Bones and her niece had managed to flee their manor shortly before it was consumed by Fiendfyre, and the battle was still going on.

Which meant Harry and Ron were still fighting. Still in danger. She pressed her lips together. She couldn’t do anything for them. She had to trust that they would survive. And she had to get past the guard at the entrance of the service stairway. That would be tricky. She could change to defeat a Human-presence-revealing Spell, but even a graceful cat could be spotted.

But she didn’t have the time to go through a wall a floor above, and going down and taking the main stairs would be even more dangerous. Besides, who’d suspect a beautiful cat like her?

She changed and strolled up the last flight of stairs as if she had every right to be here. Which she had since no one had been able to stop her. Now she just had to slip past the guard… who wasn’t present. But there should be a guard!

She moved forward and sniffed the ground. Her sense of smell wasn’t as good as a dog’s - the dumb animals needed good noses to compensate for their lack of brains - but it smelled as if there had been a guard here earlier. Cheap perfume. But there should be a guard here - that was standard procedure.

Perhaps they had called the guard away. It was possible - this was an important post, and close enough to support the guards in the Atrium, but it wasn’t truly essential. But… She turned her head and looked at the next flight of stairs. It led up to the attic, where most of the Air-Cleaning and Air-Refreshing Charms were maintained. And other, similar charms. She had been there once before, during Voldemort’s attack on the Ministry. And she had caught a Death Eater trying to commit sabotage there.

Crouch wouldn’t try to repeat a failed plan, would he? He was attacking Bones Manor. Fighting Harry. Could he have found an accomplice? Unlikely.

She glanced at the corner. She should be sneaking out, and then up the main stairs, towards the secret tunnel. Use the opportunity generated by Crouch’s attack to get away clean.

But she couldn’t leave while someone might be preparing a trap or attack in the attic. Hissing with frustration, she started to go up the stairs. Towards the attic.

A flight below the entrance, she changed back and activated the spells on her mask to check for protections on the door - the Ministry might have added some spells in the years since she had left the Death Eater there. They might have forgone that, though, because protections made maintenance more complicated since employees had to pass through them.

There were indeed spells on the door - an Alarm Charm and a Locking Charm. But she couldn’t see any detection spells linked to them to let anyone with the right passphrase or item pass. Which meant only the caster could pass through them without triggering the alarm.

She drew a slow breath through clenched teeth. There was no way a Ministry employee would do this. There was an intruder in the attic. A saboteur. She sneered. She had dealt with those before. And the spells on the door wouldn’t stop her for long.

She aimed her wand at the door, then reconsidered. This wasn’t like when Voldemort had attacked. There wouldn’t be a thorough search of the Ministry for traitors and spies. If she stunned and bound the saboteur, he might not be found before the spells wore off. Or he might be able to claim he was attacked by a thief - which would be the truth anyway.

And she couldn’t alert the Aurors in the Atrium; not without giving away her presence and ruining the entire point of the heist - they’d search the Ministry to find out what she had been doing. She bit her lower lip. There had to be a way to stop this Death Eater saboteur without ruining her plans. She needed an excuse, something that would explain her presence. But she didn’t have the time for that, not when…

She grinned as the solution came to her. It was risky. Mr Fletcher would call it reckless. But it would stop whatever the saboteur was doing and cover up what she had been doing here.

She changed and raced down the stairs, stopping on the Atrium floor. After changing back, she removed her mask and quickly transfigured her suit into the dark brown robes of a Ministry maintenance employee. She left her wig on and slipped conjured inserts into her mouth. Coupled with the fake tan of her skin, that should disguise her enough.

Then she rushed into the Atrium, towards the two guards there. “Hey! Hey!” she called, waving. They drew their wands but didn’t cast at her. She didn’t give them a chance to ask questions and started talking before she reached them. “I was told to fix the Air-Refreshing Charms for the Undersecretary’s office, even though it’s night-time and she shouldn’t be working now. But when I went up, the guard who should have let me past wasn’t there, and the door to the attic was locked - it’s not supposed to be locked.” She swallowed. “Someone must be in there - but I’m the only one on duty. There shouldn’t be anyone in there. And where’s the guard?”

The two guards looked at each other. “Bloody hell!” the witch in charge - she was an Auror - swore. “If we have another intruder in the attic… Go down to Auror Headquarters, and tell them we have a possible intruder in the attic. We need all the wands they can spare!” she told the Hit-Wizard with her. “I’ll secure the stairs!”

“I’ll tell the Undersecretary so she can evacuate!” Hermione yelled. She turned around before the Auror could say anything else and started running towards the stairs right after the Hit-Wizard.

She kept pace until they reached the floor above the Auror Office, whereupon she ducked into the next alcove and changed, hiding behind a flower pot. Less than a minute later, a dozen Aurors, Hit-Wizards and mercenaries rushed past her towards the Atrium.

Which meant the Auror Office would be almost empty.

*****

**Oxfordshire, Bones Manor, January 17th, 1999**

Harry Potter was staring at the dead wizard. It wasn’t Crouch. That explained the rather common curses the man had used - Crouch would have used more exotic, and darker, curses. And he wouldn’t have missed so often.

“Could be Polyjuice,” Ron said.

Harry shook his head. “Possible, but I don’t think so.” Why would Crouch have used such a disguise if he was wearing his Death Eater robes and mask?

“Potter! What are you doing, lollygagging? There’s Fiendfyre to contain!”

Harry rolled his eyes as he turned to face Dawlish. “The Unspeakables have that under control.” They should have, at least - it wasn’t as if they hadn’t gotten lots of practice thanks to Crouch. “But this isn’t Crouch, which means he’s doing something else while we’re gathered here.”

To his credit, Dawlish didn’t contest that. He cursed instead. “Merlin’s arse! He could be anywhere!”

Harry couldn’t spot Bathilda. He hoped the witch was safe. Dawlish would have said something if she had been hurt, wouldn’t he? He shook his head. “This was a distraction, which means he needed a lot of us here. He wouldn’t have done that for just any attack. And we’d have been alerted if he had attacked Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade or Hogwarts.”

“He’s doing something sneaky, then,” Ron said.

Harry nodded. And there was one target that would require such tactics. Especially on a Sunday. “The Ministry.”

Dawlish cursed again.

Harry touched his badge. “Potter here. Tonks, keep a dozen wands here to support and protect the Unspeakables. Everyone else, return to the Ministry at once - we might be under attack.”

He was about to apparate when he heard Scrimgeour through his badge: “Hold that. What’s going on?”

Harry clenched his teeth. “The Death Eater wasn’t Crouch. This might be a distraction - and the Ministry’s the obvious target.” And even if it wasn’t, it was the logical rally point - they would be able to react without delay if they were gathered there.

“Alright. Proceed.” Scrimgeour sounded slightly annoyed.

Harry didn’t care. What counted was catching Crouch. “Be ready to enter combat when you apparate!” he ordered through his badge. Then he focused and apparated.

He appeared in the designated arrival area in the Atrium and instantly moved away, towards the Thief’s Downfall. It was guarded by two mercenaries - something was wrong. There should be an Auror or Hit-Wizard in charge. “Report!” he bellowed, with Ron at his side as more Aurors and Hit-Wizards arrived.

“There’s an intruder in the attic!” one of the mercenaries, a witch, replied. “Everyone but us went up to arrest them.”

Everyone? That would have been a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards, at least - it depended on how many off-duty wands had been alerted and come in. “When was that?” Harry asked as he started towards the hallway leading to the service stairway.

“A minute or two ago,” the witch answered. “At most.”

They had arrived in time, then. Harry smiled and turned to give orders to the dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards behind them.

Before he could say anything, though, an explosion blew out part of the wall on the second floor of the Atrium. Stones, mortar and what looked like a body crashed to the floor. A grey-robed body.

There was movement on the balustrades, too - Harry could see red robes running. Away from the service stairs. And he heard a buzzing sound growing louder and louder.

Then a dark cloud billowed out of the hole in the wall and came down upon them. Harry gasped when he realised what it was - a gigantic swarm of bugs.

“Mosquitoes!” he heard Ron yell, right before the swarm enveloped them.

Harry couldn’t help but flinch as thousands of insects slammed into his Shield Charm and obscured his vision. At least his shield was holding. He flicked his wand - the Elder Wand - and water shot out of its tip, blasting a clear path through the mosquitoes. He turned and let the water wash over the other Aurors as Ron followed his example. The stream of water bowled over a Hit-Wizard, but the others stood their ground.

A few moments later the swarm had been pushed back from the Atrium and visibility had been restored - mostly. “Cover the second floor!” Harry yelled, moving towards the service stairs with Ron.

He had barely taken a few steps when screaming from behind them made him stop and whirl round. His eyes widened. One of the Aurors - Cumberland, Harry thought - was on his knees, weakly flailing as red pustules sprouted all over his exposed skin. In moments, they had grown large enough to cover all his skin - and they kept growing, reaching the size of apples.

An instant later, they burst, showering the area and another Auror - Smith - who had bent down to help Cumberland, with blood. As Smith screamed in horror, Harry stared at Cumberland. Of the man’s skin, only a few strips were left, exposing the dried remains of his flesh. Drained of all blood, Harry realised.

“Blood Magic,” he muttered.

Smith was still screaming, staring at her blood-covered robes and hands. Before Harry could snap at her, she suddenly started coughing, vomiting blood. She tried to say something, but the only sound she managed was a gurgling, choking sound before she toppled over.

Harry took a few steps back. “Don’t touch the blood!” he yelled. “Keep your Shield Charms up!”

A Hit-Wizard started coughing. His Shield Charm was still up. Harry saw him grab something from his pocket - a bezoar - and swallow it. But it didn’t help - the man kept coughing, blood running down the front of his grey robes. A moment later, he, too, fell.

The Hit-Wizard hadn’t touched the blood. And others had been closer to Cumberland and Smith. That meant… “Keep your Bubble-Head Charms up as well!” Harry yelled, flicking his wand to cast a quick Air-Cleaning Charm.

“The Aurors and Hit-Wizards on the balustrade are dead.” Ron pointed at the second floor. Blood was dripping from a crack in the railing.

And Harry could see another swarm disappear into the main stairway. Towards the Ministry’s main floors.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 17th, 1999**

Hermione Granger grinned behind her mask as she flicked her wand and made a stack of parchment, four quills and two bottles of enchanted ink float towards her. A moment later, everything disappeared into her enchanted pocket, joining the shrunken filing cabinets, chairs and other assorted furniture in Dawlish’s office. That only left the two now bare desks. And the carpet and the pictures on the wall. A few more Levitation and Shrinking Charms later, the office of that stupid oaf was stripped completely bare.

She eyed the wall, bereft of any decoration. Perhaps she should add a taunting message? If only she had a calling card. Or at least an elegant nom de guerre. Well, she would have one if her friends had any taste and hadn’t rejected all her proposed names.

She frowned. She would have to settle for having looted Dawlish’s office of everything in it - it was sort of her calling card, anyway.

Nodding, she turned and opened the door slightly to check whether the main part of the Auror Office - the bullpen, Harry sometimes called it - was still deserted. It was. Thirty seconds later, she was on the stairs, moving towards the Atrium.

One floor below the Atrium, she suddenly heard a buzzing noise. A very loud noise. And screams. A moment later, a dark cloud - a swarm of insects! - filled the stairs above her and billowed towards her.

She barely managed to cast a Shield Charm before the swarm reached her and countless insects - mosquitoes - flattened themselves against her spell. She took a few deep breaths - the spells on her mask took care of the air - then flicked her wand to dispel the animals.

It didn’t work. Either they weren’t conjured or transfigured - and where would you get such enormous numbers of mosquitoes? - or she wasn’t skilled enough. Baring her teeth, she raised her wand again. It didn’t matter - she had other ways to deal with this.

A swish of her wand conjured a mass of powder. A flick set it on fire. She heard dozens of insects burn, causing a crackling noise. Another swish, and more powder appeared, further up the stairs. And ignited.

A moment later, fake Fiendfyre rushed up the stairs, consuming the cloud of mosquitoes in seconds. She hesitated a moment, then turned and sent more flames down the stairs before rushing upwards. She had to hurry now since whoever was in the Atrium would have noticed that - and would know she was here.

Fake Fiendfyre was, after all, also a sort of calling card of hers.

*****

Harry Potter’s eyes widened when he saw Fiendfyre shoot out of the entrance to the main staircase - from below. Crouch must have gotten past them, and set the Ministry on fire! “Watch out!” he yelled, raising his wand to conjure a wall to contain the cursed flames - if they were quick enough, they might save part of the building.

Then the flames flickered out. He blinked. There was plenty of material in the entrance to fuel the fire, so… “Fake Fiendfyre!” he exclaimed. The thieves! What were they doing here?

“I’m casting Mosquito-repelling Charms,” Ron yelled, joining him. “It’ll keep the bloodsuckers away even without a Shield Charm, but I’ll need a lot of them to seal the Atrium!”

And more mosquitoes already started to fill the Atrium again - Harry saw a cloud of them enter the staircase before the rest descended upon his force, only to part and recoil when they hit Ron’s spells.

Then green fire shot out of staircase again, frying the bugs in the area - he saw the brief flash of light. His own Water-Making Spell cleared a section of the Atrium as well, if not quite as fast or efficiently. But it allowed Ron to cover more ground with his charms.

“Luna will be thrilled to know that her spell works so well,” his friend said with a fierce grin.

“Sirius will pay for her next expedition,” Harry replied as he conjured a wall to seal off part of the balustrade. That would channel the mosquitoes and make it easier to deal with them.

They moved ahead, followed - slightly reluctantly - by the rest of their group. Once more, green fire filled the staircase.

“Fiendfyre!” Harry heard someone panic behind him.

“It’s not Fiendfyre,” he snapped. “And it’s burning the insects!”

“But…”

A blast that tore a new hole into the second floor of the Atrium shut the complainer - he had to be a Hit-Wizard since Harry didn’t know him - up. Crouch was still trying to flood the Atrium.

But the mosquitoes descending on them were held back by Ron’s charms, then incinerated by green flames. Harry couldn’t help but shudder - up close, it looked very convincing. But he had seen where the flames had started and where they ended, and that meant… he turned and stared at the entrance to the main stairs. The thief had to be standing right there, to have a line of sight for that last spell. A step closer, he saw the marker of his Human-presence-revealing Spell appear, right where he had expected it.

Harry hesitated a moment. It was against regulations. It was against the law. He hated to do it. But it had to be done. “Night Nargle! Keep the stairs and Atrium clear of mosquitoes! We’ll get Crouch!”

“What?” Ron muttered next to him. Harry ignored him, as he ignored the comments from the rest of their force.

In the middle of the entrance, the thief appeared. It was her - the witch in the leather suit, and the stripes - whiskers, he realised - on her black mask.

And she nodded at him.

*****

Hermione Granger knew she didn’t have to end her Disillusionment Charm. She could have simply answered Harry in her altered voice - if she were able to say something, anything, that wouldn’t ruin her cover. Seeing Harry there, about to charge into those swarms of mosquitoes to fight Crouch… it was all she could do not to run over and hug him or follow him as he and Ron led the rest of the Aurors off.

She shuddered as they turned the corner and ran up the stairs, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out. Dear Lord, she hated this. Even though she knew she wouldn’t be of any help - she wasn’t an Auror or Hit-Wizard, they didn’t trust her and she hadn’t trained to fight dark wizards with Aurors.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she forced herself to focus on her task. Which, apparently, was pest control. A cloud of mosquitoes was growing denser in the corner near the service stairs - held back by spells, she noticed. She flicked her wand and reduced them to cinders with another cascade of fake Fiendfyre.

Then she noticed the bodies in the Atrium. What was left of them, to be more precise. She felt nauseated at the horrible sight. If even one of the mosquitoes bit her... they had to be even more dangerous than she had assumed, to do this. Probably enchanted… no, to enchant so many animals individually would have been impossible. And there was no way to enchant them en masse. At least as far as she knew.

But she couldn’t dwell on that, though. Not now. Harry was counting on her. She filled the rest of the Atrium with her fire, then turned to face the hallway leading upstairs. She could stay here and protect the main stairs. No insects would get past her. But more Aurors would arrive - and they wouldn’t know about Harry’s offer. Nor could she expect them to uphold this ‘truce’ even if they knew.

No, she had to move and deal with the mosquitoes at the same time. That meant stopping the insects from entering the Atrium or the main stairways. Harry and the others had taken the service staircase, so that would be covered.

More mosquitoes were flying into the Atrium once more. She took care of them, then tapped her mask and studied the second floor above her. There had to be… there! A gap in the wall. She flinched at the flashes of light she saw through the hole - signs of fighting - and filled it with conjured stone, then mended the wall. And hoped that no one would blow it open again.

That left the main staircase and the second floor of the Atrium - the balustrades. Well, she needed to get up there, anyway, to get away. And she needed to exterminate every mosquito in the area anyway, or she wouldn’t be able to safely change into a cat to sneak out. Though the irony of a thief helping to save the Ministry wasn’t lost on her.

Baring her teeth, she led with her wand, incinerating a few hundred stragglers on the way up.

*****

“Brandon, seal up the staircase below us!” Harry Potter ordered as he took a step forward, his wand pointed up at the first flight of the service staircase. “Everyone else, follow me - we’ll get that Death Eater!”

He cast another Water-Making Spell to clear the stairs of mosquitoes, then rushed up them. As soon as he turned the corner, he stopped. Holes littered the walls of this flight - and mosquitoes rushed through them, towards the Atrium. He flicked his wand, conjuring a solid stone wall along the wrecked wall. That stopped the insects - but redirected them towards him and his group.

He took a deep breath, hoping his Shield Charm would hold, when Ron pressed himself next to him, his wand pointed up.

“Vallum Culicum!”

The mosquitoes stopped as if smashing into an invisible wall - Ron’s charm held them back - and quickly started to fill the staircase, forming an almost solid mass of buzzing, squirming insects.

“Merlin’s arse!” someone cursed behind Harry.

“My charm won’t hold them back for long - not if the sheer weight of them pushes them down!” Ron snapped.

“Aguamenti!” Harry yelled - even with the Elder Wand, every little bit helped. A stream of water shot towards the mass of bugs as if the wand were a firehose. The water cut through the swarm, opening holes which quickly closed - but it pushed the insects back. For now.

“He can’t have unlimited numbers of them!” Ron yelled. “They’re not transfigured or conjured, and you can’t duplicate living animals! He must have bred them!”

So it was a question of who ran out first - Crouch of mosquitoes or them of ways to keep them away and kill them. Not odds Harry liked. Not against Crouch. And not in a narrow staircase.

He kept the spell going, gritting his teeth at the effort it cost him, slowly moving his wand back and forth, up and down, to cover the entire space in front of them. Water was running down the stairs now, inches deep and carrying thousands of dead insects. And rising. If the water rose even higher, and spilt into their boots, with those deadly insects…

“We’re running out of time!” Harry muttered. “Ron, cast a wall as soon as I drop the spell.”

“Alright. On three.”

“One. Two. Three!” Harry flicked his wand, ending the spell, and a moment later, a wall appeared in front of him, sealing off the staircase.

He took a deep breath. “Fall back!” he yelled, looking at the ceiling. “He won’t stay idle!”

“Need to smoke him out,” Ron said. “Before he drops the ceiling on us.”

“Merlin’s beard! We can’t stay here!”

Harry ignored the yell from behind them and kept his eyes on the ceiling and the walls. “Or when he’s dropping the ceiling on us,” he said with bared teeth. He quickly turned his head, staring at the two Hit-Wizards in the back. “You! Get out and start repairing the wall between the Atrium and us!”

They hesitated. “Ah…”

“Bloody Hit-Wizards,” Ron muttered. “Can’t do anything but fight.”

Harry swallowed his own curse and addressed the two Aurors left with them. “Ben, Mary-Anne - you do it.” At least Aurors could be trusted to know such spells.

The two almost bowled the Hit-Wizards over in their haste to get out.

Harry turned his attention back to watching the staircase - just in time to see it blow up. The explosion drove him and Ron back a few steps, but their shields held. But then fragments of wood and stone rained down on them. Followed by a cloud of mosquitoes. As soon as their shields shattered, the insects would cover them, and it would be over.

As Ron cast his Insect-Repelling Charm again - it wouldn’t be enough, Harry knew - he flicked his wand. Fiendfyre would cleanse the entire area… No! He managed to conjure an angled wall instead, stopping the avalanche.

“Fall back!” Harry yelled again. “Out!”

He pushed a frozen Hit-Wizard out of the service stairs, sending the witch tumbling to the floor, then whirled around, Ron at his side.

“We have to smoke him out,” Ron repeated. “We can’t leave him up there for much longer.”

Harry nodded. Sooner or later, Crouch would use Fiendfyre as well, Harry knew. But they couldn’t use the staircase to attack - and going in through the ceiling would allow Crouch to be ready for them. What could they do?

Fiendfyre would do the job… He shook his head and gripped his wand more tightly. No. He couldn’t unleash that. But he had to do something.

He caught movement behind him and whirled around. The thief was there, back at the main stairs, watching them. For a moment, she seemed frozen.

“The Atrium’s clear,” she said - sounding, oddly, as if she were apologising. She was also ignoring the wands the two Hit-Wizards aimed at her.

He wondered what she was doing here. Why hadn’t she fled? This wasn’t her fight. So why… His eyes widened as he found the solution. “Night Nargle!”

She jerked. “That’s not my name!”

He ignored that. “We’ll blow up the ceiling above us. You’ll flood the area with your fake Fiendfyre!” That would distract Crouch enough to allow them to charge him.

For a moment, she tensed. Then she nodded.

“Mount your brooms!” Harry ordered, pulling out his own and aiming his wand at the ceiling. The attic’s corner would be directly above them.

“Ready!” Ron said a moment after Harry had mounted his Firebolt.

The two Hit-Wizards took a few seconds longer. “Ready.” “Ready.”

“Ready.” That was the thief - but, as a glance told Harry, she wasn’t on a broom.

It didn’t matter. All she had to do was cast her fake Fiendfyre.

“On three!” Harry said. “One. Two. Three!”

His and Ron’s Blasting Curses tore up the ceiling. Two more curses hit it a fraction of a second later. And then green fire shot through the cloud of dust left by the curses.

Harry was already in the air, his Shield Charm deflecting both stone fragments and the green fire surrounding him. He thought he heard a scream when he passed through the cloud. Then he was in the attic, pulling hard on the shaft of his Firebolt to avoid crashing into the ceiling.

There was Crouch! The man - he didn’t look like Crouch, probably Polyjuice Potion - was stumbling inside the green fire, waving his wand. Harry clenched his teeth and aimed his wand, accelerating. He saw the man’s eyes widen - he must have realised the fire was fake - and move his wand to aim at Harry.

But he wasn’t quick enough. Harry ploughed into him, both their Shield Charms shattering on impact, and then the tip of the shaft of his broom hit the man in the stomach with the full force of his accelerating Firebolt, only the safety charms on the broom preventing it from impaling him, before Harry’s shoulder slammed into Crouch’s face as he let go of the Firebolt and let his momentum carry him onwards.

The two of them slammed into the wall behind Crouch. The man’s head was thrown back and hit the stone with a crack before they fell to the floor. The impact knocked the breath out of Harry, but he rolled over his shoulder, ignoring the pain that caused, and came up casting, slashing his wand down. His Cutting Curse sliced off Crouch’s hand and wand before the dazed Death Eater could react.

A Stunner cut off the man’s scream, and three Bone-Breaking Curses ensured that he wouldn’t get up and do anything any time soon.

Panting, Harry recast his Shield Charm as he turned around. The dust was still settling so he couldn’t see far, but Ron was there, a few yards away.

“I’ve got his trunk sealed and the insects contained,” his friend reported, pointing at a chest nearby. He, too, was protected by a Shield Charm, though.

The two Hit-Wizards were still on their brooms, just now coming out of the dust cloud. “We saw no other enemies,” one of them belatedly reported.

Harry cast a Full Body-Binding Curse on their prisoner for good measure, then rushed back to the hole in the floor. A glance down filled him with both disappointment and relief.

The thief was gone.

*****

 


	59. Debriefing

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 18th, 1999**

“Brocktuckle! Where have you been? It’s almost noon!”

Zacharias Browtuckle refrained from rolling his eyes as he approached his superior. Javier Rosier was the nephew of the Head of the Rosier family but expected everyone to treat him as if he were the heir. And he never got Zacharias’s name right. “I had the Sunday shift, Mr Rosier,” Zacharias said. “I was in the office until two in the morning.”

“But you had the regular shift today, and that starts at eight, not ten!”

“I did two hours of overtime,” Zacharias started to say.

Rosier cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it! It was an emergency - everyone is expected to do overtime when that happens! We, Britain, depend on the Floo Network - especially in an emergency! You should have been here at eight o’clock sharp!”

Zacharias swallowed his retort - he had almost died last night! If one of those cursed mosquitoes had managed to get into their offices… “Yes, sir,” he snapped instead. Then he looked around. “Where are the rest of the shift?” They hadn’t been on duty last night!

“They’re sick,” Rosier answered. “I’ve called Jenkins and Wilson, but they didn’t answer the Floo. Bloody slackers!”

Zacharias coughed. Sick? More likely, they were too afraid to come to work. “Wilson mentioned that she’d be visiting her mother over the weekend.” And if Jenkins’s tales about his amorous exploits were to be believed he’d be waking up in a stranger’s bed right about now.

Rosier sneered. “And, of course, her mother has no Floo connection! Muggleborns!” he added in a low voice.

Zacharias nodded in agreement. It was safer than saying anything. “So there’s no one else coming?”

“No,” Rosier growled. “This wouldn’t have happened if we had more purebloods of good families in the department.”

Zacharias didn’t point out that the purebloods of good families were currently ‘sick’ and would probably be sick for a few more days, until they were certain that there was no danger any more. Merlin’s beard, he would be ‘sick’ as well if he didn’t know it would land him in St Mungo’s since he had been present during an attack with unknown curses…  “I’ll handle the main board, then,” he said. It would be tough, but doable - as long as there was no trouble. All he had to do was watch out for connections that didn’t work as they should.

Rosier shook his head. “No. I’ll handle it. You need to go over the charms.”

“What?” Zacharias stared at him. “Did anything fail while I was away?”

“The night shift didn’t report anything when I arrived today,” Rosier said. “But the Aurors want us to check if anything is amiss since we had two intruders in the Ministry last night.”

“Two? I thought there was only one?” Zacharias blurted out.

Rosier shook his head and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “No, the Night Nargles broke into the Ministry as well. My cousin told me - he’s a Hit-Wizard. So the DMLE wants every department to run a full inventory and check all their spells.”

“A full inventory? What do they think - that thieves who empty manor vaults would steal our office supplies?” Zacharias scoffed. They didn’t even have an inventory, anyway - at least not one that had been updated in the last few decades, as far as he knew. Half his colleagues also brought their own chairs and quills. Whoever did the inventory would have to report a lot of missing things.

Rosier shrugged. “Jenkins and Wilson can do that,” he said with a sneer. “But we need to check the map for any tampering.”

“I was at the map the entire time!” Zacharias protested. “With Smith, Fawley and Davis! It’s impossible for anyone to have snuck in and cast a spell on it!”

Rosier shrugged again. “I know that, but you know the Aurors. They already checked the office for dark curses. Go and check the charms.”

This time, Zacharias rolled his eyes. Those bloody Aurors were all paranoid - like that ugly relic with the enchanted eye. And arrogant - did they think everyone else was incompetent? They had no idea about the Floo Network, much less the map! If they had, they would be able to do the checking themselves.

He clenched his teeth as he entered the map room. Stupid Aurors!

“Ah, finally!” Edgecombe, the witch on duty greeted him. “My shift ended two hours ago, but Rosier wouldn’t let me go!”

“And you can’t leave yet,” Zacharias told her. “I have to check all the charms. Rosier will relieve you.”

“What?” She gasped. “It’s already past ten o’clock!”

Zacharias shrugged. “Blame the Auror Office - they want us to thoroughly check all the charms, and I’m the only one of my shift who isn’t hiding at home or on vacation.”

“Bloody cowards!” Edgecombe muttered.

Zacharias raised his eyebrows. He remembered her reaction when she had relieved him last night. “Would you have come to work if you had known what happened?”

She scowled but didn’t contradict him. “And where’s Rosier?”

“Probably reading the documentation so he doesn’t mess up when he relieves you,” Zacharias said, after glancing behind him to check that their superior wasn’t close by.

That made the witch chuckle. “Probably a good idea,” she said. “If he messed up we’d have to fix it.”

“Yes,” Zacharias agreed, then sighed and knelt down on the floor and cast a detection spell.

The glowing network and runes on the map made him squint. He was supposed to check every charm? That would take him longer than the entire day! He started to check the closest rune. It looked perfectly fine. No tampering. No deviation from the norm. One down, a few hundred to go. And there were even more spells that created, maintained and ended the actual connections.

Half an hour later, Rosier finally came in and sent Edgecombe home. “How’s it going, Brocktuckle?”

“It’s Browtuckle,” Zacharias muttered under his breath, “and it would go better if you didn’t disturb me.” More loudly, he said: “I’m working on the runes.”

“Be quick about it!” Rosier said. “The DMLE expects our results this afternoon.”

“What?” Zacharias looked up and hit his head against the edge of the map. “Ow.”

Rosier snorted. “That wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t been late this morning!”

Zacharias opened his mouth to protest, then closed it and clenched his teeth. It wasn’t his fault - but Rosier would blame him if he didn’t finish on time. Which was impossible. He ducked back under the map, steaming. Another black mark in his file. And just because Rosier wouldn’t stand up for his employees when the stupid Aurors asked the impossible.

It wasn’t fair! He hadn’t done anything wrong - he had just reclaimed his overtime right away, which everyone did! And this was pointless anyway - Zacharias had been in this damned room, staring at the cursed map for the entire night! No one could have done anything to it. Not with four people in the room!

He scoffed, then pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t take the blame for not finishing a stupid, pointless and impossible task. He shook his head.

No, he’d finish checking the runes, then check a few connections, and, when it was time, he’d report that there wasn’t anything wrong with the charms. Which was the truth, anyway.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 18th, 1999**

Harry Potter wished he hadn’t told Bathilda off for abusing Pepper-Up Potions - he certainly could use one as he had only slept for a couple of hours. Ensuring that there were no other attackers, checking - futilely - for the Night Nargles and flooding the Ministry with pesticide to kill the last of the mosquitoes had taken too much time, and he and Ron couldn’t afford to sleep longer or Dawlish would have tried to take over the investigation.

He entered Bones’s office, and, as expected, Dawlish was already there, with Bathilda. As was Scrimgeour, of course - the Head Auror would have probably made a sarcastic remark about being late, if this had been his office.

Bones, though, merely nodded at them. “Aurors Potter and Weasley.”

“Ma’am.” Harry nodded back. “We’ve just got the results from the Department of Mysteries.” That implied that that was the reason for their slight tardiness, which wasn’t entirely correct. “The man we arrested is Barty Crouch Jr.”

“What?” Dawlish blurted. “He doesn’t look like him, and we put him through the Thief’s Downfall!” Scrimgeour glared at the Auror, but Dawlish didn’t seem to notice. “Are you claiming that he found a way to fool the goblins’ magic?” he asked, before Bathilda tugged on his sleeve.

Harry looked at Bones, who frowned but nodded, before answering. “In a manner of speaking. He used muggle plastic surgery to change his face.”

“What?”

Harry explained the procedure, which left Bathilda looking rather queasy. He assumed that the others were simply hiding their reaction better - even Ron had been taken aback when he had read about plastic surgery.

“They found the scars left by the procedure. And his wand - the one he used fighting us, not the one he carried in his disguise as ‘Veton Hyka’ - matches the one used during the prior attacks, as does the spell residue according to the Unspeakables. His blood also matches our records. Unlike the wizard we killed at Bones Manor, he wasn’t under the Imperius Curse. And he admitted to being Crouch Jr.” Although in a rather ranting way.

“That could be the result of a False Memory Charm,” Scrimgeour said.

“The Unspeakables don’t think so, at least according to their preliminary report,” Harry replied. “They might do a DNA test as well.”

No one asked what that was; they probably thought it was something magical the Department of Mysteries had invented. Although they might indeed have invented a magical way of doing DNA testing - a way to check their ancestry certainly would appeal to the Old Families. Or not, in some cases. Harry smiled. “All in all, the evidence that we caught Crouch is compelling.”

“But it’s not certain,” Scrimgeour said. “He could be an accomplice.”

“Theoretically. But everything we’ve found so far points at him being Crouch, who had infiltrated the Ministry in the guise of an Albanian mercenary.” And Harry’s gut instinct also told him that this was the man who had fought him before. Not to mention that he didn’t think Crouch would sacrifice his wand with a decoy.

“What you’ve found so far isn’t much,” Dawlish grumbled.

“Let’s assume for the moment that the wizard you arrested is Crouch. What was he doing?” Bones ended the debate.

Ron took that one. “At the moment, as far as we can tell, he’d bred mosquitoes en masse and fed them a blood magic potion that made them carriers of a magical disease - or a curse. Or both. There were two distinct effects, the blood boils and the blood cough, but that might also be the result of a two-stage curse or disease. We have found at least one of the locations where he must have induced them to come out of their diapause so he could collect them for breeding. He probably also used a few special spells to accelerate the breeding cycle to gather the numbers of mosquitoes he had in his extended trunk. He didn’t magically control them, as far as we can tell, but simply used some sort of repelling potion to drive them out of the trunk and attic - and away from himself.”

Ron had really spent a lot of time helping the Lovegoods, Harry thought. Admittedly, it had paid off - if he hadn’t learned the Mosquito-repelling Charm during one of their expeditions… So as long as he wasn’t talking about the ‘poor abused mosquitoes’, Harry wouldn’t complain.

“That means he used blood magic to attack us,” Scrimgeour said.

“Yes, sir.” Harry nodded. “The similarities to the spells used in earlier crimes are clear.”

“Why didn’t he use Fiendfyre if he had infiltrated the Ministry already?” Bathilda asked, then flinched a little when everyone looked at her. She straightened quickly, though.

“After his past attacks on Gringotts, we were prepared for such an eventuality and had considerable experience dealing with Fiendfyre,” Scrimgeour said. “Which was proven during the attack on Bones Manor.”

“Which was likely a distraction,” Bones added with a frown - as if she were unhappy about that.

“Compared to a Fiendfyre attack, which would have been limited to whatever floor or room our suspect could have entered, the planned attack with the mosquitoes would have had considerably worse effects. Especially if he had managed to sabotage the Air-Cleaning Charms,” Scrimgeour went on. “If he had released the insects during the day, in the middle of a Wizengamot session, he might very well have managed to decapitate our country.”

Harry nodded in agreement - he had worked that out already.

“We were very fortunate that he was detected and accosted before he could finish his preparations and forced to release the mosquito swarm early.” Scrimgeour nodded. “Although this brings up the question of who exactly noticed and reported him to the Aurors on duty.” He looked at Harry and Ron.

Harry didn’t wince, but he felt like it. He cleared his throat, then clenched his teeth - that made him look guilty. And he hadn’t done anything wrong! “The witch who reported him to the guards in the Atrium was very likely a member of the Night Nargles. We’ve...”

“Night Nargles?” Bones interrupted him.

He grinned. “They don’t like the name The Quibbler chose for them.” The witch had sounded angry when he used it.

Scrimgeour smiled at that, Dawlish scoffed, but Bones nodded. “Go on.”

Harry went on: “We’ve checked with the guards who talked to her, and their description fits the witch that robbed the Greengrasses.” He’d have to check in the Pensieve, but there hadn’t been enough time for that yet.

“They should have arrested her!” Dawlish growled. “And I want to see their memories!” he added with a glare at Harry.

“That’s not my decision to make,” Harry retorted, matching the man’s glare.

Scrimgeour spoke up: “We will discuss the investigation after we have all the available facts.”

Harry nodded. “As far as we can tell, she noticed the absence of the guard at the entrance to the service staircase, then found the attic locked and decided to disguise herself as a Ministry maintenance employee and alert the guards on duty.”

“And then she used the opportunity this created to break into the Auror Office as the Aurors responded to the alert!” Dawlish spat. “It’s even possible that she let the dark wizard inside to betray him for this very purpose.”

“That’s stupid!” Harry blurted out.

“You would say that!” the other Auror retorted.

“Enough!” Bones raised her voice. “This isn’t a Wizengamot session! You will behave in a civilised and professional manner. Auror Potter, you will finish your report. Auror Dawlish, you will refrain from interrupting him.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Harry refrained from grinning at Dawlish. He took a deep breath. “The guards on duty, reinforced by the Aurors and Hit-Wizards in the Ministry, moved to the attic and tried to arrest the intruder, but were driven back by dark curses while trying to break through the door’s protections. At the same time, we stopped the attacker at Bones Manor and we realised that he was a decoy, not Crouch - he hadn’t displayed the competence of Crouch during the battle, and his face didn’t match Crouch’s.” He could see that Dawlish was clenching his teeth - no doubt the man wanted to mention that the wizard they arrested didn’t look like Crouch either. “At this point, I ordered all wands we could spare to return to the Ministry. Both to defend it if it were under attack as well as to be able to react more quickly in case other attacks were reported.”

Both Bones and Scrimgeour nodded at that.

Now came the tricky part. “We arrived in the Atrium moments before the mosquito swarm was unleashed on the Atrium and the upper floors. It was soon obvious that the guards who had gone to the attic had been killed, and we were preparing our own assault when we noticed fake Fiendfyre clearing the main staircase of the mosquitoes inside it. I realised that this was the work of the Night Nargles and, in light of the urgent need to stop Crouch, I decided to ask them to support us. They agreed, and we fought our way up to the second floor of the Atrium, clearing the mosquitoes on the way, then broke through the attic floor using the fake Fiendfyre as a distraction and took Crouch down.” He paused for a moment, then added: “During the arrest, the Night Nargle disappeared.”

Dawlish scoffed at that.

“Is that all?” Bones asked.

Harry nodded. “I’ll make a detailed report once we have additional information.” And the time to write it.

“Why didn’t you arrest the thief?” Bones asked with an unreadable expression.

Harry had helped save her life at Bones Manor, but he knew that the Head of the DMLE wouldn’t let that affect her. “We were hard-pressed to contain the mosquitoes and prevent them from spreading through the entire Ministry. After observing the effects of the cursed mosquitoes, it was obvious that Crouch had to be stopped at once. He is a mass murderer while the Night Nargles haven’t seriously hurt anyone during their heists.”

“As far as we know,” Dawlish muttered.

Bones didn’t glare at the Auror, Harry noted. She narrowed her eyes at him, instead. “So you decided to recruit a known thief.”

“Trying to arrest the thief would have run the risk of Crouch succeeding with his plans,” Harry retorted. “And she had the means to keep the mosquitoes from spreading. I decided that saving lives was more important than arresting a thief.”

“Saving lives and saving the Ministry,” Ron added. “I completely agree with his decision.”

Harry smiled at that and nodded. “We could have conjured walls and cast charms to stop the mosquitoes, but that would have delayed and weakened our attack on his position. I stand by my decision.” And Crouch could have blown up those walls and dispelled the charms.

“Even though you don’t know what the thief was doing in the Ministry?” Bones asked.

“She robbed my office!” Dawlish cut in. “Obviously, she wanted to find out about my investigation and sabotage it.”

Harry scoffed. “Or this was just a distraction, to deceive us.”

“What?” Dawlish stared at him. “What are you insinuating?”

“She might want us to think that your theory is correct,” Harry answered. And throw off suspicion from Dawlish himself, of course, by making him appear to be a victim of the Night Nargles.

“That sounds like something Moody would come up with!” Dawlish retorted.

Harry glared at him. Moody was ten times the Auror Dawlish was!

Scrimgeour spoke before Harry could tell off Dawlish. “Auror Moody is one of our most experienced Aurors, but I think no one can dispute that he is a little overzealous - and still on sick leave after getting cursed by Crouch. However, arguing over the motives of the ‘Night Nargles’ while we’re still investigating the entire incident is unlikely to be productive. I suggest this discussion be postponed until we have more information - especially from the interrogation of Crouch, once he is fit to be interrogated.”

Harry pressed his lips together. He hadn’t hurt the man that much. A day or two with Skele-Gro should see him recovered enough to answer questions.

“It’s my case,” Dawlish said, “and I will continue the investigation with all urgency.”

Harry scoffed. “You yourself said that you suspect the Night Nargles of having worked with Crouch. That means it’s our case.”

“You will both continue your own investigations,” Scrimgeour said, after a glance to Bones. “And I expect you to cooperate with each other.”

Harry nodded but glared at Dawlish, who frowned at him in return. He knew that this wasn’t over. At least no one had made jokes about Harry letting the thief go - so far.

Scrimgeour looked at them both, then frowned. “There is another matter of concern,” he went on. “Having an infamous thief save the Ministry is both embarrassing and problematic. If people think we need the help of criminals, they might lose confidence in the government.”

And that would be such a tragedy, Harry thought.

Scrimgeour sighed. “I would suggest keeping the thieves’ involvement secret, but, as I understand it, the press has already been informed of the entire incident.” He narrowed his eyes at Ron.

Harry’s friend met the man’s gaze. “I needed the expertise of the best naturalist in Britain, who was already looking into the matter, anyway. I didn’t tell him about the Night Nargles’ involvement, but too many saw the thief in the Ministry, and even more people heard about her.” Such a rumour would spread like Fiendfyre.

And, Harry knew, The Quibbler wouldn’t fold under pressure from the Ministry - unlike the Daily Prophet. They wouldn’t be able to keep this a secret.

“That’s a matter for the Minister to handle,” Bones said. “We’re here to solve crimes and arrest criminals, not meddle in politics.”

Even though, as Harry was all too aware, politics meddled with their investigations all the time.

*****

**London, Greenwich, January 18th, 1999**

For a heist, this was a rather pitiful amount of loot. Hermione Granger told herself that she had broken into the Ministry to prepare for a real heist, not to loot it, but she still felt disappointed. The furniture was both ugly and cheap, the office supplies weren’t worth keeping and the files had proven to be far less illuminating than expected. Dawlish might have scoffed at Moody’s paranoia, as Harry had complained, but he certainly hadn’t trusted his real case files to his office.

She dropped the parchment on the floor of their new lair with a sigh. It would have been really convenient if her unplanned excursion into the Auror Office had netted crucial information.

“I take it that the files you stole are not important.”

She didn’t frown or pout. Not really. She calmly faced Mr Fletcher and nodded. “The files contain nothing we didn’t already know.” Before he could comment, she went on: “That doesn’t mean that my diversion won’t work. Dawlish might assume we wanted to find out what he knew.”

“I doubt that,” her mentor retorted, frowning at her. “Compared to your other heists, you stole much less.”

“He might attribute that to the fact that the heist was disrupted by Crouch’s attack,” Hermione said, raising her chin slightly. Her mentor was being unfair - she had done her best to salvage the plan when it had been ruined through no fault of her own. Who would have expected that Crouch would use the same time for his attack as she’d picked for her heist? Admittedly, it was the best time to break into the Ministry, but still!

“He wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t exposed yourself.” Mr Fletcher pressed his lips together - he was angrier than she had expected, she realised.

“I couldn’t do nothing once I’d noticed Crouch!” she protested. Harry and Ron had been in danger.

“Of course not!” Sirius cut in, smiling at her, then glaring at Mr Fletcher. “Did you expect her to sacrifice Harry and Ron for her cover?”

“Of course not!” Mr Fletcher snapped. “But she could have done that without exposing herself - or risking herself.”

“How?” Hermione asked.

“Trigger an alert in the attic,” he replied. “Or fill a few offices and hallways with a nasty stench - the Ministry employees would have gone to check the Air-Cleaning Charms in the attic at once.”

“That might not have been quick enough to stop him!” But even as she said it, she knew he was correct.

“In the middle of an attack on Bones Manor, which Potter spotted as the diversion it was?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

She pressed her lips together and huffed.

“No one would have known you were present, and no one would suspect that you had ulterior motives for robbing Dawlish’s office.”

“I left no traces in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” She crossed her arms. “And it’s unlikely that they will find the charms I cast on the Floo Network.” There were so many charms on that stone map, it would take days to sort them out.

“And if they do and prepare a trap?” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “We cannot risk that. Never depend on the other side making a mistake or getting sloppy!”

She clenched her teeth. “We can pull off the Parkinson heist without the charms.” Probably.

“You’ll need to find another way to verify your fake identity then,” Mr Fletcher replied.

“I’ll manage,” she said, huffing.

Sirius spoke up. “Worst case, we’ll have to let the Parkinsons be and focus on Malfoy.”

She clenched her teeth to avoid blurting out that she’d never let the Parkinsons be until they had paid for what they had done.

“That heist also relies on the charms she cast last night,” Mr Fletcher pointed out.

Sirius shrugged. “We’ll find another way. And robbing Dawlish’s office was certainly worth it - it’ll enrage him, and he’ll make a mistake.” He chuckled.

“It won’t stop him,” Mr Fletcher said.

“But it’ll help. It won’t take much more to get rid of him after such a humiliation,” Sirius retorted. “He lost a lot of the trust of his superiors and my esteemed colleagues, or so I gather from my earlier meetings this afternoon.” After they had ‘officially’ returned from France in response to the ‘emergency’.

“It was still reckless!” Mr Fletcher glared at them both. “You also risked your life attacking a dangerous dark wizard! That’s not what thieves do!”

“Harry needed my help!” she defended herself.

“He’s an Auror - one of the best they have,” Mr Fletcher shot back. “Do you think he wouldn’t have managed to get Crouch without you?”

“Not as quickly,” she replied. But it was a weak argument - though only apparent in hindsight.

“In any case, we need to finish this - we can’t spend too much time on this detour, or Moody might notice that we’re later than expected and tell Harry,” Sirius said. “Is there anything we need to do right now? Apart from handling the Wizengamot, I mean.”

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. But I taught you better,” he added with a frown at her.

She felt guilty - what she had done had been against the rules he had taught her. She had shown off - a little, at least. And she had acted less like a thief and more like an Auror. But Harry had been there.

“She’s a Gryffindor,” Sirius said, grinning.

“She was a Gryffindor for less than two years,” Mr Fletcher shot back, then winced slightly, glancing at her.

She didn’t react to the reminder of her expulsion. It was years ago. She was over it.

“Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor,” Sirius said. “Or something like that. More importantly, the Night Nargles have saved the Ministry and the Wizengamot! That’ll confuse them!”

“That’s not our name!” Hermione protested.

“Harry and, I gather, the entire Ministry disagree.” The dog grinned at her. “And I like the name myself! We should put it to a vote.”

“No, we shouldn’t!” she snarled. But even Mr Fletcher was, well, not really smiling, but not frowning any more.

This was all Harry’s fault, for using that stupid name in the middle of an emergency!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 18th, 1999**

There he was! Hermione Granger knew - she had been told so last night - that Harry hadn’t been hurt in the fighting, and neither had Ron, but knowing intellectually, even after talking to him and seeing his face in the enchanted mirror, wasn’t the same as seeing him standing there, in front of the fireplace, with her own eyes.

Or hugging him. Hard.

She could feel his arms going around her, his body’s warmth and his hands rubbing her back and wanted to stay like this forever. Just the two of them. No Auror business, no heists, no secrets. Just her and Harry.

And no damn dog, she added to herself when she heard said dog cough behind her. “Well… I think we should give these two a little privacy.”

“Probably, yes,” Jeanne added.

She rolled her eyes and released Harry, turning her head to frown at Jeanne and glare at the dog. “Ha ha.” She added as much sarcasm as she could to her reply.

Of course, it rolled off the dog’s back like water off a duck’s. He grinned and even bowed, before addressing Harry and Ron. “And here’re the heroes of the hour! You saved us all!”

Hermione huffed. “And risked your lives!”

Harry shrugged with that almost shy smile of his. “We did our duty.” He did reach out and squeeze her shoulder, though.

“And we had help from the Night Nargles,” Ron added.

That bloody silly name! She glared at him. “I’m certain that that’s not the correct name for the thieves.”

“But using it annoys them,” Harry said with a grin. “You should have seen the reaction of the witch when I called her that.” He made a face and said in a false falsetto: “That’s not my name!”

She pressed her lips together. She hadn’t sounded like that! And it wasn’t their name!

And the dog was eating it up - he was laughing far too loudly. “Oh, I can imagine!”

Even Jeanne was giggling, the traitor! Hermione shook her head. “Well, I think it’s childish.”

“That doesn’t matter as long as it annoys them,” Harry said. “After the humiliation they caused us, we owe them payback.”

She’d like to see them try! Or not.

“She emptied out Dawlish’s office last night, too,” Ron added, which earned him a glare from Harry. He shrugged. “It’s the talk of the Ministry - they’d have heard about it anyway as soon as they returned tomorrow.”

“Well, given the distinct lack of courage of many of my esteemed colleagues, the next Wizengamot session might not happen for a while,” Sirius said. “At least not until they are certain that the Ministry is safe.” He shook his head. “You captured Crouch, and they are still afraid.”

“Crouch might have prepared more curses before he was caught,” Hermione pointed out. They couldn’t underestimate that Death Eater.

“We’ve been checking every department for dark curses,” Harry replied. With a smile, he added: “You don’t think I would let you back into the Ministry if I thought it wasn’t safe?”

She huffed at that - both because it felt patronising, even if he meant well, and because she didn’t know if that meant that they had found her charms or not. For a moment, she was tempted to try and find out but decided against it. It wouldn’t be fair to Harry. And it was better to assume that they had been found, anyway. Instead, she asked: “So, will Dawlish lose the investigation now?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t think so. Not yet - Scrimgeour and Bones didn’t seem to consider it. But he can’t weather another such blunder.”

“And if he’s part of the Night Nargles,” Harry added, “he’ll be aware of that. So he’ll try something soon. And we’ll be ready for him.”

Hermione clenched her teeth at the stupid name. But she’d be ready as well.

“If they remove him, they’ll probably wait until Crouch’s trial - so we can get the investigation,” Ron said. “That’ll take at least a week. It depends on how the interrogation goes.”

Harry nodded. “If we take over the investigation, then we should try and get Bathilda on our team. She shouldn’t suffer for Dawlish’s mistakes.”

Hermione wasn’t certain what was the worst news she had heard today - that the stupid name Luna had coined was sticking, that Harry and Ron might be the ones hunting her or that that Auror might end up on their team.

She glanced at Sirius, but the stupid dog didn’t seem to be concerned in the least. Typical!

*****

“I’m sorry,” Harry Potter said once he and Hermione reached his room after dinner. She looked confused for a moment until he went on: “For saying that I wouldn’t allow you into the Ministry. I wasn’t serious.”

She huffed at the last word. “I know that. You don’t need to apologise.” After a moment, she added: “I’m not mad about that.”

He opened the door. “But you’re mad.” She had been angry - well, annoyed - for all of dinner.

“I’m angry at the whole situation,” she said as they stepped inside. “Crouch almost succeeded, you had to risk your life again - twice - and the silly names…” She shrugged. “It’s a little much.” She sighed as she sat on his bed - close to Crookshanks, who was, once again, occupying his pillow. The fat cat looked asleep, but Harry didn’t trust appearances. He knew better where the orange tomcat was concerned.

He sat down next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her slightly against him. She had to be mad at him risking his life - Crouch was captured, and the thieves deserved every silly name he could think of. “If I hadn’t done what I did, Crouch might have succeeded. And escaped.”

“I know!” she snapped, tensing for a moment. Then he felt her relax a little with another sigh. “That doesn’t make it any easier. And now they’ll probably send you after the thieves.”

“The Night Nargles,” he corrected her with a grin, but she glared at him instead of smiling. He winced - she had to be more annoyed than he thought. “Well, they’re much less dangerous than Crouch.”

“But your reputation might suffer. It already did, didn’t it?”

He scoffed at that. “Once we catch them, that’ll be forgotten. I almost had her before. Twice she only narrowly escaped.” And no one was lucky forever. But Hermione didn’t look convinced, so he added: “Worst case, we lose the investigation, and someone else gets to try and arrest them.”

“But that would hurt your career,” she said. “Malfoy would exploit that.” She had her head turned so she could look at him despite leaning against his shoulder.

He almost shrugged, but that would have dislodged her. “That we caught Crouch will help a lot. If Malfoy tries to make an issue out of this, Sirius can counter his attacks - Crouch tried to murder everyone in the Ministry including the Wizengamot.”

She sighed again - he could see her chest rising and falling. “Have you ever considered quitting the Ministry?”

Not seriously. “What else could I do?” He was a good Auror - one of the best.

“Play Quidditch professionally. Or become a broom racer. Or a teacher. You’d be great at any of those.”

He chuckled. “I thought you loathed my Defence lessons.”

She huffed in response and pouted adorably. “I can’t deny that they are effective, though.”

“But the post of Defence teacher at Hogwarts is taken,” he replied. He wouldn’t want to get Remus fired.

“You could be a tutor. Or an instructor for the Aurors.”

She must really be worried about him. “I’m a little too young to teach other Aurors. And a tutor?” He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a big demand for them. At least not for my kind of training.” And he couldn’t reform the Ministry if he quit.

“Well, it’s not for everyone, I guess…” she started to say, then frowned. “Is that a wand in Hedwig’s beak?”

“Huh?” Harry looked up. His owl was sitting on the windowsill with a stick in her beak. He tapped his glasses and activated the zoom. “No, it’s not a wand. It’s a piece of metal.”

“What does she want with it?” Hermione wondered.

Harry glanced at Mr Biggles habitat. And at the lock on the lid. He could imagine what his owl was trying to do. “Nothing,” he said, glaring at Hedwig. “It was probably lying around on the street, and she picked it up without thinking.” About his orders not to eat Mr Biggles.

The owl turned her head away as if she were huffing. And Harry caught Crookshank’s ears perking up, even though the cat still faked being asleep.

“She’s a silly bird,” said snake commented from his favourite spot in his terrarium. “You should get rid of her.”

Harry was tempted to answer the snake that he wouldn’t get rid of his first friend, but that would have meant revealing to Hermione that he was a Parselmouth. And that would be… awkward. Not because of the reputation Parselmouths had - Hermione wasn’t the kind of witch to care about such prejudices. But she might be hurt that he hadn’t told her sooner.

And with everything going on right now, he’d rather not start more trouble. He could always tell her once things had settled down.

At least then she would believe him that her cat really was trying to eat his snake. Unless she blamed his owl instead for leading the fat little monster astray. She was really quite biased in favour of her cat.

But that was a worry for another day. He bent down and kissed the top of her head, smelling her hair. She giggled, then turned and slid into his lap, putting her hands on his shoulders before kissing him on the lips.

And gently pushed him down on the bed until she was straddling him. And the belts of their house robes had become undone, somehow.

Yes, he could worry about this later. Much later.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 19th, 1999**

Harry Potter checked that the Dictaquill was still recording, then leaned forward. “How many times did you attempt to resurrect the Dark Lord after the Battle of the Atrium?”

“A dozen times.” Crouch - the Unspeakables had verified his identity; not that it had been needed in Harry’s opinion - droned on, his gaze unfocused thanks to Veritaserum.

He was a fanatic. Harry suppressed the urge to whistle. Bathilda, sitting next to Dawlish at the other desk, gasped, though. Harry hoped it wouldn’t be noted on the scroll. “Where?” he asked.

“Plouarzel. Locmariaquer. Kerlescan. Raon-l’Étape. Holzhausen-Externsteine. Untersberg...”

Harry listened as Crouch listed all the locations up he had used for his rituals. France, Germany, Poland - he had finally stopped trying when he’d reached Russia. “What did you do then?” They could check those locations later - it wasn’t as if the other countries were too cooperative anyway.

“Returned to Britain.”

“Why?” It was annoying to have to draw out every answer, but that was Veritaserum for you.

“To take revenge on my Master’s enemies.”

How surprising. “And who were your master’s enemies?”

“The traitors and the blood-traitors and the mudbloods and the Wizengamot and the Ministry.” Crouch slowly blinked.

That wasn’t news either. But it was good to have confirmation - especially for the trial in front of the Wizengamot. “Did you murder Elias Selwyn?”

“Yes.”

Another crime confirmed. They had already heard enough to close half a dozen unsolved murder cases, including the murders of Crouch’s father and of Millicent Bagnold, and they hadn’t even started on the period after the Azkaban breakout. Well, the Azkaban breakout Crouch had instigated - not his own. And hadn’t that been a revelation!

Harry glanced at Dawlish, who was clenching his teeth. It was obvious that the man longed to ask his own questions. But this was Harry and Ron’s case, so Dawlish had to wait until they were done with their interrogation. Harry almost smirked as he asked his next question. “Did anyone help you?”

“Yes.”

Dawlish leaned forward, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Harry would enjoy the next answer. “Who helped you?”

“Rabastan, Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

Dawlish deflated. Had he really expected that the Night Nargles had helped Crouch? Or was he a much better actor than Harry had suspected? Well, if he was an accomplice of the thieves, he’d have to be a great actor. And it might explain why the thieves sounded the alert and helped against Crouch. And the fact that they robbed his office could have been a ploy to make him look innocent.

Harry cleared his throat. He had to focus on the interrogation. As amusing as these questions had been, they were a detour from the core of the case. “How did you gain access to Selwyn Manor?”

“I impersonated a French acquaintance of his and claimed to have scandalous news about his daughter’s lovers.”

Harry closed his eyes. Had Selwyn really been as gullible to fall for that? On the other hand, Jeanne’s father had drunk a lot during the wedding reception and dinner. And such a claim would have played into British stereotypes about French wizards and witches. He glanced at Dawlish again. The man was, once more, paying rapt attention.

Harry pressed his lips together. If the Daily Prophet published an article attacking Jeanne, he’d know who leaked this.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 22nd, 1999**

Hermione Granger was in a foul mood. Not only had she had to get up far too early - practically in the middle of the night, when proper cats were supposed to start their naps - because there was a Wizengamot Session today, but there was a special edition of The Quibbler on the breakfast table. That damn magazine was responsible for that silly name the Ministry had saddled her with. Night Nargles! She did her part to save the Ministry, and that was the thanks she got!

She muttered a few dire threats under her breath as she took another sip from her tea and watched Harry and Ron pick up the magazine. The two were disgustingly awake - of course, they were used to getting up this early. And the dog was still sleeping in - he called it ‘taking care of my pregnant wife’s mornings’. Since Jeanne had hardly been affected with morning sickness and still wasn’t showing, much less was in need of any assistance, Hermione could imagine what they were doing. Which wasn’t a bad idea at all, of course. If it weren’t so ungodly early.

“‘The Mystery of the Blood Magic-using Mosquitoes - Vampire connection?’”

Hermione blinked. What did Harry say? She tilted her head to read the headline as Harry stared at Ron.

“Well,” their friend said, “Xenophilius thinks that there’s a possible connection between vampires and the mosquitoes.”

“We now have confirmation that the Blood Murders three years ago were the work of Crouch and Voldemort,” Harry replied. Which, Hermione noted, implied that Ron would have told the Lovegoods that. Well, it was practically public knowledge, anyway - with the trial scheduled for today, such news had spread like wildfire through the Ministry and beyond.

“Yes, but there are still unsolved vampire murders dating back to that time,” Ron pointed out.

“Rumoured vampire murders,” Harry replied. “They never found any bodies, and no one could prove the supposed victims had existed in the first place.”

Well, one had. Hermione knew that for certain. She resisted the urge to rub her neck, remembering how the monster had grabbed and threatened her before Sirius had killed him. But they hadn’t killed any other vampires.

“That doesn’t mean that there weren’t,” Ron stubbornly insisted. “And vampires are experts on blood magic. We still don’t know all that Dumbledore and the Order members did during that time. We don’t even know all members of the Order.”

Hermione saw Harry flinch slightly - he knew what Ron was not quite saying: That Dumbledore had been researching blood magic during that time and might have arranged for such a hunt. He was correct, too - in a way. Dumbledore hadn’t sent them out to kill vampires, but to steal tomes on blood magic. Although he might have had others doing the same thing - Hermione didn’t know and likely would never know the truth. And Harry didn’t want to talk about what exactly he and Dumbledore had been doing.

Harry shook his head. “Crouch used mosquitoes for the spell because they suck blood and spread various diseases, which made them ideal for his curses. And he had no contact with vampires.”

“Voldemort might have, though - he didn’t tell Crouch everything,” Ron retorted. “Crouch told us that.”

“Well, some crimes you might never solve,” Hermione told them.

Harry frowned at her, even though she didn’t sound smug about it. “Not every rumour is a crime, anyway.” He turned to Ron and stabbed his finger at a particular line of the article. “And even if Voldemort did murder vampires, we know that Crouch’s attack on the Ministry wasn’t their revenge.”

Ron frowned. “Well, that’s true as far as Crouch knows. Of course, the Night Nargles were well-prepared to foil Crouch’s plan, so maybe they were working for the vampires.”

Hermione couldn’t tell whether her friend was serious or pulling Harry’s leg. And she didn’t know whether being thought a vampire was worse than that stupid name.

It was all Lovegood’s fault, anyway.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 22nd, 1999**

“Have you heard the latest?”

Harry Potter looked up from the Unspeakables’ report about blood magic - now that they knew not only that Crouch had indeed murdered Michael Smith, but also what he had stolen from Smith’s library, the matter had grown even more important - upon hearing Ron’s question. “Obviously not, since I stayed here while you went to fetch us tea.” He wasn’t using the break room. Not when Macmillan and his friends had started to heckle him about letting the thief go a second time - for ‘obvious reasons’.

Ron snorted and handed him a cup. “Well, I met Percy on the way…”

“That’s why you took so long,” Harry interrupted.

Ron went on as if Harry hadn’t said anything. “...and he told me that the goblins demanded that Crouch be handed over to them. Percy heard it directly from Cresswell. They were quite insistent.”

Harry shook his head. The Ministry would never extradite a wizard to the goblins. Not even - or, rather, in light of his crimes against the Wizengamot, especially not - Crouch. “Trust him to cause trouble even after his arrest,” he said. That the Unspeakables had been so eager to investigate the tomes Crouch had had hidden in his last hideout wasn’t a good sign either, in Harry’s opinion. He hoped that they would at least find a way to help Moody recover faster.

“Oh, yes.” Ron sat and sighed. “Percy said that the goblins are threatening that if they can’t interrogate Crouch to find out what he had planned for their vaults, they’ll have to do a thorough security check of all vaults, which could take weeks and during which they couldn’t provide regular services.”

“Bloody hell.” That would hurt everyone who didn’t have access to an Old Family’s vault.

“Yeah. Things are dicey again.” Ron glanced at the report Harry was reading. “You think you’ll have to testify about blood magic?” He raised his eyebrows at Harry, obviously joking.

“No.” Harry wasn’t an expert and couldn’t be expected to answer such questions. “But it’s better to know what the Unspeakables found, in case anyone asks anyway.”

“Right,” Ron conceded. “Malfoy might do that. With Crouch out of the way, he doesn’t need us any more.”

“The Night Nargles are still at large,” Harry pointed out.

“They aren’t murderers. Malfoy might very well think someone else can handle them. Or he’s planning ahead in case we arrest them as well.”

Ron apparently had discussed this matter extensively with Percy, Harry thought. “Well, Sirius will be ready for him,” he said, shrugging. “And after Crouch’s testimony, Malfoy will have his work cut out for him.”

“Don’t underestimate him. Dad’s been struggling lately as well - nothing overt, just small things going wrong, requests getting lost or denied, people being difficult…” Ron shook his head.

“Well, sounds like the Corps,” Harry replied. “Nott’s exactly like that, and the rest are still jealous.” And they could deal with that. Had dealt with it.

“Malfoy might have been behind that as well.”

Harry frowned. That sounded… quite plausible, actually. Moody had warned them about Malfoy’s plots. “We’ll need to look into that. If he and Dawlish work together…”

Ron winced, then suddenly grinned. “But if Dawlish is a Night Nargle, then they might be setting up Malfoy.”

“We can’t depend on our enemies making mistakes,” Harry reminded him. He smiled, though - that would be poetic justice. Well, it would be, but for the thieves who had made a fool of him getting away with another robbery. “Let’s prepare for our testimony this afternoon,” he said.

“Don’t know why they’d bother - we have a full confession,” Ron said.

“Unless someone wants to make us look bad,” Harry pointed out again.

*****

“Yes, I killed my father, the blood-traitor! And Bagnold. And her nephew! And none of you had any idea! Not even Dumbledore!” Crouch threw his head back and laughed loudly.

Sitting next to Sirius in the Wizengamot Chamber, Hermione Granger clenched her teeth and wished someone would silence the gloating murderer, no matter his right to a fair trial. She glanced at Sirius. He was snarling at the Death Eater, looking far too close to his dog form. It was understandable, of course - he had been suspected of those murders for years. His enemies had kept bringing those ‘suspicions’ up at every opportunity, trying to ruin his reputation. And it was all Crouch’s fault.

And Voldemort’s, of course. But the Dark Lord was already dead. Not that anyone expected Crouch to survive this day. Not even Crouch himself. It was his last act of defiance, a last attempt to lash out and hurt people. Some spectators had already left, unable to stand the detailed descriptions of the man’s crimes. Relatives of his victims, probably. Hermione wouldn’t let him affect her, though - she would deny him that shallow, spiteful triumph.

“...and then I sacrificed them to the Dark Lord! Painted the menhir red with their blood!”

She quickly checked her notes. Those were the ritual murders in France. She sighed silently - this would take a while. But at least the verdict would be clear. This time, no innocent would be condemned.

*****

Crouch was a murderous criminal without conscience or scruples, but he was brave, Harry Potter had to admit. The man was facing his death - the Veil - without flinching. He was even smiling as the verdict was read to him, listing all his crimes. The second time within an hour - the Ministry wouldn’t waste any time executing the death sentence the Wizengamot had rendered. Not with a prisoner who had broken out of and into Azkaban and had come so close to murdering such a large number of their employees.

That was also the reason Harry and Ron were present - together with ten more Aurors and Hit-Wizards - instead of the usual half a dozen in the Death Chamber: the Ministry was taking absolutely no chances.

“...and therefore you are sentenced to death by the Veil.” Scrimgeour finished and lowered the scroll before addressing Crouch. “Do you have any last words?”

Crouch chuckled. “Indeed, I do.” He turned his head and stared straight at Harry. “Don’t think you’ve won! The Dark Lord will return! He has defeated death! And when he returns, all of you will pay for your crimes! You’ll see your loved ones dead, your legacy destroyed, your country ruined! You will all…”

Scrimgeour twirled his wand after cutting off the man’s ranting. “That will be enough, I think.” He nodded at the two Hit-Wizards holding Crouch’s bound arms. “Execute the sentence.”

Crouch was glaring at Scrimgeour, but he wasn’t trying to talk any more. But as the two wizards marched him towards the Veil, Crouch kept staring at Harry, baring his teeth in a madman’s grin.

And Harry met the man’s eyes, not flinching, until Crouch disappeared through the Veil.

*****

 


	60. Deceit

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 24th, 1999**

Dolores Umbridge took a sip of her favourite tea - Ceylon’s Best Fairy Selection - as she listened to her co-workers talk about their weekends.

“...and we had a great time in Diagon Alley. All the pubs had halved their prices, now that Crouch’s dead. I didn’t get home until Sunday!” Barney Smith chuckled as he finished his tale. The man had no class at all - no wonder, with a muggleborn mother.

Fay Abbott laughed. “Heh! I took the husband to Hogsmeade for the weekend, to meet the kids and walk around Black Lake. I didn’t realise just how much the threat of an attack by that madman had been affecting me until it was gone, you know? I just felt so much better.”

Dolores nodded approvingly. Abbott was a pureblood, although quite removed from the main line, and it showed. A proper witch wouldn’t go out carousing like a student.

She cleared her throat to draw their attention.

“Ah, hello, Dolores,” Abbott said. “How was your weekend?”

“Madam Umbridge.” Smith’s greeting was less cordial, but what could you expect from someone with his lack of breeding?

“I was working Saturday,” she said. “Crouch’s execution left a lot of paperwork.” Both statements were true, though she hadn’t been involved in the case and had been working on something else. But her two colleagues would think differently, as their impressed expressions showed. Dolores beamed at them. “But I enjoyed Sunday with my darlings. Mayfly is feeling better again, after a nasty case of indigestion. And Butterbeer caught another garden gnome.” They were such good cats!

“Ah.” Of course, people like Smith, who didn’t even have children, wouldn’t appreciate cats.

Abbott, though, smiled at her. “That’s nice.”

“It is,” Dolores said. “Especially after the week we had.”

Of course, everyone agreed with that. “Oh, yes. Half of my coworkers were so shocked by the attack, they didn’t come to work until Thursday!” Abbott said. “I had to handle double the paperwork.”

Dolores nodded in sympathy. Not too much, of course - such a crisis was always an opportunity to improve one’s prospects. If Abbott were smart, she would have ensured that her absent coworkers came out worse afterwards.

“Yeah, ‘shocked’.” Smith scoffed. “Try ‘scared’ instead! My superior probably needed Potter himself to hold his hand to return to work!”

That was the opening Dolores had been waiting for! She cleared her throat again - that always made people pay attention since they knew something important was coming - and said: “Indeed. It’s a little disturbing how many of our colleagues seem to trust Potter more than the rest of the Ministry. It’s not as if he’s the only one keeping the country safe, after all.”

“Well, he is the Boy-Who-Lived,” Abbott replied. “He defeated the Dark Lord, and now Crouch.”

Dolores refrained from scowling. Obviously, Abbott had been influenced by the propaganda Black paid for.

“Of course, he wasn’t alone,” Smith said, to her surprise. “Weasley was always at his side.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

Abbott nodded several times. “Oh, yes. My cousin went to school with them - they were always together and fought the Dark Lord together, too!”

Dolores took a sip from her tea to keep from scowling. Weasley! The sixth son of that disgrace, Arthur Weasley. A pureblood obsessed with muggle rubbish - how low could you sink? That the man was now a department head was bad enough, but his brood was following in his footsteps! If nothing was done, then, soon enough, three Weasleys would spread their poison from positions of influence. All paid by Black’s gold, of course.

She set the cup down and took a deep breath, then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Yes, he did fight the Dark Lord and Crouch - not alone, of course. But I’ve been hearing things…”

Abbott took the bait, as Dolores had known she would. The witch eagerly leaned forward as Smith frowned. “Things?”

Dolores nodded, glancing around as if she were concerned about people listening. Spreading these rumours was the point, after all. “He is said to be working with those thieves preying on manors.” She nodded slowly. “He let that witch escape three times, you know.”

“Well, my cousin told me that he’s got a weakness for pretty witches,” Abbott said.

Of course, Smith had to ruin it again. “He’s not working with the Night Nargles - they tried to rob his house, remember?” He scoffed. “And they made him look like a fool at the Yule Ball. If he didn’t have to deal with blood mosquitoes, he’d have arrested her in the Ministry.”

“I heard the thief helped against Crouch,” Abbott said.

Dolores pressed her lips together before answering. “That is well-known.” It was reported in the newspapers, after all. And not surprising at all - even a thief had to realise that everyone had to work together to put down a mad Nundu to save themselves.

“And she fled during the fighting,” Smith added. “Potter didn’t let her escape.”

“Well, if she helped, then it would have been rather poor manners to arrest her afterwards anyway,” Abbott said.

“In any case, Potter saved us all - again,” Smith said. “Who cares about a thief escaping? He’ll catch them soon enough!”

Abbott nodded as Dolores forced herself to smile. She was fuming inwardly, though. This was worse than she had expected - this was the second group of her colleagues that had fallen for Black’s propaganda. If nothing was done, Black would grow even more powerful, thanks to his gold and Potter’s fame. Powerful enough to convince Cornelius that Dolores should be moved into another position in the Ministry. A position without any influence.

And that would not only leave Black to corrupt poor Cornelius with his radical, muggle-spawned ideas, which would doom Britain - it would also leave Dolores at the mercy of her enemies. Enemies she needed her position to handle.

She finished her tea as the two idiots gossipped once more about their cowardly colleagues. For the good of the country, and for her own survival, Potter had to be stopped. And it didn’t look like a few well-placed rumours would be enough to achieve that.

But, looking at a couple of foreign mercenaries sitting at a table nearby, she realised that there were other options. With Crouch dead and his plans foiled, the Aurors would be able to focus on the thieves and catch them. More importantly, though, without the threat the last Death Eaters had represented, there was no longer a need for hired wands. Which meant that a number of foreign mercenaries would be looking for work soon.

This time, Dolores wouldn’t waste her gold on a couple of incompetent thugs. She’d use the Ministry personnel files to find the best wand for the task. Or wands - Potter had proven to be quite good at fighting, after all, and she couldn’t afford another failure. Not when the stakes had risen so high that the country’s survival was at stake.

Not when Potter had to be dealt with. Permanently.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 25th, 1999**

“Off to a rendezvous with your thief, Potter?”

Harry Potter rolled his eyes as he stopped on the way to the break room and turned to face Macmillan. “You should go and get examined at St Mungo’s, Macmillan - you’ve been saying the exact same thing for a week now.”

“And it’s always rubbish,” Ron added.

“Rubbish?” Macmillan sneered as he pushed off the desk he was leaning against and stood. “You let a wanted thief go free in the middle of the Ministry so she could ransack our office! Any other Auror who did that would have been arrested! How much did Black have to pay to save you this time?”

Harry clenched his teeth and fought the urge to hex the git. Before he could answer, though, Mary-Anne spoke up. “Shut up, Macmillan! You weren’t there, or you wouldn’t say such things. I was there, and I know that we needed the help to stop those mosquitoes!”

Ben, her partner, nodded. “Yeah. If you had seen Cumberland and Smith die, you’d have kissed the thief for using her fake Fiendfyre on the swarm. Bloody git!”

Macmillan sneered, baring his teeth, but others nodded in agreement. “Bet you like kissing her,” he snarled at Harry before turning round.

Harry sighed. That idiot wouldn’t stop. And he didn’t know anything - Harry didn’t even dream about kissing the thief! She might be attractive, but she was a criminal!

*****

“Hello, Bathilda. Nott.” Harry Potter smiled at the witch and nodded curtly towards the wizard as he took a seat at the usual table in the break room.

“Hi, Bathilda. Nott.” Ron followed his example.

“Hello,” the witch replied. She was smiling, though not as widely as usual, Harry noticed. Or rather, as widely or as thinly as had become usual during the last few weeks.

“Potter. Weasley. Finally decided to grace us with your presence again?” Nott’s sneer was barely visible - it was almost cordial for the former Slytherin.

“We were very busy,” Harry said.

“Crouch’s trial was last Friday,” Nott pointed out. “It’s Tuesday.”

“The case wasn’t over just because Crouch’s out of the picture,” Harry said.

“He has a portrait?” Nott suddenly straightened from his slouch.

Harry reminded himself that certain phrases didn’t work well when talking to purebloods. “Muggle figure of speech,” he said. “I meant we still had a lot of work even after his execution.”

“And we’re not yet done,” Ron added. “There’s the matter of the imperiused mercenary he had attacking Bones Manor.”

“The Imperius Curse ends when the caster dies,” Nott said, frowning.

“Yes,” Harry replied. He refrained from saying ‘ _real_ victims of the Imperius Curse’. “But that doesn’t make identifying the dead wizard any easier.”

Nott shrugged. “The Unspeakables can handle that.”

“They don’t bother unless it’s a magical mystery. And, of course, there’s a lot of paperwork,” Ron said, “since we were the ones who killed him.”

Nott snorted. “As if you could do any wrong right now, after catching Crouch.”

If that were true! Harry scoffed. “Tell that to Macmillan.”

“He doesn’t matter.” Nott waved his hand. “You saved the Wizengamot, and they know it. At the trial, they didn’t ask you even one question about you recruiting the Night Nargles for your battle with Crouch.”

“I didn’t recruit her,” Harry said through clenched teeth.

Ron chuckled. “Well, you did order her around, and she obeyed.”

Harry glared at him. It wasn’t funny. He glanced at Bathilda. The witch hadn’t said anything, he suddenly realised. And she was looking at her cup. “Bathilda?”

“Huh?” She looked up. “What?”

“You seem a little out of it. Are you getting enough sleep?” Harry asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said, frowning at him. “I was just thinking.”

“About the Night Nargles, I suppose,” Nott cut in.

“It’s our case,” she replied. Then she looked down at the cup in her hand again. “For now, at least.”

Harry glanced at Ron, feeling more than a little guilty. His friend winced. If only Bathilda weren’t so loyal to Dawlish! “I’m sure you’ll catch them next time,” he lied.

Judging by her frown, she didn’t believe him. And telling her that he’d try to get her on board once Ron and he took over the case wouldn’t help either.

“Well, at least you know that Crouch wasn’t working with the Night Nargles,” Ron said.

She sighed. “We still don’t have a decent lead. At least I don’t think so.”

“Dawlish still keeping things from you?” Harry asked, then bit his lower lip - he shouldn’t have gone there.

She glared at him and stood. “I need to return to work.”

“Nice work, Potter,” Nott said, glaring at him as the witch left the break room. To Harry’s surprise, the Auror didn’t follow her, though, but leaned back in his chair and sighed. “She’s under a lot of pressure.”

“We know,” Ron said.

“So why did you push her, then?” Nott asked, frowning at Harry.

Harry clenched his teeth. He hadn’t meant to. “It slipped out,” he said.

Nott snorted again and took a sip of his tea. “Don’t do it again.”

“Or?” Harry narrowed his eyes at the man. If that was a threat…

“Or you’ll hurt her even more.”

Damn. Harry pressed his lips together. There wasn’t much he could say to that.

“You’re much more civil than usual,” Ron remarked. “Especially considering…” He pointedly looked at the door through which Bathilda had left.

Nott glared at him. “I know better than to make her feel even more stressed.”

“Since when?” Harry snapped. Nott hadn’t previously been a paragon of restraint.

That earned him a glare. “Since you caught Crouch.”

Harry frowned. That almost sounded… “Are you grateful?”

Nott scoffed. “Don’t get a big head, Potter. You were merely doing your duty, weren’t you?” He stood. “Work calls. You’re not the only ones with paperwork to handle.”

“That’s all he does,” Ron muttered as Nott left.

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “But he was more civil than I expected.” He couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or not.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, January 26th, 1999**

“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Auror Potter,” Malfoy said with a wide smile.

“Thank you for your invitation.” Harry Potter smiled politely - obviously politely - as he took his seat opposite the older wizard in ‘Le Canard Vert’, one of the most expensive restaurants in Diagon Alley.

“You’re the man of the hour. I’m certain that you’ve been deluged with invitations after saving us all.”

He hadn’t been, actually. “I think it’s a little early for that - we’re still working on closing the case.” Which was a good excuse to turn down the invitations that he had received - the majority of which didn’t include Ron. If Sirius, Jeanne, Hermione and even Ron hadn’t told him to meet Malfoy if only to see what the wizard wanted, Harry would have refused this invitation as well.

Malfoy sniffed and waved his hand. “Crouch is dead. Anything else is unimportant next to that.”

“It still needs to be done,” Harry replied.

“Of course, of course.” Malfoy flashed his too-wide smile again. “And it does you credit that you care so much about it. In any case, the country, the Wizengamot and, of course, myself, are in your debt.”

“You’re too kind,” Harry said, forcing himself to smile. Fortunately, the waiter arrived to take their order, which prohibited further conversation for a few minutes during which Harry politely but firmly turned down Malfoy’s suggestions about the best dishes.

As if he’d make it easier for the git to poison him.

But as soon as their drinks were served - wine for Malfoy, water for Harry - the other wizard continued his spiel. “You will be a very popular wizard, Auror Potter. The people love a hero, and you’ve proven your mettle over and over by now. The Dark Lord, the Lestranges and now Crouch… Not even Dumbledore managed as much in such a short time.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Harry retorted. “It was a team effort.”

“That may be the case, but that’s not how it’s perceived by the public. Or by my colleagues. They want a hero, not a group effort. And who better than the Boy-Who-Lived to be the hero?”

He made it sound as if Harry was a mere figurehead. Harry refrained from frowning and shrugged. “There’s not much I can do about that.”

Once more the waiter interrupted them with the hors d’oeuvres. Harry surreptitiously tapped his glasses to check for poison and curses. He didn’t find any.

Malfoy seamlessly continued: “Such popularity is very valuable, Auror Potter.”

That could be taken in two ways, of course. Harry nodded anyway. “I am aware of that.”

Malfoy chuckled briefly. “No doubt the influence of your godfather.”

“He’s the politician of the family,” Harry replied. Which should imply that Harry wasn’t. And didn’t want to be.

“And a more skilled one than many of my peers would have suspected when he first took his seat among us,” Malfoy said. “Working together, there’s not much we cannot do for our country.”

Harry was tempted to answer ‘and for yourself’, but forced himself to smile politely. He was so sick of politics. “And if you disagree, there’s not much that can be done.” He didn’t bother to hide his opinion of that state of affairs.

Malfoy’s smile didn’t waver. “Indeed. But we don’t have to disagree - politics is all about making alliances and finding a compromise acceptable to everyone who matters.”

Which, in Malfoy’s opinion, wasn’t a very large group of people, Harry knew. And he didn’t want to be included. Not in the way Malfoy saw them. He caught the waiter walking towards them, two covered dishes floating beside him, and smiled. “I’m just an Auror, not a politician. We enforce the law - we don’t make it. And we certainly don’t bend it,” he said, just before the waiter interrupted them again. And smiled when he saw a brief frown flicker over Malfoy’s face.

They made polite conversation about nothing for the rest of the excellent meal. Malfoy had gotten Harry’s message. He wouldn’t be making any deals. And certainly not with the man who had framed Hermione.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 28th, 1999**

Hermione Granger took care to appear visibly annoyed as she approached the Ministry Archives. Just as the secretary of a member of the Wizengamot would be when sent on an errand that would force her to stay late at work. It wasn’t hard - she was annoyed at having to do this. If not for Crouch’s plot, and her completely justified involvement in taking the Death Eater down, she could have gone with the original plan instead.

And if someone hadn’t turned her boyfriend and her best friend into paranoid Aurors who’d turn the entire Ministry upside down trying to find hidden traps and curses... She pressed her lips together at the thought that Moody was currently a guest in her home. And that his presence had forced her to find different accommodations for the loot and planning heists.

“The archives are already closed, Miss.”

It was a small consolation that all this aggravating interference by a crippled Auror put her in just the right mood to deal with an uppity archivist who was about to leave his post. She sneered at him. “It’s not past five yet - it’s five to, Mr… Clark, was it?” She pointedly looked at the clock on the wall. “Which means the archives are open. Or should be.”

“Sorry, my mistake,” he mumbled. She could see him clench his teeth as he pulled up the forms to note her visit. “How long will you need to use the archives?”

“I don’t know yet,” she replied with a sniff. “As long as it takes to fulfil Mr Black’s request. Is there an archivist on duty able to render assistance?” There wouldn’t be. Not at five in the afternoon.

“I’m sorry, but they are occupied elsewhere in the Ministry.” Which meant they were already gone.

“And, of course, you have to stay at your post.” She rolled her eyes slightly as she reminded him that she remembered him from her visit in October.

“Yes, Miss.” He was faintly smiling - no doubt thinking that he would be able to go home on time, as soon as the night shift arrived to relieve him, while she would be stuck in the archives for however long it took her. And, given her attitude, he’d certainly tell his relief not to help her. Just how she wanted him to react.

Sniffing once more to reinforce that attitude, she signed in and entered the archives.

She went to the back of the extended room - her usual spot when on legitimate errands - and conjured a desk for herself, on which she dropped several scrolls and a list that indicated she’d need material from all over the archives for her task.

A quick spell let her know that they still hadn’t stepped up security in the archives since her last visit - no one was observing her. Again, as she had expected. She flicked her wand to cast an Alarm Charm which would let her know if anyone entered the archives, then proceeded to head to the corner where the closest air duct opening was located, right above the shelves on the wall.

That opening wasn’t protected either, apart from a grid any semi-competent muggle thief would be able to remove and replace in under a minute. The state of the Ministry’s security was almost an insult to competent magical thieves. She shook her head as she removed the grid, then added hinges and a simple mechanism to keep it open before she stuck it back onto the opening.

Perfect.

She pulled out a small leather bag, dropped it on the floor and changed. After picking up the bag in her mouth, she climbed the corner shelves in a few jumps from wall to wall, until she was on top. The air ducts were far too narrow for an elf, much less a human, but a lithe cat had no trouble passing through, and a swipe with her claws caused the grid to fall down, covering the opening as though it were still fixed.

She turned inside the duct and proceeded towards the closest shaft. At least the ducts were all freshly cleaned - a result of Crouch’s attack, she assumed - so she wouldn’t leave any traces, and her fur wouldn’t get dusty. That made climbing the shaft more difficult, but she was an agile cat, with lots of experience. And claws that allowed her to find purchase where the segments forming the shaft had been welded together.

Sometimes, she thought as she reached the floor of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the tendency of Wizarding Britain to copy muggle inventions a little too perfectly was very handy.

As during her last visit, the department’s offices were again deserted - since mosquitoes, even cursed ones, didn’t fall under the definition of magical creatures according to the department head, they had managed to avoid getting involved in the clean-up after Crouch’s attack.

Now came the tricky part. She dropped the leather bag and tapped the symbol on it twice with a paw, causing it to open and reveal the enchanted tools inside: a hook on a string and a magical screwdriver. Tweaking the screwdriver’s standard enchantments to work as she needed had taken her all week, and far more embarrassing failures than a cat should endure, but she had persevered. No thanks to that stupid dog’s jokes - who would have thought that Lily had shown him Dr Who?

She placed the hook on the grid, aided by the spells on it, then nudged the screwdriver close to the opening and bit down on its grip. As the tool lifted in the air and passed through the grid, she took hold of the string with both her front paws and her mouth. Two minutes later, the screwdriver had loosened all four screws holding the grid in place. She nudged the grid with her head, then had to struggle with the string as she slowly lowered the grid down to the ground without making a noise. As she tried to get the taste of hemp out of her mouth, she lamented once more that she hadn’t managed to enchant an item with a silencing spell in a way she could activate as a cat. Jeanne had said she was working on it, but recently Hermione’s friend had been more concerned with her pregnancy than enchantments. That was understandable, of course.

And right now Hermione was a thief on a mission. She gracefully leapt to the ground and changed back, then headed to the secretary’s desk and shift planner, noting who would be on duty tomorrow. And who their replacements were, in case they couldn’t come to work.

A few spells later, carefully altered files and memos were flying to several desks, landing in the various post baskets. She nodded, vanished any traces she might have left in the office or the air duct, then changed back and, with the help of a desk and a shelf, climbed back into the air duct.

Even with the help of a hook enchanted to keep the grid stable and aligned, it was a pain to pull it back up with her mouth and hold it in place while the screwdriver went to work again, but she managed.

A few minutes later, she was on her way back to the archives with the leather pouch dangling from her mouth. A few spells would clear any traces from the air duct there, and then she could go home, her work done.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 28th, 1999**

“...and it looks like Dawlish is growing desperate; Bathilda’s doing all she can for him, but he still doesn’t trust her,” Harry Potter said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair.

Moody scoffed - the gesture slightly ruined by his twitching; the Unspeakables hadn’t yet found anything in Crouch’s books to help him recover faster - and said: “G-g-got s-so-o-me-th-thing t’ hide.”

“Well, if he’s working to frame us, he can’t trust her,” Ron said. “She’d stop him.”

“T-t-t-try.”

Harry nodded. Bathilda was a good friend and a hard-working Auror, but he wouldn’t bet on her against Dawlish. Not in a duel and not when it came to plotting. “But Dawlish won’t be on the case much longer - people are getting impatient with his lack of progress.”

“Not that he can do much but wait for the next heist and hope the Night Nargles make a mistake,” Ron said.

“N-n-ever c-c-c-count on m-m-m-mist-t-takes,” Moody spat with a snarl. “T-t-t-trap.”

Harry frowned. “You mean we should be wary of a trap, or we should lay a trap for the Night Nargles?”

“B-b-both.”

It was kind of eerie how Moody’s artificial eye, which was usually spinning around, was now fixated on him and Ron. It simply didn’t fit Moody. Well, lying helplessly in a bed didn’t fit the old Auror, either.

“We’re ready for him, should he try something,” Ron said. “And we’ve been getting more support from the rest of the Corps - even from Nott.”

“With the exception of Macmillan and his friends,” Harry added.

“F-f-f-fools.”

“Yes.” Harry sighed. “But in order to trap the thieves, we’d have to know their next target. Or targets. And they’ve hit a wide range of manors. They could hit anyone.” And if they had a mole in the Ministry, they’d be aware of any trap.

“M-ma-ma-malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” Harry frowned. Of course, Malfoy was among the likely targets, being the second richest family in Britain, but… “I don’t think he’ll let us place Aurors in his manor.” Not after their lunch together. And Harry didn’t want to work with the man or his son. Not at all. But he was an Auror and sworn to uphold the law.

“F-f-f-fear th-th-th-thieves m-m-more.”

“I don’t think that’s the case, yet,” Harry said.”And it’s not our case, anyway.”

“Not yet,” Ron said. “But if the Night Nargles rob another manor?” He shrugged. “Malfoy might grow desperate.”

“Desperate enough to let us in his home?” Harry didn’t think so.

“Stranger things have happened. Nott’s been polite,” Ron pointed out.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Harry said.

“C-C-c-const-t-tant V-v-v…”

“...Vigilance!” Harry and Ron finished for Moody.

Of course, they’d be ready for a trap or double-cross - you couldn’t trust Malfoy.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, January 29th, 1999**

“And here I thought that after getting promoted, we wouldn’t have to do guard duty any more.”

Harry Potter glanced at Ron and checked his privacy charm was still up - they were in public, in front of the entrance to Gringotts, and you never knew who might be listening in. “Someone has to be in charge of this, and with Tonks still on her undercover assignment and our case almost closed after Crouch’s execution, we’re the only ones available.” Which Ron knew very well, despite his griping. And it wasn’t as if you could trust such a task to Hit-Wizards - they were far too eager to curse anyone seen as a threat. And since Jeanne had all but commanded Sirius and Hermione to help her deal with another problem in France - she was showing some mood swings now - Harry wasn’t missing much even if this assignment ran late.

“There’s Shacklebolt,” Ron said.

“He’s needed for other duties,” Harry repeated the official line - no one he had spoken to had actually known exactly what those ‘other duties’ were.

Ron scoffed. “Bet he’s doing errands for the Wizengamot. He’s the type.”

“Probably something related to international affairs. He’s done that before.” Harry shrugged. It ultimately didn’t matter. “Scrimgeour is said to be grooming him as his successor.”

“Unless Fudge resigns and Bones gets elected as Minister, Scrimgeour won’t give up his position for a long time,” Ron replied. “I think Shacklebolt will actually move to another department.”

“You think, or Percy thinks?” Harry raised his eyebrows at his friends.

Ron snorted. “I just got a second opinion.”

“Yeah, right.” Harry smirked.

“Anyway, if Shacklebolt wants to get promoted past Scrimgeour, he’ll need a lot of friends in the Wizengamot, and probably a few years in another department, to widen his options,” Ron went on.

“And that’s why we’re here, and he isn’t,” Harry said.

Ron frowned at him. “You’ll have to do the same, you know.”

“What?”

“If you want to advance in the Ministry, you’ll have to leave the Corps.”

“I can stay in the DMLE,” Harry retorted. He didn’t want to work in another department - he already had enough paperwork to deal with. And his talents and experiences didn’t really lend themselves to clerical work. And neither did his temper, he knew.

“If you want to get stuck under Scrimgeour for ten years or more,” Ron said.

He was right, and Harry knew it. Had known it before he joined the Corps. “That doesn’t matter,” he replied. With Sirius, he should have enough backing to do what he needed to no matter his position. “But what about you?”

“Me?” Ron blinked, looking surprised before he grinned. “Mate, I’m here because you need me. I’m not going to make a career out of it anyway  - do I look like Percy?”

Harry hadn’t known that. He hadn’t asked, either - he had just assumed Ron had the same plans as he had. But the middle of Diagon Alley wasn’t the time to discuss this. “Well…” He squinted at Ron. “In the right light…”

“Sod off!” Ron shot back, shaking his head. “That’s a low bl...Ah, damn.” He stared at the bottom of the stairs.

Harry turned his head and frowned. The crowd of angry wizards and witches demanding their gold from the goblins were waving their wands at the Aurors holding them back. “Let’s go stop this before it grows out of control,” he said, casting a Shield Charm.

“We should just let them through,” Harry heard Ron mutter as his friend followed him. “Let them and the goblins sort this out.”

Harry glanced at him; that wasn’t something you were allowed to say in public. Especially not if you were assigned to keep a mob from storming Gringotts. Even though the goblins had brought it upon themselves when they blocked access to all vaults for a ‘security check’ - which everyone knew was a lie.

They reached the line of Aurors, and a few Hit-Wizards, facing the angry crowd, stopping a little way behind them, on the stairs so they had a good view of everything. A quick Amplifying Charm let Harry be heard by everyone. “This area is closed off. Please go home.”

“We want our gold!” Someone yelled from the back of the crowd. Others took up the cry.

Harry’s amplified voice still drowned them out. “The goblins have closed Gringotts until further notice. Even if we let you through, you wouldn’t get your gold.”

“Yeah? We can take our gold!”

“We’ll show ’em!”

“Damned cheating beasts!”

Harry was tempted to blast the lot with a Water-Making Spell. That would disperse them. Instead, he tried to talk sense into the idiots again. “If you attack Gringotts, the goblins will attack you. And you’d be fighting them on their own ground.”

“We have wands! And they haven’t!”

“Uppity goblins need a lesson!”

“We want our gold! We want our gold!”

Harry glared at the front rank, but that didn’t seem to impress them.

“Do we have to go through this again? This time, there’s no one using curses to rile them up, so they have no excuse,” Ron said next to him.

Harry raised his wand and cast a Cannon-Blast Spell in the air above the crowd that shook the area and broke a few windows. And probably ruptured a few eardrums as well. But technically, it wasn’t an attack. For a moment, everyone but a few people holding their ears fell silent.

“We’re bound by treaty to defend the goblins,” Harry said. “I’ve done so before - multiple times. Have you lot forgotten what happened the last time you gathered here?” He ignored Ron’s muttered “and the time before that” and shook his head, then waved his wand and conjured a wall that ran in front of the Aurors’ line - high enough to stop anyone unable to climb, low enough so he could still see over it. “If you try to damage or cross this wall, we’ll consider it an attack and respond accordingly.”

For a moment, it looked like they were seeing reason. Then the idiot from the back yelled: “We can take them! They’re just a dozen!”

“We want our gold! We want our gold!”

And someone blew a hole into the wall with a Reductor Curse.

Harry’s Water-Making Spell bowled the crowd over.

*****

**Cumberland County, Parkinson Manor, January 29th, 1999**

Hermione Granger didn’t like Polyjuice Potion. To move in someone else’s body was cumbersome. Everything felt off. She lacked her usual grace and agility - as if she were caught in the body of a clumsy dog. Not that she would admit that, of course. Not when a particular dog hadn’t uttered even one complaint despite sharing her burden. Well, for a dog, wearing a different body was probably an improvement. Even if it was the slightly overweight body of a middle-aged employee of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. At least her borrowed body was fit and, if not lithe, then at least not carrying around more fat than muscle.

“Relax, it’ll be fine,” she heard Sirius whisper as they approached the gates of Parkinson Manor.

She almost hissed at his presumption. “Of course, it’ll be fine - it’s my plan, after all.” She huffed. Even though the original plan had been much better and more elegant. But Mr Fletcher insisted that they couldn’t risk using the charms cast on the Floo Network. And so they had to trust the bureaucracy of the Ministry. Which, in a warped way, was fitting. And she wished that they had a better alibi than ‘helping Jeanne in France’, but what else was as plausible as that? But she couldn’t dwell on that. Not in the middle of a heist.

She cleared her throat - Mrs Winkleborough, whose body she was using, was the more senior of the two Ministry employees they were impersonating - and tapped her wand against the plaque next to the wrought-iron gate.

A high-pitched voice - a house-elf - answered after half a minute. “Yes?”

“Who is this?” she snapped. No witch in her position would be polite to the little creatures.

“This be Debby. Who is this?”

Hermione stepped on Sirius’s foot before he could comment on that name. “Mrs Winkleborough and Mr Smith, from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. We’re here to check up on Mr Parkinson’s latest creature keeping license.”

“Oh! Debby will inform him! Please wait!”

She was certain that the elves had some mice or rat blood in their ancestry. Their squeaky voices alone were proof enough. As they waited for Parkinson to answer - he wouldn’t hurry for two Ministry employees, not as the Head of an Old Family - she looked the manor over. It was built in a similar style as Greengrass Manor. Sixteenth century, she guessed, but there had been some work done to make it appear older. Though the defensive features added were obviously fake - this was no manor built to repel marauding bands of soldiers during the War of Roses. The fake battlements would make it very easy to climb the walls, though - they were tailor-made to attach lines and hooks to them.

The gardens weren’t as well-kept as the Greengrasses’ or the Smiths’. Or rather, they looked less like a cheap copy of Versailles, but wilder. With higher fences, and denser foliage... She suddenly wondered what kind of creatures had been kept there. Or were still being kept there.

A gruff voice interrupted her thoughts. “Who’s this?”

She cleared her throat as a regular employee would, afraid to offend a member of the Wizengamot. “Mr Parkinson? We’re Mrs Winkleborough and Mr Smith, from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. There are a few questions regarding your license to keep a Sphinx that have come up.”

“What questions?”

She took a deep breath. “The Egyptian authorities have been inquiring after the health and dietary needs of the specimen since its subtype might have been incorrectly filed.”

“‘Incorrectly filed’? You are bothering me because of a mistake you made?”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” she grovelled. “But it wasn’t our mistake. As far as we can tell from the files we received from the Egyptians, the fault was theirs - a mix up in the documentation you received and passed on to the Department. We’re sorry that it wasn’t detected earlier, but with the recent attack on the Ministry, our Department has been very busy.”

Sirius scoffed loudly next to her. “Even though it’s not our jurisdiction at all since they weren’t magical creatures! And yet we’ve had to spend the entire day in a swamp looking for African Shadow Mosquitoes some drunk muggleborn claimed to have seen! The bloody idiot couldn’t tell a Flobberworm from his...”

Hermione hissed: “Smith!”

“What?”

“Mr Parkinson can hear you!”

And Mr Parkinson chuckled. “I can hear you indeed.”

“Sorry, sir,” Sirius said.

“Although unless there’s a swamp near my manor of which I’m not aware, I wonder why you didn’t use the Floo Network to travel to my home.” Mr Parkinson sounded wary now.

Hermione swallowed. This was the crucial moment. “We apparated directly here, sir, after we finished our previous assignment.”

“Almost splinched myself just so those slackers at the Department wouldn’t hand us another pointless assignment,” Sirius added just loudly enough for Mr Parkinson to pick up.

“You can check with the Department,” Hermione said. “Or we could apparate to the Ministry and use the Floo Network from there.”

“Bloody hell!” Sirius muttered. “You want to get splinched?”

Hermione held her breath. If Mr Parkinson insisted that they do that, then the heist would have failed. And he would be warned. But even as the Head of an Old Family, the wizard wouldn’t lightly annoy the bureaucracy - even lowly clerks could take their revenge by abusing red tape, and the Parkinsons did a lot of business with the Department.

“No, no. I’ll check with the Department myself. I’d rather not have to clean up body parts from my lands,” he added with a chuckle.

Hermione laughed - slightly forced, just as a witch in Mrs Winkleborough’s position would laugh at such a crude joke from the Head of an Old Family. It wasn’t hard. If they had found something amiss with the documents she had filed… If the real Mrs Winkleborough or Mr Smith had shown up for work unexpectedly… Perhaps this plan wasn’t as perfect as she had thought.

But a few minutes later, she saw Pansy Parkinson walk towards them to let them through the wards. Judging by her scowl, she wasn’t happy about having to do this - probably whined for a minute or two until her father put his foot down.

Hermione, though, was relieved. If this were a trap, Mr Parkinson would have sent the house-elf, not his daughter. She kept her smile polite and respectful, of course, as the witch let them through the wards after a curt greeting.

Her plan was working perfectly!

*****

“My father is expecting you in the entrance hall.” Parkinson’s expression was barely polite as she gestured towards the manor, and she didn’t even wait for Hermione Granger and Sirius to respond before she turned and started to walk off. A typical pureblood princess of an Old Family, in other words.

Hermione told herself that the witch’s arrogance would only help them. If she tried to ignore them then she wouldn’t notice anything off about their disguises. It didn’t help as much as her brief fantasy of the pureblood witch’s face when she discovered she had been robbed.

After a minute or two, they entered the manor. Mr Parkinson was waiting in the grand entrance hall - expecting them, as his daughter called it; the Head of an Old Family didn’t wait for mere Ministry employees.

“Welcome to my home.” The greeting was polite enough, but his nod was barely a twitch. And Parkinson simply left without a further word, head held high as if she were a prima donna exiting the stage.

Hermione’s nod was more of a short bow. “Thank you, sir,” she deliberately mangled the proper response, “We’re very sorry about this.”

“Yes,” Sirius said. “But orders are orders. Ours is not to question why…”

Mr Parkinson chuckled at that. “A good attitude to take with one’s superior.”

Hermione took care to show a slightly forced smile, as the actual Mrs Winkleborough would when reminded of Mr Parkinson’s good relations with the Ministry officials and especially the Head of her Department. “Yes, sir. We all have to do our duty, especially with all the chaos caused by the recent attack.”

“Ah, yes. Quite tricky. But at least Crouch was executed and won’t be a threat any more.” Mr Parkinson nodded. “Now, you said there were some questions about my licence?” He narrowed his eyes at them.

Hermione nodded nervously. “Yes, sir.” She pulled out a stack of parchments and acted as if she were almost fumbling them as she searched for the right form. “Here! The Egyptian authorities demand that we verify that the subspecies of the Sphinx you imported is actually correct and that her dietary needs are met.”

“The nerve of those Ottoman flunkies!” Mr Parkinson growled. “I bet they want more bribes, the greedy peons!”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione agreed, “but if we don’t heed their request, they’ll block further trade in magical creatures.” And that would annoy a few more families - some of them with enough influence to make trouble for the Parkinsons.

Mr Parkinson knew about that, of course. He shook his head and scoffed. “I checked the species myself when I acquired her!”

“Of course,” Hermione hastened to say. “But they want our report.” She winced and hunched her shoulders, acting far more like a mouse than a proud cat. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

“It’s not your fault, I gather.” Mr Parkinson huffed. “But she’s in our vault, which poses a little problem.”

“Oh.” Hermione faked surprise. “I assumed she would be in a habitat. But the vaults…” she sifted through her sack of parchment again. “That would require a new form… wouldn’t it, Smith?”

She caught Sirius glance at Mr Parkinson and roll his eyes at her. “Yes, I think so,” he said.

“Ah!” Hermione held up another parchment. “Yes, this is the correct scroll if you’re employing a sphinx as a guardian. Although now we need to ask her about her employment as well,” she added hunching her shoulders again. “I’m sorry.”

“But she’s in my vault,” Mr Parkinson snapped.

“Oh.” Hermione acted surprised. “I see. That presents us with a problem.”

Sirius asked: “Could you bring her up here? So we can talk to her?”

“We still need to check her living conditions,” Hermione said before Mr Parkinson could answer. Cringing at his glare, she meekly held up a sheet of parchment as if she wanted to use it as a shield. “It’s on the forms the Egyptians sent us.”

“We will, of course, hand over our wands,” Sirius said, holding his own out. Or rather, the one he was using as Smith.

Mr Parkinson still hesitated. He was staring at her, Hermione realised. He might even be wondering whether she was the most wanted thief in Wizarding Britain. She slowly drew her own wand and held it out, handle first. “Here?” She sounded like a meek mouse. Prey.

He hesitated another moment, then grabbed her wand and Sirius’s. “It’s this way.” He stashed their wands and waved his own, opening a door to the side. “After you.”

She didn’t like having him at her back, but Mrs Winkleborough wouldn’t dare object. And as long as he felt safe and in control, he would let them enter his vault. Just as planned.

Hermione still couldn’t keep from shivering when Mr Parkinson waved his wand, and a staircase appeared in the middle of a hallway. It would be heavily warded. Lethally so. If this were a trap…

When she saw him starting to cast a spell, she almost drew her real wand from its hidden holster before she recognised the privacy charm. She controlled herself, though. As soon as he had finished, he tapped her and Sirius on their heads with his wand, whatever passphrases or incantations he was using hidden by the privacy charm.

A flick of his wand later, she could understand him again. “Follow me. And do not stray from the path.”

“We won’t, sir!” she replied, staring at the ground. When he turned and entered the staircase, she tapped her glasses, a gift from Sirius for the heist, and started the recording. Just in case.

The staircase was narrow - far too narrow for a Sphinx unless it was a newborn. Either the Parkinsons could widen the stairs when needed, or they had transported the animal in a magically expanded cage. Hermione would bet on the latter - if you could expand the walls, it would make breaking in much easier.

The stairs went on and on as if they were descending into the bowels of the earth. Transparent jars on the walls filled with glow worms - or some magical variant - provided enough light to not lose her footing and stumble. After several minutes, they arrived at a massive door - the vault. Hermione almost hissed with delight.

Mr Parkinson cast another privacy charm, this one obscuring his entire body so that she could only see a vague silhouette, before turning towards the door. Hermione tapped her glasses again, but none of the spells on them could penetrate Parkinson’s charm - they weren’t up to those on her mask. But a Supersensory Charm let her smell blood and hear the clicking of a mechanical lock - a little awkward for daily use, but quite effective. Unless you were facing a professional thief like herself.

Then the vault door swung open - it was two feet thick and made of gleaming steel - and she gasped: Behind the door was the largest vault she had seen so far - and the largest magical creature bar the Giant Squid she had ever seen. The Sphinx was huge, much closer to an elephant than a lion in size, and her head would have fit a giant’s body. And her wings… they were bigger than an Abraxan’s.

She was a fearsome guardian, and Hermione shivered as the creature’s eyes gazed at her. She was playing her role, she told herself - to no avail. Hermione was a fine cat, a paragon of her species, but this was… even a pride of lions would flee from her.

Mr Parkinson, though, was utterly unimpressed. “Hello, Neith. These people have come to ask you a few questions - on orders from the Egyptian authorities.”

The Sphinx nodded in return. “I see. What do you wish to know?”

Hermione took a deep breath. This hinged on her knowledge of Sphinxes being correct; if the books she had studied were wrong… “What is your riddle?” she asked, letting her right arm drop and her wand slide into her hand.

To her side, Mr Parkinson gasped and raised his wand - apparently, he had immediately realised that he had been duped. But Sirius, who had taken a few steps back as if frightened by the Sphinx, was almost behind the wizard and far quicker. A volley of Stunners hit the man, shattering his shield and taking him down before he could send a curse at Hermione.

Hermione stood still, tense and ready to dart to the side. Like a cat facing an oversized dog - but this was no dog but another cat. Far smarter and far, far more dangerous than any dog.

But the Sphinx was chuckling. “Clever, clever, little kitten. You know about our customs.”

Hermione inclined her head. “You are bound by the agreement to guard the vaults, not him.” Sphinxes weren’t bodyguards. No proud cat would guard their prey, after all. “And you have to let anyone pass who can answer your riddle.”

“Indeed. And I will rend anyone who fails to.” The creature smiled, revealing razor sharp teeth, each the size of Hermione’s index finger.

Trembling, she nodded. She could do this. She was smart - very smart - and she had studied Sphinxes. And riddles.

When the Sphinx next spoke, her voice was deeper and more gravelly. “So, riddle me this: A thief is facing three doors. Each of them leads to the prize she seeks - after an obstacle. The first leads to a hallway full of raging fires. The second to a hallway filled with poison and traps. And the third to a hallway that holds a grown dragon who hasn’t eaten anything in years. Which door will the smart thief pick?”

Hermione bit her lower lip as her thoughts raced. She could cast a Flame-Freezing Charm, so the first hallway wouldn’t be a real obstacle. But the Sphinx had said there were raging fires - not a raging fire. So, if there were multiple fires, or fires that kept spawning, then she would need to be able to keep casting the charm quickly enough to hit every fire. Poison and traps could be dealt with as well, but she had no hint about the kinds of traps. But that was probably still better than a dragon - they were notoriously hard to affect with spells. She could deal with poison and traps better than with a starving dragon… She blinked. Starving… “Door Three!” she stated, smiling and ignoring Sirius’s gasp. “The dragon would have starved to death already!”

The Sphinx smiled as well and took a step to the side. “Well, reasoned, kitten. You may pass.”

Hermione sighed with relief and took a step forward, then turned to glare at the dog. “She said I may pass; you didn’t answer her riddle.”

“But…” Sirius blinked, then looked at the smiling creature eyeing him.

“They love word games,” Hermione explained. “Stay here, I’ll get the gold.”

She strode past the Sphinx and into the narrower part of the vault, where a dozen chests were lined up along the wall. Her plan had worked perfectly!

She tapped her glasses and activated the detection spell on them - that one she had cast personally, so it would work just as she wanted it to. There were spells on all the chests - various detection spells and alarm charms. Standard fare, so far. Although… she narrowed her eyes. Would Parkinson go as far as to duplicate the same method he used for the vault door? Judging by the number of chests, he didn’t let relatives use the vault to store their valuables, so he would not have to visit it as often…

She bit her lower lip and knelt down in front of the first chest to get a better look at the entwined spells on it. The spells were interlaced quite effectively, forming a solid pattern that was self-supporting. That was professional work.

But it was professional work that was at least twenty years old and had been standard then, down to the Fire-Resistant Charm on the chest. She knew the pattern - Mr Fletcher had taught her how to deal with it years ago. She grinned as she went to work. Two minutes later, a flick of her wand opened the chest, revealing the gold coins inside. Jackpot! A swish of her wand had them floating into her enchanted pocket.

“If you take much longer, we’ll have to take another swig or we’ll change back.”

Leave it to the dog to ruin the moment with his impatience! Frowning, she replied: “I’ll be done in twenty minutes.” Provided that there weren’t more complicated defences on the other chests.

“The Sphinx is eyeing me rather hungrily.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. She had been the one to face the creature and solve her riddle! All the dog had to do was wait and keep an eye on Mr Parkinson. Scoffing, she went to work on the next chest.

Five minutes later, she was on her fourth chest and had to remind herself to keep looking at each chest as if it were the first, as Mr Fletcher had taught her. Complacent thieves got caught - or killed. Even though this chest, too, had the same old protections. And was filled with the same gold coins and jewellery.

The next chest, though, was different. The spells were newer - but sloppier. As if someone had been trying to imitate the spells on the other chests, including the Fire-Resistant Charm, but hadn’t quite managed it. She could immediately spot a weakness.

But she hesitated. What if it were a trap? She went over the chest’s defences again, but couldn’t find a trap. Frowning, she disabled the spell, holding her breath. Nothing happened. But… she tapped her glasses, wishing once more that she was wearing her mask, and zoomed in on the front of the chest. The small, dark stain there looked like… A Supersensory Charm confirmed it by its faint smell: dried blood.

But the chest didn’t have a blood lock, unlike the vault. And she doubted that Mr Parkinson had forgotten to fix his small cut before walking into the vault. His daughter, on the other hand, might have done so, if what Harry had told Hermione about her time at Hogwarts was correct. Still… She took a few steps back before flipping the lid off with a flick of her wand.

And jumped behind the closest chest when a stream of fire burst forth, followed by a screeching noise that would have blown her eardrums if she hadn’t already dispelled her Supersensory Charm. She raised her head to take a look and gasped.

A reptilian creature shot out of the chest, lifting itself into the air with fast beats of its leathery wings - Mr Parkinson had hidden a sort of dragon in his vault!

That hadn’t been in his files! Hermione sent a pair of Stunners at the creature, but, to her dismay, both glanced off the creature’s red scales. All she had done was to alert the creature to her presence, and Hermione had to jump behind the closest fire-resistant chest to avoid getting burned by the next stream of fire the dragon - it had to be a dragon - unleashed.

She barely made it and landed far too hard on the stone floor - this body simply wasn’t in shape. She had no choice - she changed and darted towards the larger part of the vault as fast as her paws could carry her. She barely noticed more spells hitting the creature - Sirius was casting from where he stood. After three seconds, she threw herself to the left, behind a chest she had already emptied. Once more, fire washed over her, singing her fur as she pressed herself against the chest. If the dragon pounced, she was dead.

She changed back and jumped up, back in her own body and leading with her wand. The dragon - it was about her size, she realised; it had looked far bigger at first - was tethered to its chest by a chain. It couldn’t leave this part of the vault.

But its fire breath could still reach her spot. And it was rearing its head, opening its maw…

Hermione banished the empty chest towards the dragon. The chest hit its head before it could unleash another stream of fire and smacked it backwards, followed by three colourful hexes that splashed against its scales.

That was enough for Hermione to dart outside the narrow part of the vault, back to Sirius and the Sphinx.

“That’s a dragon! What did you do?”

Breathing heavily, she glared at him. “I opened a chest. It wasn’t…” She caught sight of a white wing swinging towards her and changed in time to avoid getting blown into the wall behind her.

“What the?” Sirius blurted out, but his wand was already moving towards the Sphinx. She intercepted the curses he sent her way with her other wing, though - apparently, her wings were as resistant to magic as a dragon’s scales. That hadn’t been in the books Hermione had read.

She changed back and tried a Stunner from an angle. “She only agreed to let me pass - once!” she yelled to Sirius as her curse missed.

“You are indeed clever, kitten - but not clever enough!” Laughing, the Sphinx whirled around and pounced at Sirius, claws as long as Hermione’s shin extending from her giant paws.

But Sirius hadn’t stopped moving or casting. He threw himself to the ground and slid away - he had covered the stone in grease, Hermione realised as the Sphinx crashed into the floor where he had been.

And grease burned. Clenching her teeth, Hermione swished her wand and set it ablaze. Flames licked at the creature’s paws and tail, and her shriek dwarfed the dragon’s roar. A moment later, conjured oil drenched the Sphinx courtesy of Sirius, and the screams grew even louder as the Sphinx disappeared in a roaring fire.

Not for long, though. Suddenly, the fires vanished, and the temperature dropped as the Sphinx reappeared, covered in rapidly melting ice.

The stupid Egyptians had actually made a mistake when noting the Sphinx’s subspecies, Hermione realised - it was a Cyrosphinx! She conjured a wall in front of her just in time to stop the freezing breath of the creature, and even so, she shuddered from the sudden cold. If they didn’t stop the creature quickly… She gasped as she spotted Mr Parkinson in the corner. He was bound and stunned - if the creature breathed on him…

“Summon Mr Parkinson’s robes!” she murmured, dragging the man behind her makeshift shelter. Explosions rocked the room on the other side, and she darted around the wall, almost slipping on the ice. The Sphinx had backed Sirius into a corner, and the wall Hermione’s partner had conjured was cracking under the blows from her paws.

She had to do something! But what? Her spells hadn’t affected the creature. Fire was this Sphinx’s weakness, but she could freeze herself if she started burning. But… dragonfire! Hermione sprinted towards the narrow part of the vault. If she could set the dragon on the Sphinx…

“Down!”

She dropped to the ground at once, changing before she hit the floor, and a giant shape flew over her head, crashing into the wall next to her. Panting, she darted away. A moment later, thick pillars of stone appeared around the dazed creature, hemming her in. The Sphinx screamed, but couldn’t turn around enough to breathe at them.

“What were you thinking?” Sirius yelled as he raced up to her, his wand flicking as he filled the space between the pillars with more stone, turning it into a prison for the immobilised Sphinx.

Hermione changed back, still panting. That had been too close! “I wanted to set the dragon on her,” she explained.

Sirius stared at her. “What?”

He didn’t have to react like that. “Its fire would have hurt her.”

“And us.”

“I was desperate,” she admitted.

He smiled at that. And at her. “There was no need for that. I had the situation in hand.”

She rolled her eyes at his attitude. “Yes. You had her right where you wanted her.”

He beamed at her. “Exactly!”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Sirius winced. “Maybe we shouldn’t go into too much detail when we tell the others about this.”

Hermione nodded. “Good idea.” Then she turned around and faced the dragon which was still struggling against the chain.

“Let’s deal with that pest.”

“Do you have a plan? A not-desperate plan, I mean?”

She glared at him. “Indeed I have. On my signal, cut the chain.”

“What?”

“Trust me.” She conjured a low wall, barely a foot high, at the entrance to the narrow part of the vault, then disillusioned it.

“Ah.” He nodded and aimed his wand. “I’m ready.”

“Do it.”

His spell cut the chain, and, a few seconds later, the enraged dragon crashed into Hermione’s suddenly enlarged invisible wall. Head-first and at high speed.

Hermione stared at the still creature and at the blood leaking from its nostrils, maw and eyes. Then she smiled and turned to Sirius.

“We’ll have to find a fence for dragon parts!”

*****

 


	61. Going Undercover

**Cumberland County, Parkinson Manor, January 29th, 1999**

Pansy Parkinson was sitting in her room. She wasn’t sulking - proper witches didn’t sulk. She was merely making a statement to her parents by retiring to her room. Namely, that answering the door was beneath her dignity. That’s what they had a house-elf for! Remembering how her father had ordered her to walk to the gate and let those Ministry flunkies bothering their betters through the wardline made her clench her teeth. Why couldn’t those stupid people have arrived through the Floo Network, like civilised wizards and witches?

She sniffed. That they were from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures didn’t excuse them; Pansy’s family was heavily invested in the trade of magical creatures, yet she shouldn’t have to walk up to the manor’s gate like some muggle! A witch of good breeding had standards to maintain! At least no one of importance had seen her acting like a house-elf. If Draco had been there, she would have died of embarrassment!

She sighed at her plight and went back to her letter. With that undesirable finally being caught and executed, as he deserved, Draco was, at last, allowed outside again by his mum. They could go and visit Diagon Alley instead of staying in his or her manor! With the Bulstrode, Davis and Greengrass families ruined, Pansy and Draco’s circle of friends had drastically shrunk over the last few months.

Not that she minded being alone with Draco, of course! There were quite significant advantages to that. But part of the duty of a prominent member of an Old Family was to be seen in public - to be an example of class and poise for their lessers. Not that those unfortunates would ever manage to equal her, but even a doomed effort would improve their manners.

She chewed on her quill as she pondered how to word her desire to visit Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. It was, without a doubt, the best location in Britain to eat ice cream. Nothing could compare to their creations. But, as she had recently discovered, it was also a business run by a mudblood - not a distant relative of the old pureblood Fortescue family, as many had thought. Which presented her with a dilemma. She was not about to subject her refined palate to lesser ice cream than the very best available - that would be beneath her dignity; like wearing robes from that tailor in Hogsmeade, instead of from Madam Malkin’s. But to frequent a business run by a mudblood?

She pressed her lips together. That was also beneath her dignity. And people might think she approved of the business. But she really liked the Fire’s Touch Coup that the man made. That melange of spicy and sweet, hot and icy cold... She closed her eyes and sighed.

On the other hand, hadn’t father told her - repeatedly, if she cared to remember, which she didn’t - that she should make some gestures to show that the family didn’t support the Dark Lord’s ideals? Draco had complained about his father telling him something similar, although he hadn’t had to actually do anything after that Death Eater had started murdering people.

She nodded. Yes, that was the right way to word this - a sacrifice for their families. She smiled as she finished the letter. Sometimes the duty of a pureblood witch of an Old Family was a heavy burden. But also, in this case, a sweet and spicy one.

She cast a quick charm to dry the ink, rolled up and sealed the scroll, then raised her wand to ring the bell behind the curtain in her room, which would signal Floppy that she had a letter to send, when, suddenly, Floppy burst into her room without having been called.

“Mistress Pansy! Mistress Pansy! There be an emergency!” he squeaked.

Pansy felt as if her heart stopped beating for a moment. “What? What happened?” Crouch was dead, so… Merlin’s beard! The Night Nargles!

“Your father, Mistress Pansy! The Sphinx attacked him and the visitors! He be hurt!”

“What?” The Sphinx, attacking her father? That was inconceivable. Sphinxes only attacked if you tried to pass them without solving their riddle. Father would never make such a mistake! And he was hurt? “Where is Mum?”

“Mistress Marissa left a while ago.”

Mum had said she was going to visit an acquaintance, but Pansy hadn’t paid attention. And now she was the witch in the house during an emergency.

“The visitors insist that you come. They say there be an illegal animal.”

Pansy felt a cold shiver run down her spine. The Anatolian Fire Drake! But how had those bothersome bureaucrats discovered it? “What happened to it?” she snapped as she rose and rushed out of her room - a witch was supposed to never run, but her father was hurt!

“They say the Sphinx released and killed it,” Floppy gasped as he ran after her as fast as his short legs could carry him.

She blinked. That still didn’t make any sense. Sphinxes wouldn’t damage the treasure they guarded - everyone knew that. Unless… Had father worded the contract in a way that wouldn’t cover other creatures? She didn’t remember, not having paid much attention to his explanations. Though she knew that a Cryosphinx would hate to guard a Fire Drake. But to go as far as to reveal it to their visitors…

She scoffed as she took the stairs down to the entrance hall. Of course, the beast would dare - Pansy had learned at a young age that magical beasts and creatures needed a firm hand and a ready wand or they would turn on you. Still, her father was the most experienced wizard in Britain when it came to magical creatures, far above that barbarian simpleton at Hogwarts, and to make a mistake like this…

But there were more urgent things to worry about. “Is the Sphinx dead?” She didn’t want to run into a rampaging Sphinx.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t moving, Mistress.”

Dead or under control, then. Good.

She smelled the smoke before she entered the - still open, but warded - staircase leading to their vault. So the drake had indeed escaped. But her father hadn’t made a mistake - those idiots from the Ministry must have bungled things up - hadn’t they mentioned there was something wrong with the contract? And if they had mentioned it in front of the Cryosphinx…

She would teach those idiots to cause such an incident in her home! And Father would ruin them!

But he was hurt. She ran down the stairs. There he was - on the ground. Unconscious, but she couldn’t see any blood…

“The Sphinx turned on him and knocked him out!” The stupid witch blurted out before Pansy reached her father.

“Be quiet!” Pansy snapped as she ran her wand over his chest - every Parkinson learned to treat wounds from creatures. But there were no wounds - no bleeding. No frostbite either. And his head was fine as well. But he was unconscious, as if he were stunned. But Cryosphinxes couldn’t cast spells…

“Mistress!”

She looked up in time to see the Stunner hit her in the chest as Floppy slumped down at the bottom of the stairs.

*****

Pansy Parkinson woke with a gasp. Her father! The Stunner! What had happened? She looked around as she reached for her wand… where was it?

Then she realised where she was. In her family’s vault. Next to her still unconscious father and an equally unconscious Floppy. And a Sphinx! She jerked - but the Sphinx was trapped in stone, as she could see in the dim light… dim light? There was a glass with Brazilian Everlit Fireflies in the middle of the room, but there should be enchanted crystals providing light stuck to the walls...

They were gone. As, she realised with rapidly growing horror, were the contents of their vault. And her wand. And her jewellery. She started to cry as she realised what had happened.

The Night Nargles had ruined her life!

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 29th, 1999**

“Another heist? While we were guarding Gringotts?” Harry Potter clenched his teeth. He and Ron had just - finally - finished their shift there and now this!

“In the middle of the afternoon, too,” Nott said. “Stunned Mr Parkinson and Pansy and then robbed the manor. Pansy woke up in the evening and alerted us.” He sighed. “Poor Bathilda was about to head to dinner with me, and now she’ll be stuck there for hours.”

“You sound as if you care more about her than the Parkinsons.” Ron voiced what Harry was thinking.

“Of course I do.” Nott looked at them as if it were obvious. They must have failed to hide their surprise since he rolled his eyes and sighed. “Bathilda is a friend. Pansy’s just a fellow Slytherin.”

Harry held back from commenting that they had seemed quite close during their time at Hogwarts. Although all Slytherins had appeared to be close to each other, in his opinion.

“No Old Family solidarity?” Ron asked.

Nott scoffed. “Pansy cut off contact with Millicent, Tracey and Daphne as soon as their manors were robbed. She won’t get any solidarity from me.” He smirked. “I should start a betting pool how long it takes Draco to break up with her - and if he waits until he has found a better prospect or not.”

That sounded very vindictive to Harry. On the other hand, it was Parkinson. She was simply reaping what she had sowed.

“This will weaken Malfoy’s allies, though,” Ron commented again.

The other Auror shrugged. “Parkinson will keep his seat until his death, so Malfoy will still have his vote.” He grinned. “In the short term, it’ll even make it easier for Malfoy to control his allies. Parkinson will have to go along with everything.”

“They still have their business and other assets,” Harry pointed out. “And I doubt that they kept all their gold in their vault.”

Nott shrugged again. “Even if they saved part of their gold, the loss of face is too great. Your vault and manor robbed while you were there?” He shook his head. “They’ll be the laughing stock of the Old Families.”

Sirius’s description of the Wizengamot as a school of sharks ready to turn on each other as soon as they smelled blood was really quite accurate.

“Aren’t you rushing there to help?” Nott asked.

Harry glanced at Ron. “Unless we missed the memo, Dawlish hasn’t requested our help.”

Nott sighed. “Stupid fool. This is his last chance. Does he really think he can catch the thieves by himself?”

The question was whether Dawlish wanted to catch the thieves at all, in Harry’s opinion. And if he did, if he was so delusional that he thought he could arrest them without their help. Which probably was the case - it certainly was a common attitude in the Corps.

“Well, we’re going home - no point in waiting for a call to the scene that won’t come,” Ron said.

Which meant, Harry knew, that Ron had a rendezvous with Luna in Hogsmeade or at Hogwarts. And Hermione would be returning from France - there was no way Sirius would be staying there, not when another manor had just been robbed. He just hoped that his girlfriend wouldn’t be kept too busy helping his godfather with his political machinations.

Although he had to call them first to inform them of the latest heist. And with Dawlish around,  it would be better if he did that from home.

*****

**Argelès-sur-Mer,** **Pyrenées Orientales,** **France, January 29th, 1999**

“Stop fidgeting, Hermione. You’ll be able to sort through the loot soon enough.”

Hermione Granger glared at the dog. It would be at least another day, probably three days if Harry wasn’t called in to work over the weekend, until she could properly sort through their loot from Parkinson Manor!

“Mr Fletcher’s checking for traps and curses already,” Jeanne added, sitting in her chair at the fireplace, one hand resting on her stomach as she held a book - about child-rearing - with the other. Hermione’s friend wasn’t yet ‘nesting’, not really, but she was certainly getting there. Not that Hermione would ever fault anyone for reading a book, of course.

Which reminded her that an entire library was waiting for her to sort through! She clenched her teeth. She could almost hear all those books crying out to her, to come and read them. Or, at least, organise them properly - the Parkinsons had merely stuffed their library shelves with their books, without even a hint of a system, from what Hermione could tell when she had looted their library. Which was focused on Magical Creatures, too - a subject Hermione’s own library didn’t cover in detail yet. If she had had access to those books, she wouldn’t have failed her N.E.W.T. exam and only gotten an Acceptable!

“Besides, Harry hasn’t called us yet about the heist,” the dog added. “It wouldn’t help our alibi if we cut our trip short without official knowledge.”

“He might have been called to the manor before he could inform us,” Hermione said. Which would mean they would be stuck in France for even longer than she had thought! Perhaps they should have taken the loot with them when they left Britain after the heist… She sighed. “Parkinson should have woken up an hour ago! We didn’t stun her that hard.” Unlike her father - but that idiot deserved it for almost getting all of them, including himself, killed by that dragon! On the other hand, the witch was rather vacuous. Perhaps she would take far longer than usual to recover her wits? Hermione didn’t think anyone ever did a study comparing intelligence to the average recovery time after getting stunned. Perhaps…

Her mirror vibrated. Harry!

She quickly picked the mirror up and activated it. “Yes?”

“Hermione?” He smiled at her. And from what she could tell, he was in their living room at Grimmauld Place. So he wouldn’t have to spend the entire evening investigating Parkinson Manor!

“Hi, Harry!” She beamed at him.

He smiled as well, then grew serious. “I hate to interrupt your trip, but the Night Nargles struck again.”

Hermione had to suppress her annoyance at that stupid name again as she faked her surprise at the news.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 29th, 1999**

“...and we had to blast them with Water-Making Spells from one end of the Alley to the other until they finally had enough and left - soaking wet. Some even lost their wands in the whole mess.” Harry Potter shook his head. “They really thought that they could storm Gringotts and take their gold.” Even though not a single one of them had managed to cast a simple Shield Charm during the confrontation.

“Well, such arrogance isn’t exactly uncommon among wizards,” Hermione said as she leaned forward and took another slice of the treacle tart Kreacher had made as dessert for their late dinner.

“It’s very common among Slytherins,” Sirius cut in.

“Really?” Jeanne cocked her head. “I would have thought reckless acts were typical for Gryffindors. At least that’s what I took from your stories, dear.” Harry tried not to look as she added mustard to her slice of the tart. If pregnancy did that to your taste buds, he was certainly glad he was a man.

Sirius coughed. “Gryffindors are brave, not stupid.”

“Though, sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference,” Hermione said, smiling sweetly at Harry’s godfather.

“Well, some simple minds might have trouble with that, I agree,” Sirius replied with a very toothy smile at Hermione.

“Oh, really? Well, perhaps...”

Harry put his hand on Hermione’s thigh and interrupted her. “Let’s not start a row, please. I already had to stop a riot at work.” He smiled at her to take the sting out of his words, but she still blushed.

“Sorry.”

Harry glanced at his godfather. Then glared at him. Then Jeanne flicked her wand, and Sirius yelped.

“Sorry,” Sirius finally said with a pout. “So, you’re now on guard duty?”

Harry shrugged. “There wasn’t anyone else to take that assignment. Shacklebolt is busy with various tasks, Tonks is on undercover missions all the time and Dawlish…” He shrugged.

“...is straining his small brain trying to catch the Night Nargles,” Sirius said.

Hermione glared at his godfather, Harry noticed, before turning to him. “Are you certain that the people trying to rush Gringotts weren’t under a spell?”

“We checked,” Harry said. “After arresting the most aggressive of the lot.”

“And the most stupid,” Sirius said. “Makes you worry about the country if there are so many stupid people around.”

“Well, as an Auror, I tend to meet the stupid wizards and witches,” Harry said.

“Why, thank you!” Hermione said in a flat voice.

Harry glared at her. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

She chuckled. “Oh, you meant the other Ministry employees?”

“Well, some of them. Probably.” Definitely. When she giggled, he frowned at her. “Most criminals are stupid.”

“But you’re not dealing with those kinds of criminals. You hunt the smart ones,” Hermione said. “Crouch was a monster, but a smart one.”

Harry nodded. “And the Night Nargles aren’t stupid either.”

Hermione sniffed at that. “Well, since they failed to pick a name of their own, I don’t think they’re that smart. It was obvious that if they didn’t choose a name, someone would do it for them.”

“I certainly hope that you’re correct,” Harry said. “That would make them easier to catch.”

“Though they’d have to be very dumb for Dawlish to be able to arrest them,” Hermione replied.

Harry couldn’t disagree with that. “True. But I don’t think Dawlish will be on that case for much longer.”

“Oh?” Sirius perked up. “Will you and Ron take over?”

“Unless they need us to guard the goblins,” Harry said. But anyone with half a brain could do guard duty. Even Hit-Wizards. And he and Ron were among the best Aurors in the Corps.

“At least you’d be safer hunting thieves than guarding those backstabbing goblins.” Hermione scowled. “They are risking the ruin of a lot of businesses with their power play.”

“They don’t care as long as it hurts wizards,” Sirius said. “They wanted Crouch. But the Wizengamot couldn’t hand over a wizard to them, not even Crouch.”

“Another example of arrogance and pride causing unnecessary trouble,” Hermione said.

“Not exactly,” Sirius said. “Even if we could hand Crouch over without offending most of the country, Crouch knew too many secrets that couldn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of the goblins. For example, I don’t think that he murdered his father and Millicent Bagnold without making them tell him all their secrets.”

He would be wrong about Bagnold, actually - Harry had led the interrogation. But Sirius was correct about Crouch’s father and his secrets. “Well, they threw him through the Veil. There’s not even a body left to hand over.”

“Which we wouldn’t do either,” Sirius said. “Never know what they could do with it.”

“And yet, despite all of this, the goblins still have a monopoly on banking. Or whatever passes as banking in Wizarding Britain.” Hermione scoffed. “I bet if the Old Families didn’t have their own vaults in their homes and were forced to use Gringotts as well, they wouldn’t let this continue.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Sirius said, grinning. “But as long it’s just the commoners’ gold put in danger, who cares?”

Hermione huffed.

Harry agreed. That was a very egotistical stance. But common among the Old Families, as he had found out.

Before he could change the subject to something less depressing - or infuriating - Kreacher entered the room. “Master, your half-blood cousin has arrived. She demands to speak with you and Master Harry.”

“Tonks?” Sirius asked - unnecessarily; he only had one ‘half-blood cousin’. “Well, send her in. And get a plate for her - she will want some of that tart.”

Harry pressed his lips together; he had been hoping to eat the leftovers later.

Tonks arrived less than a minute later. “Sirius! Harry!” She nodded at them, then at Jeanne and Hermione. “Jeanne. Hermione.”

“Have a seat, Tonks - and a slice,” Sirius said, pointing at a free chair at the table.

But Tonks didn’t seem to care. She looked straight at Sirius, then Harry. “We’ve got trouble. Someone’s trying to hire an assassin, and I think one of you is the target.”

*****

“What?” Hermione Granger blurted. Someone wanted to hire an assassin to kill Harry? Or Sirius?

“What?” Sirius mirrored her. Jeanne’s reaction was cruder. And more French.

Harry took the news with more grace. “You said you think one of us might be the target. That doesn’t sound like you’re certain.”

Tonks frowned at him. “It’s not as if there’s a board with open contracts or bounties in Knockturn Alley. Such things are handled very discreetly.”

Sirius scoffed. “Whoever is doing this has no class. My family would have never hired assassins for their murders.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him - this wasn’t the time for stupid jokes. Even if Jeanne laughed at it. “How did you uncover this?” she asked Tonks. She had been undercover in Knockturn Alley herself, after all. Infrequently, but she was no stranger to that hive of scum and villainy. And she should have broken up with Paul much sooner if she was quoting movies in her head.

Tonks hesitated a moment, Hermione noted. “Now, I’ve been on undercover missions a lot - it’s practically all I do these days. Not that I mind, mind you - it beats guard duty.”

Harry snorted. “Go on, rub your special talent in.”

The Auror grinned, her mouth stretching a little - more than a little - too wide. “So I’ve become pretty familiar with the area and the regulars there. And since I’ve got several cover identities - which I need to maintain even outside missions - I have a unique perspective of things. Some people who’d never trust one of my identities chat with another.”

That made sense. And it made Tonks a greater danger to any heists in Knockturn Alley than Hermione had expected. She would have to inform Mr Fletcher of this.

“And what did you notice?” Harry asked.

“Two of my undercover identities were approached by their contacts looking for skilled wands for hire. Wands that wouldn’t hesitate to take on ‘the most dangerous targets’, as they put it.”

“Well, that would certainly fit us.” Sirius grinned. It seemed as if the dog were proud of that!

And Jeanne nodded in apparent agreement with both the statement and the sentiment. Hermione rolled her eyes again.

“Do you know who’s behind this?” Harry asked. At least he was focusing on the important questions.

“No, I don’t.” Tonks shook her head. “None of my undercover identities would fit that request. But they must be offering a lot of gold if they hope to hire a skilled assassin. And some of it up front or people wouldn’t risk their necks making inquiries.”

“That would mean that they are a member of the Wizengamot,” Sirius said.

“It makes it likely,” Hermione corrected him. “But they aren’t the only ones with a lot of gold to spend. If they even have that much gold; they could be planning to con the assassin.”

Tonks shook her head. “I doubt it. They would need to be very dumb to attempt that - they would not only earn the enmity of the assassin, but the middlemen as well, whose reputations would be damaged.”

“And if they expect to be able to handle that, they probably wouldn’t need an assassin to come after us in the first place,” Harry added.

Hermione frowned. It might be unlikely, but her theory wasn’t impossible. She didn’t think it should be dismissed so lightly. “I wasn’t aware that there were assassins for hire,” she said after a moment. That sounded more like something out of a movie or television show.

“Well, it’s more like mercenaries who aren’t too picky about their contracts,” Tonks said. “I wouldn’t put that past half the mercenaries I know in Knockturn Alley.”

“Half?” Hermione blinked. That was…

“I don’t mean hired wands willing to go after Harry or Sirius; just mercenaries willing to kill someone for gold.”

“Ah.” Hermione nodded.

“And how many of those do you know?” Sirius asked.

“None,” Tonks said, “though there are a few I suspect would be willing to give it a shot.”

“But it looks like you don’t have evidence of a plot against us, just conjecture,” Harry pointed out. “Did you report your suspicions to Scrimgeour?” He sounded as if he expected the answer to be ‘yes’.

Tonks sighed. “Got me there. No, I came straight to you.”

Harry frowned. “That’s against regulations.”

Hermione glared at him. Why would he care about stupid regulations if his and Sirius’s lives were on the line!

“Well, technically, I don’t have any evidence - I only have a suspicion.” Tonks grinned. “So, I’m not required to report it.”

Harry didn’t look like he approved of her reasoning, but Sirius chuckled. “Good thinking!”

“And there’s the matter that whoever is behind this might have moles in the Department,” Tonks added.

“Whoever hired Markdotter and his gang last September to attack Ron and me also leaked our patrol route and schedule to them,” Harry said, nodding.

“Wizengamot member,” Sirius said.

“Or a Ministry employee,” Hermione added. “Although a high-ranking one. One with influence and gold.”

Sirius snorted. “If you have one, you will have the other.”

“We still need to inform Scrimgeour,” Harry said.

“For a mere suspicion?” Sirius shook his head. “He’ll want it investigated, and that might warn whoever is behind this - they must have moles, as you said yourself.”

Harry eyed him. “I take it that you have an alternative,” he said, in a slightly cautious tone, Hermione noticed.

“Of course!” Sirius beamed at him. “We’ll lay a trap for them!”

Hermione hissed: “A trap? With Harry as bait?” She drew her wand.

“Non!” Jeanne’s reaction mirrored hers.

Sirius held up his hands, his smile slipping. “No, no… you misunderstood me. We won’t use Harry - or me,” he added with a smile at Jeanne, “as bait. We’ll create an assassin for them to hire!”

*****

Harry Potter frowned. Using someone else as bait to uncover who was behind an assassination plot aimed at himself felt wrong. He glanced at Hermione. Even if his girlfriend didn’t seem to share that opinion. Quite the contrary.

Tonks snorted. “You want me to become an assassin willing to take on Harry or yourself.”

Sirius nodded. “It’s your speciality, isn’t it?”

Tonks nodded. “Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though I usually don’t play such high-profile roles. It won’t be easy to manufacture a persona that fits the request out of nothing. That’s usually a lot of work for the Department.”

Harry Potter frowned. “Are you allowed to use your special talents privately?” This started to look like a vigilante operation. Not exactly something in which an Auror, much less two, should take part. Although both of them had been part of the Order of the Phoenix.

Tonks grinned. “Well, they can’t exactly prohibit me from using a natural talent. It’s not as if it’s a Ministry resource.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m certain a number of Ministry officials consider you a resource.”

Harry didn’t doubt that Scrimgeour and Bones saw Tonks’s talent as a special resource - but they didn’t see Aurors as resources. Both of them had been Aurors, after all. The other Ministry officials, on the other hand… He shook his head. “It’ll still cause trouble if this comes out - you know what Bones thinks about vigilantes. And we can’t exactly arrest whoever is behind this without revealing how we found them.”

Tonks winced. “That won’t be pleasant.”

Sirius scoffed. “Bah. If anyone wants to make an issue out of this, I’ll bury them. And the Wizengamot will back me. This is a family affair, after all, and the Ministry should know better than to meddle with that.”

Hermione pouted, Harry noticed. “While I disagree in principle with family loyalty taking precedence over loyalty to the law and government, I can’t, in good conscience, support the Ministry officials in this case. Or this Ministry in any case.”

Tonks chuckled. “You’ve been listening to Sirius too much - this could have been straight out of a speech in the Wizengamot.”

Hermione sniffed. “Who do you think writes his speeches?”

Tonks raised an eyebrow. “You are behind all the colourful language he uses?”

Hermione glared at Harry’s godfather. “No, that’s him improvising. I haven’t been able to train him enough that he stops doing it,” she said.

For some reason, Sirius seemed to find that really funny. Harry shook his head. “Just because we can do it and get away with it doesn’t mean we should do it.” His godfather started to frown, and Harry glared at him. “We’re not at Hogwarts.”

“And thank God for that,” Tonks added.

Sirius sulked, and Hermione rolled her eyes while Jeanne giggled.

Harry sighed: “I think we should inform at least Bones, if not Scrimgeour as well. That will avoid a lot of unnecessary trouble.”

Sirius scoffed. “I don’t trust them to keep this quiet.”

Tonks shrugged. “My undercover missions all went well and had support from the Ministry.”

“But you weren’t investigating a high-ranking official or a member of the Wizengamot, were you?” Hermione pointed out.

Tonks frowned at her. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone about my missions.” Harry was about to nod in approval when the witch continued: “But yes, you’re right. Although I generally don’t know what I’ll find out when I start - I’m often just gathering all kinds of information.”

“Most Wizengamot members who ’ave dealings in Knockturn Alley would use middlemen, probably several of them, wouldn’t they?” Jeanne asked.

“Yes,” Tonks said. “At least for this sort of business.”

Sirius scoffed. “I think a few of them wouldn’t trust middlemen and would go themselves - probably in disguise. And some certainly visit Knockturn Alley regularly for various reasons.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think Bones or Scrimgeour will work against us. And I think we should work with them. That’ll make things easier.”

“And we might be able to use resources of the Ministry,” Tonks added. “It’s my skin we’re risking, after all.”

Sirius huffed. “Bones will be mad anyway, for coming to us first.”

Tonks’s grin widened. “Only if we tell her that.”

“I like how you think!”

Harry sighed as Sirius’s grin matched his cousin’s. This was probably the best he was going to get.

He was about to agree when Hermione spoke up again: “We’ll still have to persuade her to let us run the mission instead of the Aurors.”

“You want to be on the mission as well?” Harry blurted out, then winced. Hermione was prickly when it came to what she saw as patronising behaviour.

And as expected, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Only in a planning role. I’m not a metamorphmagus or an Auror, after all.” Harry’s relieved smile must have been a little too obvious since she scowled. “That doesn’t mean I’m helpless.”

“Of course not!” he hastened to assure her. “But this is a mission best kept to Tonks, me and Ron.”

Now Sirius and Jeanne were scowling at him as well. And Tonks was laughing!

If only Ron were here to back him up.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, January 30th, 1999**

If the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were someone else, Harry Potter would assume that their rather hostile expression was because they had to work on a Saturday. But Bones wasn’t a witch to fret over such things. And Tonks winced at him behind Bones’s back.

“Auror Potter.” She barely nodded at him. “Sit down!”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Harry forced himself to behave naturally as he sat.

“You were already in the Ministry, even though you aren’t on the weekend shift.” Bones steepled her hands and stared at him.

“I wanted to check up on the Diagon Alley assignment,” Harry said. And he had wanted to see what evidence had been gathered at the Parkinson robbery - though apart from a possible charge against Parkinson for illegally owning a dragon, Dawlish hadn’t filed anything yet.

“And you had no idea that I would meet Auror Tonks today and then call you to work?” Bones leaned forward, touching the tips of her fingers to her chin.

Harry pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to lie to Bones - but he didn’t want to rat out Tonks either.

Bones scoffed and shook her head. And Tonks grimaced at him behind her back. Harry clenched his teeth.

“Auror Tonks was on an undercover assignment and discovered signs of an assassination plot against you, your godfather or possibly other Aurors such as Moody, Weasley or Shacklebolt,” Bones said.

Harry’s eyes widened. He hadn’t considered others as possible targets.

“Now, while I cannot dismiss the possibility that these others are in danger, I cannot deny that you and your godfather are the most likely targets due to your fame, influence and reputation.”

He nodded at that. It was true, after all.

Bones sighed and leaned back. “However, I’m not comfortable with letting you treat this as a family matter. Both of you are Aurors under my command, and I won’t tolerate any vigilante actions in my department.”

Harry nodded in agreement, but she didn’t seem to think that he was being honest.

She snorted again. “We both know that I cannot stop your godfather - his influence is too great, and this would have been a family matter in the past. But you’ll do what you can to keep him from running roughshod over our laws and regulations, or you will find out how far my influence reaches. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry snapped.

“Good. Now, I do know that this requires utmost secrecy. Which means other than Scrimgeour and your partner, no one else will be informed about this.” She glared at him again.

This time, Harry winced. “In the Department.”

Bones closed her eyes. “Who else already knows about this?”

“My godfather trusts his wife and his secretary implicitly,” Harry replied.

Judging by the way her jaw muscles twitched, Bones wasn’t impressed by his evasion. She turned her head and glared at Tonks, who acted as if she didn’t know anything about that. Sometimes, Harry envied her for her talents.

After a moment, Bones sighed. “We will discuss this tomorrow in your home.”

Harry nodded. Sirius wouldn’t like it, but this was for the best.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 30th, 1999**

Hermione Granger wished Mr Fletcher were here in Grimmauld Place. Tonks was a good Auror, and her special talent was certainly very useful, but Mr Fletcher had decades of experience in Knockturn Alley on her. But with Moody and his cursed eye in the house, Mr Fletcher couldn’t visit - and neither could they leave for a planning session in Greenwich. Not without Moody noticing, which would make Harry wonder where they were going ‘despite the danger’ - even though the assassin hadn’t been found, much less hired yet. And Mr Fletcher had refused to appear as an ‘old acquaintance’ of Sirius with ‘knowledge of the area’ when she had briefly contacted him last night through their mirror. At least he was gathering information in the Alley.

She sighed. “I don’t like this. We should be doing something.” Anything other than waiting for Harry and Tonks to return from the Ministry.

“There’s not much we can do,” Jeanne pointed out. “We need more information.”

“You know what Harry said,” Sirius pointed out from where he was sitting, lowering the weekend issue of the Daily Prophet.

Hermione growled in response. Harry didn’t want to do anything without clearing it with Bones first. But he didn’t know what they could do. What she could do! Tonks was a metamorphmagus, but Hermione had mastered the art of disguise - and she had gone on undercover missions in Knockturn Alley before! She glared at the dog. If not for him, she would have told Harry everything long ago, and they wouldn’t be in this mess.

“What did I do?” the dog faked ignorance.

She huffed in return and tried to focus again on her list of possible enemies willing to hire an assassin. Which was a little too long to be of practical use - someone had a talent for making enemies. Lots of enemies.

Hermione glared at the dog again. Who hid behind the Quidditch results. Which he already knew from listening to the wireless yesterday. When he should have been working on his next bill.

She sighed once more.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 31st, 1999**

“Welcome to Grimmauld Place, Madam Bones, Mr Scrimgeour.” Hermione Granger felt as if her cheeks should be hurting from her forced smiles. Having Moody in the house was bad enough, but now Bones and Scrimgeour were invading her home! And she had to smile and welcome them because the dog thought that was proper. At least she didn’t have to act as if she weren’t simply being polite.

“Miss Granger.” Bones nodded at her without any expression on her face.

Scrimgeour smiled at her, but she didn’t think he meant it. Or wouldn’t have bothered if she weren’t Sirius’s personal secretary.

“If’ you’ll follow me to the living room…” She gestured towards the door leading into the hallway. “The others are already waiting.” Had Bones twitched at that?

Hermione’s smile grew a little more genuine as she led the two guests to the back. Harry was right - Bones must hate having to work not just with, but pretty much under Sirius.

“Ah, Amelia! Rufus!” The dog waved as soon as they entered the room. “Have a seat and a drink!”

“I don’t drink on duty,” Bones answered. Scrimgeour glanced at her, then nodded. If the boss didn’t drink, the subordinates couldn’t drink either.

“There’s plenty without alcohol,” Sirius said. “Jeanne’s got some cravings these days, and Hermione was kind enough to go to a muggle shop for some variety.”

“I recommend the Diet Cola,” Hermione said.

Bones didn’t look as surprised as Hermione had hoped. And Scrimgeour availed himself of a normal cola with a nonchalance that clearly showed that he was familiar with muggle beverages. Well, both were experienced Aurors. Former Aurors, to be precise.

“Well, all the drinks seem safe,” Ron added. “No suspiciously coloured drinks.”

Fortunately, Harry entered, with Moody stuck on a floating chair, before Ron could quote another of Lovegood’s - either Lovegood’s - theories about magical creatures hiding among muggles.

“Alastor.” Bones actually smiled.

“Auror Moody.”

“B-b-bones, Sc-sc-sc-scrimgeour.” Mody managed to say, shaking while his artificial eye remained steady.

“You’re doing better,” Bones added.

“A-a-a-w-w-w-w-wake.”

Which was not much of an improvement, in Hermione’s opinion. She much preferred Aurors unconscious rather than watching her through enchanted eyes. Especially if she couldn’t tell if the protections against normal See-Through-Wall Spells worked on his eye or not. Well, she wore a disguise under her mask whenever she went on a heist, so it wasn’t a fatal weakness. Still, it was annoying to have to keep taking precautions without knowing if they were truly necessary.

“So now that everyone is here,” Sirius said as Tonks and Jeanne quickly stopped whispering to each other, “let’s discuss how we’re going to catch whoever is looking for an assassin for hire.”

“Before they find someone who will actually come after Harry. Or Sirius,” Hermione said.

“Or anyone else,” Harry just had to add.

Sirius sighed. “Yes, that’s what I meant. Anyway - it seems simple. Tonks can use her talents and pass as an assassin, and when she meets with her prospective employer, we snatch them up.”

So simple, even a dog could come up with it. Of course, the devil, as always, was in the detail.

“That will require a good background, though,” Tonks said, then flinched a little when Bones glared at her. Apparently, she didn’t like her Aurors speaking up without permission.

“Creating such a background will be a challenge,” Scrimgeour point out.

“Not particularly,” Sirius countered. “We can claim she’s a veteran from the New World.”

“Every local gutter rat with pretensions of grandeur claims that they’re a veteran from America,” Tonks replied. “That’s not exactly a good background.”

Moody made noises that seemed to indicate that he agreed with her.

“It just has to be good enough,” Hermione pointed out, “to fool the target. And I don’t think many locals will accept this job, no matter what background they claim.”

“The Ministry’s resources in the New World are limited,” Scrimgeour said.

“If we’re going the American route, we don’t need them,” Sirius said.

None of the Aurors liked that. Even if it was, in Hermione’s opinion, completely true. The risk was acceptable, in her opinion - she had used the same cover story twice so far, after all.

“We usually don’t depend on such flimsy cover stories,” Scrimgeour said.

“I like a little bit more than a story every drunk hired wand can make up,” Tonks added. That was understandable, of course.

Sirius waved those objections away. “If anyone doubts you, just use a few of the family spells to take care of them and you’ll have backed up your claims perfectly fine. Easy.”

“We do not plan to murder people to make our undercover missions more authentic,” Bones spat through clenched teeth.

“The Blacks have non-lethal but impressive curses as well, you know,” Sirius said. Hermione didn’t think it would be helpful to clarify that most of those spells made the victim wish they had been lethal curses.

“Neither do we plan to cripple people to enhance our cover stories,” Bones added.

“We could stage an incident - but that would require extensive use of Ministry resources,” Scrimgeour said. Which, given how many Ministry employee were spies for various influential people, would be a foolish idea, in Hermione’s opinion.

“We could stage such an incident ourselves,” Harry said. “With Polyjuice Potion and disguises.”

Hermione bit her lower lip. As tempting as it was to show off her competence, she didn’t think she wanted Harry to know just how experienced she was in disguising herself.

“I could help with a French background, or rather, my friends in France could,” Jeanne offered.

“That’s a very good idea!” Sirius beamed at her.

Tonks cleared her throat. “One problem with that. I don’t speak French. Not nearly well enough to fool anyone from France. Which, given the recent recruiting spree and upcoming layoffs, will be a mite more common in Britain for a while than usual.”

Hermione wanted to curse. Another fine solution, shot down because people didn’t learn foreign languages in Wizarding Britain!

“I think I know how we can use the New World as Tonks’s background,” Ron suddenly said, smiling.

Hermione tried to remember if any Weasleys had emigrated to the Americas. Or had worked there. She couldn’t recall any such case.

And then she remembered who had been to the New World. And winced.

*****

**Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, January 31st, 1999**

“Is anyone else concerned by the fact that we’re relying on the knowledge of a man who hunts imaginary creatures for my background?” Tonks complained.

Harry Potter frowned as Hermione voiced his thoughts. “You agreed to the plan.”

“I’m having second thoughts,” Tonks said, “and this isn’t helping.” She pointed at the rook-like building they were approaching.

“Ron assured us that Mr Lovegood can be trusted,” Harry defended his best friend. “And I trust his judgement.”

“As long as it doesn’t concern animals,” Hermione qualified the statement. “So, as long as you’re not planning to go undercover as an animal, you’ll be fine. And if you’re planning to go as an animal, you won’t need a background anyway, so you’ll be fine in any case.”

Hermione could be rather catty, Harry noticed as Tonks grumbled about Ron not being objective about Lovegoods while they waited to be allowed inside the wards.

But even Harry had a little doubt when he saw Mr Lovegood approaching them - wearing what looked very much like a uniform straight out of the American Civil War. The muggle one.

“There you are! Ron told me everything! Come in, come in, and we’ll get this show on the road, as a good American friend of mine uses to say.” He stepped through the wards and touched every one of their group with his wand. “That should do it for the wards.”

But when Harry was about to walk through the wards - standing out in the open, near a location he was known to frequent often, made him a little nervous with an assassin after him - Lovegood held him back. “Wait! Wait! You still need the Voracious Mole repellant.” He held up a small bottle. “Voley has been a little anxious since Luna went back to Hogwarts, and without that, he’ll try to play with you, which can be a little scary for someone not used to his antics.”

“Voley?” Harry heard Tonks ask.

“Voracious Mole?” Hermione sounded rather sceptical.

Mr Lovegood either missed or ignored it. “Yes, Luna’s latest pet. Adorable, if a little gluttonous. I’m doing my best so he won’t feel lonely, but he really prefers Luna.”

Harry had never heard of such a creature. And he had received an Exceeds Expectations in his Care of Magical Creatures N.E.W.T.. But he took the bottle and sprinkled a little on his robes. He didn’t smell differently, though.

Something he was very glad for when, halfway to the front door, a creature the size of a bear broke through the ground from below and tackled Mr Lovegood to the ground. Only the fact that the man was laughing as he wrestled with the creature kept Harry from cursing it in reflex.

“Down, boy, down… don’t worry, I’ll feed you right after our guests have settled in! You didn’t eat a neighbour’s cat again, did you? You know they ruin your appetite.” Mr Lovegood managed to extract himself from under the creature - which did look remarkably like a giant, bear-sized vole. With very large claws and jaws - and brushed himself off. “Luna’s been trying to teach him not to eat pets, but he’s from Africa, and cats of all kinds are part of his natural diet.”

Hermione took another dose of the repellent, Harry noticed. It was understandable - even he was a little unnerved by the creature’s size, no matter how often Mr Lovegood claimed that the animal had never hurt a person after they adopted it. If Mr Lovegood didn’t have to close a few ‘scratches’ after ‘playing’ before the blood stained his robes, it would have sounded a little more convincing.

*****

The Lovegoods were crazy. Mad. Bonkers. A public menace.

Hermione Granger pressed her lips together, only half-listening to Mr Lovegood’s attempts to teach Tonks a ‘proper American accent’. She had to pay attention to the door, which didn’t look nearly sturdy enough to keep that giant, cat-eating monstrosity out. And on the ground, of course - the creature could burrow rapidly through soil and only took a little longer to go through rocks. Or so Mr Lovegood claimed.

She couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to keep such an abomination as a pet. It was a crime against nature. Cats being its natural diet? Hermione shuddered.

“Are you cold?”

She forced herself to smile at Harry. He meant well, but he couldn’t help her. “I’m still a little shaken,” she said.

“Ah.” He smiled. “Those Voracious Voles are pretty impressive. I didn’t know such creatures existed.”

She strained to smile at him. “The knowledge about African magical creatures is, unfortunately, still very limited.” Mostly because the Sub-Saharan wizarding countries had been wiped out in the 19th century by the ICW’s response to their refusal to stop using magic against muggle colonialists, and their knowledge about Magical Africa’s creatures had been destroyed with them. To think that part of the Black Family library had been bought with loot from that ‘intervention’...

“Well, at least it has proven to Tonks that Mr Lovegood knows what he’s doing.” Harry smiled.

Or Tonks had been as shocked as Hermione herself but hadn’t yet recovered. She did seem to be quieter than usual, in Hermione’s opinion.

“I’ve found the other uniforms!” Ron announced, interrupting their talk as he floated several colourful bundles into the Lovegood’s living room.

“Perfect!” their host announced. “It’s traditional for mercenaries in the New World to wear parts of old uniforms. That will help you play your role.”

“These uniforms seem to be at least a hundred years old,” Hermione pointed out as Ron spread them out on the couch.

“Indeed, they are!” Mr Lovegood beamed at her. “But if anyone wore a uniform which is currently in use by a Wizarding Enclave, they would risk being mistaken for a soldier of that enclave.”

“And that could be fatal, given the local situation,” Ron added. “Too many wars to keep count.”

That was hyperbole, Hermione knew - she had studied the New World for her own roles. Though, apparently, not enough to have learned this particular tradition. Although she hadn’t been trying to pass as a mercenary, of course.

But this would be useful knowledge should she ever need to.

She watched - without losing track of the door’s state, of course - as Tonks was given an outfit made from several wildly different uniforms. It looked like an eyesore, but that, too, was a tradition, or so Mr Lovegood maintained. Well, it would explain Dumbledore’s fashion choices, she thought - he had had an American mother.

“It must have really galled Bones that this is, to all intents and purposes, a mission run by civilians,” she remarked, leaning against Harry.

“It’s an Auror mission,” he corrected her. “Tonks, Ron and I will be running it.”

“With help from Sirius, Jeanne, me and Mr Lovegood,” she replied. “We outnumber you.”

“You won’t be in the field.”

So you think, she thought. There was no way she’d let Harry risk his life alone if she could help it. And if she could help him, too, then so much the better.

*****

 


	62. Revelations

**London, Knockturn Alley, February 1st, 1999**

Rolanda Rawlins ignored the clacking sound of her leg brace and kept an eye on the entrance to the side-alley next to the ‘Drunken Doxy’ as she approached the pub. It wasn’t very late, yet, and she had a reputation as a dangerous witch - not undeserved, mind you - but in Knockturn Alley, it paid to be on your guard. You never knew when some hag or vampire had gotten too hungry, or some thug too desperate. Or when someone was after you specifically.

Given her line of work, Rolanda was well aware of the last possibility. She’d had to deal with ne’er-do-wells who took business personally before. She nodded at the bouncer, Karl, as she reached the entrance. “Evening.”

“N’abend,” Karl grunted back. Many thought that he was a veteran of Grindelwald’s War. Rolanda didn’t share that opinion. Karl was the right age, but he didn’t act like a veteran of a war. Not like her great-uncle, who had fought Grindelwald’s Storm Wizards.

And she was well aware that there was a persistent, but completely false, rumour that Rolanda herself had been a member of the Hit-Wizard Corps in the last war - she had carefully cultivated it herself, after all. As long as you could back your reputation up, no one cared much - or for long - whether or not your past was a lie.

And Rolanda might not be as quick with her wand as she had been when she’d fought in the Balkan Wars and battled Ottoman raiders on the Greek Isles in the Aegean Sea, but even with her lame leg, she was still more than capable of dealing with the average Knockturn Alley ruffian.

She had to be, in her business.

She cast a Bubble-Head Charm right before she stepped inside - the pub’s hot, stuffy air seemed to be half made up of pipe, and even worse, smoke most of the time - not something she was fond of, especially after the Lung-Rotting Curse that had almost killed her in Albania.

She walked to the bar, paying attention to the regulars’ reactions and greetings. Nothing out of the usual, as far as she could tell. But then, anyone going after her wouldn’t reveal their intentions so easily.

“Evening, Rolanda.” Burt nodded at her without stopping the weaving of his wand as he floated a tray full of beer mugs towards the corner table. “The usual?”

“Yes.”

Half a minute later, he put a glass of Tsipouro down in front of her.

She checked for poison with her wand while she slid a few sickles over to him.

He snorted as he pocketed the coins. “You’re the only one here who drinks that.”

“All the more reason to check for poison,” she retorted. Then she raised the glass. “Yamas.”

He grunted.

She savoured the taste, closing her eyes for a moment, remembering Greece. And Alekos. How he had loved this liquor.

She put the glass down and looked around. “Who’s the witch in the corner?” she asked after she spotted a new face. Hired wand, North American, she thought - she didn’t know anyone else who’d wear clothes that mismatched in public.

“Sam,” Burt answered. “Just arrived from the New World. Looking for work.”

Rolanda snorted. “Who isn’t?” Everyone needed gold, after all.

“The Night Nargles?”

Rolanda blinked, then chuckled. “I don’t think they are regulars of Knockturn Alley.” No one who had stolen as much gold and other loot as those thieves had would slum it in Knockturn Alley.

“Linda claims that they’re hiding from the Aurors disguised as drunks and thugs in the side alleys.”

She shook her head. “That sneaky hag just wants to lure more idiots into her hunting grounds.” She hesitated a moment - but speculating about the identities, motives and fortunes of the Night Nargles had become a favourite pastime in the Alley. And Rolanda couldn’t do business if she didn’t fit in. “I heard that they are orphans who grew up in the Alley after an Old Family cast them out. They survived, they thrived and now they’re taking their revenge on all the Old Families.”

Burt scoffed. “Orphans here either stay or die. No one gets out.”

Rolanda shrugged. “They are robbing one Old Family after the other. This is not about gold. Not just about it, anyway - they must be richer than any Old Family by now, except, perhaps, the Blacks and the Malfoys.”

Brut shrugged. “Everyone claims they’ll retire after they hit it big. None ever do. It’s always one more job - until they mess up and end in Azkaban. Or dead.”

Rolanda snorted. The smart ones would have faked their deaths so no one would go after them any more. That was what she was planning, after all. But it wouldn’t do to announce that. “Someone has to be the first, then. And the Night Nargles might achieve that. They might even be members of an Old Family themselves. Disinherited or illegitimate heirs. Perhaps.” It would explain their ease at out-thinking the Old Families.

Burt scoffed at that rumour as he floated another tray full of mugs to the same table. Hard-drinking foreigners, Rolanda noticed. Probably hired wands who had been let go from the Ministry - the penny-pinchers would have been quick to cut the Ministry budget as soon as Crouch was dead. Perhaps…

“Don’t bother,” Burt said. “They’ve seen the Boy-Who-Lived fight Crouch.”

Rolanda pressed her lips together. Burt knew her a little too well. “No one said that Potter’s the target,” she replied.

“No. But no matter who’s the target, he’ll be the one hunting the assassin.” Burt flicked his wand and polished a stack of plates with one spell. “And not even the French want to risk that.”

Rolanda sighed. How was a smart witch supposed to make a living if the Alley regulars were suddenly growing half a brain? She nodded towards the new face. “What about her?” Americans usually thought they were hot stuff just because they had fought in a few of their little wars on the East Coast.

Burt shrugged. “New face, no rep. Talks big. You know them.”

Rolanda nodded. She knew the type. Most of them were braggarts or fools who’d soon learn that merry old England wasn’t ripe to be conquered by ‘veteran soldiers’. But there was always the lone genuine article - the wizard or witch who could back up their claims.

And she wanted her commission. She pushed off the bar. “Let’s see if she’s good enough.” Or dumb enough to dismiss Potter as another wizard with an overblown reputation.

Burt snorted again. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” she lied with a grin before she limped towards the new face’s table.

The witch had her wand in hand and was looking at her as if she were ready to curse Rolanda - a good sign. Some fools dismissed Rolanda as a threat as soon as they noticed her leg. They usually regretted their mistake as soon as they tried something against her - or ran into Mad-Eye. “Good evening,” Rolanda said, bowing.

“Evening,” the witch drawled. She looked lean under her robes, and she had a few interesting scars on her face. She wasn’t a werewolf - the full moon was up - but she might have fought one. Or a Skinwalker, since she was an American. If that was true - but so far, she looked genuine. The clothes were real; Rolanda could tell.

“I’ve heard you’re looking for work, Sam,” Rolanda said as she sat down opposite the witch.

“Isn’t everyone?” The witch shrugged, but Rolanda saw her tense up slightly. She was interested - probably not quite desperate, though.

“Not everyone is good enough for well-paying work.”

Another shrug. “I’m still alive.”

Rolanda inclined her head. “That might just mean you’re cautious.”

Sam snorted. “That’s part of being good.”

A view Rolanda shared but didn’t always appreciate when looking for mercenaries. “You might have heard that someone’s looking for a hired wand willing to take on one of the most dangerous targets in Britain. None of the locals has accepted the job yet.”

“They might be too cautious,” Sam said. Her accent sounded genuine as well, Rolanda noted, though she wasn’t an expert. “Or unwilling to move.”

Ah. Sam was counting on leaving the country after the job. Not a bad plan. “Indeed.”

The mercenary flicked her wand - quicker than Rolanda had expected - and a slight buzzing noise filled their ears as the privacy charm took effect. “So, what’s the job?”

“I’m just the middleman,” Rolanda said. “You impress me, and you get to meet my client.”

“Ah. One of _those_ talks.” Sam smiled. “Shoot.” She grinned.

Yes, Rolanda had a good feeling about this one. She’d still grill the witch to see if she slipped up, of course - it wouldn’t do to damage her own reputation by recommending a braggart to her contact.

After all, she had plans to retire before she took that one job too many.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, February 1st, 1999**

Undercover missions were almost as dull as guard missions, in Harry Potter’s opinion. You stood somewhere for a long time, watching your surroundings for trouble that would probably never happen. The main difference was that he wasn’t wearing his usual red Auror robes, but instead a ratty cloak with a large hood that concealed the part of his face that would otherwise have been visible above the fake beard Hermione had glued to his skin - with far too much amusement if anyone had asked him.

Which no one had, of course. It really was rather unfair. Sirius got to play the role of a dashing French mercenary who had arrived in England just when the Ministry stopped hiring, while Harry had to play a gutter rat in clothes that looked ‘appropriately dirty’, as Tonks had put it. Looked and felt dirty - he thought he could feel the stains on his skin. And he somewhat doubted that Tonks went through the same each time she went undercover - her patchwork uniform certainly didn’t look shoddy and dirty.

And he couldn’t even take solace in the thought that Ron was as badly off as Harry - his friend wasn’t suffering at all. ‘I’ve had to cover myself with mud for days on end when I was hunting Swamp Crawlers with Luna; this is nothing.’ Hah!

But the waiting was the worst. There was someone out there looking for an assassin to send after him or Sirius, and all he could do was wait and hope that Tonks would impress the witch talking to her enough that she’d get to meet them.

Harry almost hoped some fool would try to bother them. It wouldn’t be good for their cover, but he would really like a little action right now.

“Mate, relax,” Ron said. “Everything’s going fine.”

Harry glanced at him. They had cast a privacy charm - something no one here batted an eye at - but that was no reason to be lax about their cover. On the other hand… He sighed. “I haven’t seen Markdotter’s contact. We might have been better off visiting him again in his cell and seeing if he has further information.”

“That would have been hard to do without news spreading - which could tip off our suspect.” Ron shrugged. “Besides, we got his memories of the entire encounter. What else do you think he could tell us?”

Harry frowned but didn’t contest the point. He just wished he could do something instead of waiting. “First the Gringotts assignment, now this. Might as well have joined the Hit-Wizards.”

That made his friend chuckle. “Now, it’s not that bad. It’s more like a stakeout.”

In dirty robes. Harry sighed again and glanced at the table where Sirius was telling tales of his supposed adventures to a few ruffians. Adventures probably related to the bedroom, judging by his gestures. He still wasn’t happy about Sirius being there, much less in such a visible role. His godfather was a possible target as well, after all.

At least Hermione was safely at home, despite her protests.

*****

Hermione Granger was in her element. A shadow in the night, graceful and silent, she prowled the roofs of her territory, observing all the prey and lesser predators beneath her, keeping guard over Harry and the dog.

The dog who had forbidden her from joining him in disguise inside the rathole where Tonks was making contact with a suspect.

Crouching next to a soot-covered chimney, she pouted. She could have played a French hired wand as well as the dog - unlike Harry and Ron, she knew French. And she had done it before.

But the dog, curse him, had successfully argued that she might have to return home very quickly since Harry expected her to stay at home. And that could be a problem, depending on the situation - Hermione didn’t want to catch a curse because Harry had been trained to be paranoid by that stupid old cursed Auror and so might think an unknown witch leaving right after him was suspicious.

And since she couldn’t be inside and wouldn’t stay at home - she was a cat, not a dog you could order around! - she might as well keep an eye on the area outside the pub. Just in case this was a trap. Tonks was apparently very good at undercover missions, and Sirius wasn’t bad - for a dog with an oversized ego - but Harry and Ron were new at this. Someone might make them and call reinforcements. Even though their disguises were good. But they hadn’t been trained by Mr Fletcher. They hadn’t been trained in this at all, actually.

She shook her head. Amateurs on such a mission - it was all the dog’s fault. If Harry knew what she actually could do, then she would be in there, and he would be waiting outside.

Or he would be trying to arrest her.

She bit her lower lip. She didn’t want to think about that. It was the biggest reason to actually stop stealing after Malfoy Manor - she wouldn’t have to lie to him anymore.

But she loved to prowl the night and sneak into manors, defying guards and Aurors alike. It was what she was - a professional thief. And a woman shouldn’t give up her career for a man - her parents would agree with her, even though they might disagree about her chosen career.

She huffed. She had called them and informed them that Crouch had been caught and that they could now return to Britain, only to be told that they would finish their cruise. They claimed they didn’t want to see so much money wasted, but Hermione couldn’t help suspecting that they harboured some lingering resentment about being sent out of the country because of her. Twice.

Well, it couldn’t have been helped - they had been in danger, and Hermione couldn’t have protected them. Not when she was busy robbing Old Families.

But she did miss them. She loved Harry, Jeanne and even Sirius, but they weren’t family in the way her parents were.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, February 2nd, 1999**

“It’s too easy,” Harry Potter mumbled under his breath, staring at the dive across the Alley from his vantage point on a rickety roof. At least this time Sirius had to play the gutter rat, and Harry and Ron were on perimeter guard. As soon as Tonks or Sirius gave the signal, they would charge in.

“Sometimes it is easy,” Ron replied. Harry didn’t need to see his friend - and couldn’t, due to the Disillusionment Charm Ron had cast - to know he was rolling his eyes.

“‘If you think it’s easy, it’s a trap’,” Harry quoted Moody.

“Well, we’ll be fine then - you don’t think that it’s easy.”

“Even Sirius makes better jokes,” Harry shot back. He kept his voice low despite the privacy charm protecting them from being overheard.

Ron chuckled. “Well, whether our plan works out or it turns out to be a trap, things are bound to get interesting one way or the other.”

Harry thought that his friend really had been spending too much time with the Lovegoods. Although he had to admit - only to himself, mind you - that he had been complaining about boredom last night. Among other things. He sighed. “Sorry. The whole situation is just…” He clenched his teeth. “We finally catch Crouch, and, almost immediately, there’s another murder plot.”

Ron waited a moment before answering: “Well, you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. Someone’s probably always going to be coming for you. And Sirius is, well, Sirius.”

“I know.” Harry’s godfather was a wizard of many talents. Unfortunately, one of them was making enemies. “But Hermione isn’t like that.” And didn’t deserve to be dealing with such danger.

“Mate, you’re not thinking of breaking up with her for her own safety, are you? You know how she’ll react.”

“No.” He wasn’t. Not really. “And I know.” His girlfriend had been vocal enough about having to stay at home for this ambush. As bad or worse than Jeanne, who had probably only agreed to stay at home because she was pregnant. He sighed again. “But I don’t like it.” Not at all.

“You’d be an idiot if you did, but a bigger idiot if you broke up with her over this. You’re good for each other.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” After a few moments spent tracking a drunk wizard stumbling through the Alley below to check that he wasn’t just putting on an act, Harry added: “At least Dawlish won’t bother us here.” The fool had been harassing them all day - when he hadn’t been turning the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures upside down trying to find who among its employees could have helped the Night Nargles. And the fact that Harry and Ron had been hiding that they were preparing an undercover mission hadn’t helped, of course.

Ron snorted. “He won’t be on the case much longer, anyway.”

“I still can’t believe Parkinson had a smuggled dragon in his vault,” Harry said.

“Well, a Fire Drake, actually. Related to dragons, but most scholars don’t count them as true dragons,” Ron explained. “He’ll still get sentenced for dragon smuggling, though.”

“If they can make it stick,” Harry said. “He claims the Night Nargles framed him, and Dawlish only found some scales.”

“And traces of dragon fire,” Ron said. “That’s not easy to fake.”

“They faked Fiendfyre,” Harry pointed out.

“Only the look of it, not the actual effect. They’re good, but they’re not that good.”

Harry conceded the point with a grunt. “He’ll still get off if Malfoy pulls a few strings. I can already hear him - ‘With the threat of the Night Nargles hanging over every Old Family, can we really condemn a good man for using such measures to protect his family? It’s not as if the Drake could have escaped from the vault, nor could it have bred, so what harm was actually done?’”

Ron chuckled again. “You’ve got his voice down.” After a moment, he asked in a more serious tone: “Do you think he’s the one behind this?”

Harry shook his head even though he was disillusioned. “I doubt it. He wouldn’t be going through the Knockturn Alley regulars.”

“He’s had dealings with them; Dad found out a few years ago. Couldn’t make the charge stick, of course,” Ron replied.

“That was before he got his pardon,” Harry replied.

“I don’t think he’s kept his nose clean afterwards,” Ron argued.

“I don’t think so either - but he wouldn’t risk Knockturn Alley for that.”

“Because he’d hate to get his hair dirty?”

Harry snorted even though it wasn’t that funny. “Because he wouldn’t trust them to keep his involvement a secret. No, this isn’t Malfoy.”

“Unless he’s counting on us coming to that conclusion,” Ron replied. “We’re a little low on numbers here.”

Harry knew that. “That’s why we’re out here - checking for ambushes. Speaking of…”

“Alright, I’ll do another round to check for disillusioned people hiding on rooftops,” Ron said.

“And I’ll keep watch on Tonks and Sirius,” Harry replied. He heard Ron take out his broom and then saw his marker rise in the air and disappear soon afterwards, once it was out of range of his Human-presence-revealing Spell.

Which, of course, was when the coin in his right pocket - Tonks’s - vibrated. Just when they’d split up.

Harry touched his Auror badge while he pulled out his own broom. “I’m going in.”

He heard Ron’s answer as he pushed off the roof. “I’m headed back.”

If it had been Sirius’s signal, Harry wouldn’t have waited. That would have meant trouble. But Tonks’s meant that they could head in and arrest the suspect. They had a little time. And he had to cover the building with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes anyway.

The half a minute Harry spent waiting until he saw Ron’s marker appear still felt like an hour. His family was in there, waiting for him. Depending on him.

He touched the ground half a second before Ron did. A few seconds later, he had shrunk and stored his broom and was at the door of the ‘Hag Doll Pub’. “Dropping Disillusionment Charm in three,” he muttered.

“Two. One,” Ron replied.

Harry dispelled the charm, then blasted the door open. “Aurors! No one move!” he yelled as he burst inside, already sending a Stunner at the man opposite Tonks. A moment later, Ron’s Stunner, aimed at the witch next to the man, followed.

The man dropped like a stone, but the witch was already up and moving, and Ron’s Stunner was stopped by her shield. As was his follow-up Stunner. But that shattered her shield, and Tonks’s Stunner took her down before the witch could recast it or send a curse back.

Harry quickly used a Full Body-Bind Curse as well as an Incarcerous Spell to secure the male suspect while Tonks did the same to the witch she had stunned.

Ron addressed the crowd, many of whom had jumped to their feet and drawn wands. “DMLE. Do not interfere with the arrest. We’re not here for anyone else.”

But then a witch in the back yelled: “It’s a raid! There are a dozen red robes coming through the back!”

Harry saw her duck through the same door she had claimed Aurors would be rushing through. But the dozen thugs and ruffians panicking at her yell didn’t notice - and reacted quite predictably.

Harry hissed through clenched teeth as he dropped to the ground, three curses passing over his head and a fourth glancing off his shield. He flicked his wand as he rolled under the next table, reflexively stunning the witch who had apparently had the same idea. He saw Ron flip a table up and banish it, mugs and bottles included, at a burly thug charging towards them before Harry had to focus on the witch’s friend who was leaping on him.

The witch slid off his shield as well and crashed on to the floor. Harry rolled further towards Tonks and cast two Stunners that took out a wizard trying to flank them. Another was hit in the head with a Bludgeoning Charm by Tonks and thrown back onto a table full of empty bottles which were sent flying all over the room. The witch who had crashed into him stood up, screeching as if she were part hag, but before she could aim her wand at Harry, a stray curse took her in the back, and she fell down. A moment later, she screamed as her robes started to burn.

Harry’s Water-Making Spell - they were really far more useful than one would think - extinguished the flames and blasted her into another group of thugs who were peppering the stone wall that Ron had conjured to shelter himself with several curses. Ron didn’t miss the opportunity and leapt over the wall, his wand flashing to take the dazed thugs down as Harry shifted his aim and sent a volley of jinxes and hexes at two figures blasting a hole in the wall. They got hit with several of them and went down as their legs were turned to jelly and they were forced to dance. Harry’s follow-up Stunners put the two twitching, screaming thugs out of their misery before they sliced themselves to ribbons on the broken bottles covering the floor.

“I’ve got the bartender and bouncers! Couldn’t save the booze, though!” Sirius - who had taken the time to shed his ratty robes, of course - announced as he jumped over the bar and landed on a thug Tonks must have stunned during the fight. Judging by the sound of something breaking, Harry’s godfather must have broken the man’s wand or hand. Or both. Harry wasn’t about to ask who had broken the mirror behind the bar.

“Front clear!” Ron announced. “The two hags across the street have vanished.”

Harry quickly scanned the room for any threats still moving, then tapped his glasses for a look at the back rooms. He could see through the hallway leading to the back door and saw the witch who had started all of this on the ground outside, apparently stunned. Someone outside must have been waiting for her - or for the Aurors. And whoever had done this might still be waiting in ambush.

“Anyone in the rest of the building?” Ron asked as he was paralysing and binding the stunned thugs.

Harry shook his head. “Someone’s outside, ambushed the witch who started this. And upstairs is protected against my glasses.” Which meant they had to check those rooms the hard way.

But first things first. He summoned the robes of the stunned witch outside, noting with some satisfaction how she was slammed against a few walls on the way in, dragged along by her clothes.

Ron nodded and turned to Tonks and Sirius. “Guard the rest here. We’re going up.”

“Alright,” Sirius said.

“We got what we came for,” Tonks said. And, with a glance at the wrecked bar, added: “And far more.”

“‘Always secure your position’,” Harry quoted Moody.

Tonks groaned but didn’t say anything as Harry and Ron moved to the stairs.

Harry cast an Amplifying Charm. “DMLE! Aurors Potter and Weasley! We’re coming up. Do not resist!”

Sirius, of course, showed no such restraint. “Does that ever work?” he asked.

Harry rolled his eyes as Ron answered: “It’s bound to, one of those days, isn’t it?”

*****

Hermione Granger huffed as she stared at the witch whom she had just stunned. She didn’t know the witch, but anyone fleeing the pub through the back door right after Harry and Ron had stormed into the place was suspect. And she certainly wasn’t Tonks or Sirius in disguise.

And taking the unknown witch down had relieved some of the frustration and anxiety Hermione was feeling at being unable to rush in herself and help her friends. If only Harry knew what she actually could do…

She sighed. At least it hadn’t been an ambush - Sirius would have called her in that case - nor had she spotted any reinforcements headed towards the pub. Judging by the fact that no more spells were lighting up the pub from the inside - or blowing holes in the walls and windows - the fight was over already. Harry should be safe. Unless both he and Sirius had been hurt… She clenched her teeth and suppressed the urge to hiss. They were alright. They could handle a bunch of ruffians. These weren’t Death Eaters, and certainly not wizards and witches as dangerous as Crouch.

But all it took was a lucky hit with lethal curse…

She drew a breath through her clenched teeth. What was the dog doing? He should have given her the all-clear. Reassured her that Harry was fine. That everything had gone according to plan. What was going on?

A window blowing out on the second floor, followed by flashes of spells going off, made her jerk and almost dart out of the shadows concealing her. Instead, she changed - she was too close to the pub, so a Human-presence-revealing Spell would pick her up if Harry or Ron looked out of the window. But if they hadn’t seen her lithe feline form during their sweeps for ambushers, they certainly wouldn’t spot her now.

*****

Standing over the stunned and bound wizard who had tried to ambush them, Harry Potter wanted to shake his head at the man’s folly. He couldn’t, though, since he was using the enchantment on his glasses to quickly search the rest of the rooms, now that he was inside their protective spells.

“Stairs are clear,” Ron announced as he appeared in the doorway behind him. He prodded the wizard with the tip of his boot. “I wish they’d come quietly just once. What was the idiot thinking? He tried to ambush us, and he didn’t even have a Shield Charm cast in advance!”

Harry snorted. “He might not have been able to cast one.” It was appalling how many wizards and witches, even Ministry employees, didn’t know how to cast a spell that was part of every O.W.L. exam.

Ron scoffed. “How could he survive in Knockturn Alley without it? Isn’t it supposed to be mandatory?”

Harry laughed as he finished his sweep. “The other rooms and the attic are clear.” He turned his head, then grinned. “But we seem to have scared a cat on the roof across the street.”

“Don’t let Hermione hear you joke about scaring cats,” Ron said.

“I know better than that,” Harry said. Hermione was crazy about cats, especially her orange monster of a tomcat. He levitated the stunned wizard. “Let’s go down. We’re done here.”

Ron nodded. “Do we take the wizard and witch we came for, as well as the troublemaker who caused all this, and leave the rest, or call Bones and let her sort this out?”

Harry sighed. They couldn’t leave helpless people alone in Knockturn Alley. But Bones would be annoyed about the additional suspects - even though the slight escalation of the arrest hadn’t been their fault at all - and the additional paperwork would be murder. “Let’s call her in.”

She couldn’t be too angry - they hadn’t killed anyone, the pub was still standing and they hadn’t started any fires.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 2nd, 1999**

“Knockturn Alley is still standing, despite your best efforts. Are you losing your touch?”

“No, Ma’am,” Harry Potter, standing in Bones’s office, answered smartly. The witch was rather unfair in her sarcasm, in his opinion. It really hadn’t been their fault that the situation had escalated into a larger fight than anticipated.

Bones shook her head. “Well, a dozen additional arrests will look good on your record - provided they are all criminals.”

Law-abiding wizards and witches in that kind of pub? Harry suppressed the urge to snort. “They all attacked us despite our uniforms and verbal identification,” he said instead. “That’s a clear-cut conviction right there.”

Bones’s expression showed she didn’t share his opinion, but she didn’t contradict him.

“We’ve identified the witch you arrested. Rolanda Rawlins - a wand for hire that semi-retired to arranging mercenary contracts of dubious legality,” Scrimgeour said.

So some Auror had recognised her. Which meant she probably had a criminal record of sorts - the kind fitting a witch willing to arrange assassinations.

“She’s ready for interrogation,” the Head Auror went on.

“Let’s first see who else we arrested before we start interrogating her,” Bones answered the unspoken question. “The Polyjuice Potion should be running out about now.”

It took them a few minutes to reach the holding cell. Ron was standing guard in front of it - they weren’t taking any chances. Not with someone who was probably an influential wizard - or related to one.

“You’re right on time,” Ron said. “I was about to call you - she just changed back a minute ago.”

“She?” Harry asked. Ron wasn’t looking very satisfied, he noticed.

“It’s a witch,” Ron said, pointing at the small window in the cell’s door. “And not just any witch.”

“Dolores Umbridge.” Bones said the name as if it were a curse. “The Minister’s Senior Undersecretary.”

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 3rd, 1999**

“...then I met with Rawlins and the French assassin.”

Harry Potter sighed. Umbridge’s voice grated on his nerves - doubly so with the Veritaserum affecting her. But Rawlins’s story had now been confirmed - at least as far as establishing that Umbridge had indeed been her employer and had been seeking an assassin.

Of course, since Umbridge had been caught in the act of trying to arrange the murder of one Harry Potter, all they had to do to prove that she was guilty was that she hadn’t been under duress or magically controlled. But that left her motive. If he were leading the interrogation, he’d have started with that.

But since he was the intended victim, he had been lucky that he had been allowed to watch as Scrimgeour questioned her.

“And why did you wish Auror Potter’s death?”

“Finally,” Harry muttered as Umbridge blinked.

“Because I want to save our country.”

What? Harry blinked.

“Blimey!” Ron muttered next to him.

Scrimgeour seemed unsurprised, though. “Why do you think Auror Potter is a threat to our country?”

“He’ll help Black take over the Wizengamot,” Umbridge droned on.

“And how would that threaten our country?” Scrimgeour asked.

“He’s a radical. He’ll fill Cornelius’s head with muggle nonsense. Britain will be doomed.”

Harry clenched his teeth. Umbridge was worse than he had thought.

“Why didn’t you try to have Black killed?”

“He’s too well-protected. Potter’s an Auror - he’s going out on assignments. Vulnerable.”

Harry wanted to curse the witch. Even though he was glad that Sirius, and by extension, Jeanne and Hermione, were safe.

“Was this the first time you tried to hire people to attack Auror Potter?”

“No.”

“Did you hire Raphael Markdotter to attack Aurors Potter and Weasley?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To take them down a peg or two. Show the proper wizards that they aren’t as skilled as they claim to be. Diminish their reputation and reduce their influence.”

The witch must really care about this - such detailed answers were rare from a suspect interrogated with Veritaserum. Harry shook his head. So much blind hatred.

“Did you make any other attempts?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know about your plans?”

“No. Cornelius wouldn’t understand,” Umbridge droned.

“That’ll simplify things,” Ron muttered. “The Minister won’t make trouble.”

“He’ll still be weakened,” Harry replied in a whisper. Umbridge was practically the Minister’s right hand. But at least he wouldn’t try to mess with the case to save himself.

“Did you work alone?”

“No.”

“Who did you work with?”

“Rawlins… stupid half-blood. Messed up.” Umbridge tried to sneer, or so it looked like to Harry.

“Why didn’t you let her do the hiring?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Can’t trust her that far. Half-bloods are greedy. Could have betrayed me.”

That didn’t make too much sense, in Harry’s opinion. Rawlins could have sold her out afterwards. Unless…

Scrimgeour had the same thought: “How did you plan to prevent her from betraying you?”

“She wouldn’t have known the target. Would have sent her away.”

Ah. Not completely incompetent, then. Just nearly so. Harry shook his head.

“Why did you employ her?”

“Couldn’t find an assassin myself. Needed someone with a reputation.”

“Did you try to find someone?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Three evenings. Then I found Rawlins. Who wouldn’t do it, but said she’d find someone for me.”

Rawlins hadn’t told them that. Harry sighed again. “Amateur hour.”

“Huh?” Ron asked.

“Something Hermione said once. It’s from a movie,” Harry explained. “It means Umbridge wasn’t very skilled.”

“Ah.” Ron nodded. “And that’s a very good thing, considering the alternative.”

Indeed.

*****

**London, Greenwich, February 3rd, 1999**

“Stupid amateurs,” Hermione Granger muttered under her breath as she paced in their base.

“You look like you’re insulted by the fact that Umbridge’s plot failed.”

She stopped pacing for a moment and glared at the dog. “I’m not upset about that!” Of course not! “I’m merely remarking on the lack of professionalism shown by everyone involved in her plot.” Some standards should be maintained.

“Which is a good thing,” Sirius said.

“Of course.” She frowned. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Mh.” His grin told him that he didn’t believe her.

She rolled her eyes. “But mostly, I am annoyed that I couldn’t do anything to help Harry.” She hated doing nothing when he and the rest of her family and friends were in danger. And if Umbridge had been a little smarter, Hermione’s talents might have been useful.

“You stunned a fleeing witch,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. A witch who hadn’t been connected to the plot at all. She sighed. “And we can’t even rob Umbridge blind in retaliation - it would be too dangerous if we robbed her house shortly after she was arrested.” People would suspect that there were close ties between Harry and the thieves. Which was, in a roundabout way, completely correct, of course. “Dawlish would try to pin it on him.”

“He won’t,” Sirius said. “He won’t be on the case any longer. Fudge mentioned it during our talk.”

“Oh.” Hermione had known this was coming - that the idiot had managed to stay on her case for so long was very surprising - but now that it was happening… “Harry and Ron will take over, won’t they?”

“Of course!”

Hermione bit her lip. She didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. They were far more capable than Dawlish, but far closer to her and her friends as well. And each robbery would now hurt their reputation.

Maybe she should seriously consider stopping after Malfoy Manor. One more robbery wouldn’t hurt.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 3rd, 1999**

“I’m telling you, they are working together!”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at Harry’s antics. As if Crookshanks would try to eat his pet snake! It was obvious that the scratch marks on the snake’s habitat were the work of Hedwig - Crookshanks’s claw marks looked different, as the ugly side table her dad had bought when they had moved into their new house a few years ago could attest.

She huffed. “Don’t try to blame my cat for your pets’ differences.”

“It’s true!” he insisted.

“Really? And how would you know that?”

Harry glanced at the snake, then back at her. “I know it. I’m certain of it.”

She sniffed. “That’s not enough. You’re an Auror; you should know better than to accuse someone without even a shred of evidence.”

“The shredded casing for the lock is evidence,” he retorted.

“Evidence that Hedwig tried to eat your snake,” she pointed out.

The owl barked.

“See?” Hermione grinned. “That was a confession if ever I heard one.”

Harry sighed and sat down on his bed, almost dislodging Crookshanks from his spot on his pillow. “I’ll have to get a better lock.”

She was tempted to tell him where to get a good security lock, but it would be a waste of money - his pet’s habitat didn’t need a sophisticated lock to keep a bird out. She changed the subject. “So…” she asked as she sat down next to him, “did Dawlish get removed from the case?” There was no need to specify which case.

Harry sighed again. “Yes, he did today.”

He didn’t sound happy about it. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Bathilda was removed as well,” Harry said, “even though she’s not at fault.”

“Ah.” Hermione forced herself not to frown. That witch was just too... nosy. “And did you take over the case?”

“Yes. Officially, we’ll take over tomorrow, but it’s a done deal.”

She nodded. “It was to be expected, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

He shrugged and laid down on his back. “I would have liked to finish the Umbridge case first. But, as the intended victim, I was pulled off the case.”

“Well, that’s an open and shut case, isn’t it?” At least judging by what Sirius had told her.

“More or less. There are a few more crimes to investigate, though,” Harry said.

What? “Did she kill other people?”

“She didn’t go that far, but...” He drew a breath through clenched teeth.

“Sirius will hear everything at her trial, and I’ll be with him,” Hermione pointed out.

He frowned at her, then sighed once more. “She used underhanded and illegal means to advance her career.”

“Extortion and sabotage?” Hermione guessed.

“More or less, yes.”

Hermione shrugged, then laid down next to him, on her side, one hand propping up her head. “And the victims of her extortion fear that she’ll betray their secrets if they can’t save her?”

“Well, it’s not my case…”

She chuckled. “You should be glad you escaped having to deal with all that interference.”

He sighed yet again. What was it with him today? “Sirius will probably handle the whole thing.”

“Good.”

“It’ll cost him more gold,” Harry pointed out. “He’s very rich, but if he tries to outspend Malfoy, that won’t be the case forever.”

Hermione shrugged. “I trust Jeanne to keep him from ruining their family.” And Sirius wasn’t spending his own gold anyway - but the gold from Bulstrode, Davis and Greengrass, and now Parkinson as well.

And, soon, Malfoy’s gold.

Not that she could tell Harry that. She snorted and rolled over, on to him, smiling at his surprised expression. “Enough talk about your work.”

He blinked, then licked his lips and nodded.

She bent her head and kissed him.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 4th, 1999**

Dawlish didn’t say a single word. He merely dropped the case files on Harry Potter’s desk - it was more of a throw, actually - glared at Harry and Ron with his jaw muscles twitching, then turned and stomped out of their office.

“Thank you,” Harry said to the man’s back. “Bathilda, please stay,” he added before his friend could leave as well.

She turned back, looking both puzzled and wary. “Yes?” She glanced at the door through which her partner had just left.

“We probably have some questions,” Harry explained.

“Ah, of course.” Bathilda nodded. She wouldn’t let petty grievances affect her work. And she was a friend. “Don’t you want to read the files, first?”

“That can wait,” Harry said as Ron conjured a chair for Bathilda. “Did you find out how the Night Nargles broke into Parkinson Manor?”

The witch hesitated a moment, then sat down. With a wry smile, she said: “I won’t have to repeat everything that’s in the files, will I?”

“Just the important stuff,” Ron said.

She nodded. “Well, Mr Parkinson, his daughter, their house-elves and the Cryosphinx were all obliviated. They couldn’t tell us anything about the thieves.”

Harry nodded. They had known that already.

“But there was a Floo call around the estimated time of the robbery - to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” Bathilda went on. “We investigated that and found out that Mr Parkinson had called the department to check if two of its employees were supposed to visit him. The secretary on duty checked the schedule and assignments and confirmed that.” She bared her teeth. “But the two assigned employees weren’t actually on duty. Both of them were at home, in compensation for the overtime they had done after Crouch’s attack.”

“Clever!” Ron whistled. “They faked the assignments and impersonated them?”

Harry frowned at his friend; Ron didn’t have to act so impressed. This was their case now. And the Night Nargles had made a fool of them before.

“That is - was - our working hypothesis. We investigated the two employees - Mrs Winkleborough and Mr Smith - and they showed no trace of Obliviation or other mind-affecting spells,” Bathilda said.

“Polyjuice?” Ron cocked his head.

“Most likely. Unless they used muggle disguises,” Harry said. “If Parkinson hadn’t met the two employees before, then that would have been possible.”

“But would they have been able to know that?” Ron rubbed his chin. “They would have had to check with the two employees.”

Bathilda frowned. “We considered that as well. But we found no sign that they were interrogated, either. And the thieves did tamper with the assignments and paperwork of the department, which means they would have had the opportunity to secure hairs as well.”

“That’s what they did when Crouch attacked!” Ron exclaimed. “Dawlish’s office was a diversion!”

Bathilda frowned again - it was her office as well, after all, Harry knew. “That’s unlikely. The assignments Mrs Winkleborough and Mr Smith received for the week hadn’t been altered. The paperwork must have been swapped the day before the robbery - after the two employees had already left for the weekend.”

“Or they messed up and won’t admit it,” Ron said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Their statements confirm each other,” Bathilda replied. “We’re certain that the thieves entered the offices of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures sometime during the evening or night before the robbery.”

“How did they manage that?” Harry frowned. Security was supposed to have been tightened after both Crouch and the Night Nargles had infiltrated the Ministry.

Bathilda winced for the first time. “We don’t know.” She sighed, then bit her lower lip for a moment. “John thinks it was an inside job. Someone in the Ministry.”

Harry refrained from scoffing. If Dawlish thought that, then it was likely to be wrong - or a distraction. Or an attempt to frame Ron and Harry. “Did you investigate all of the employees in the department?”

“I did,” Bathilda replied. She had said ‘I’, not ‘we’, Harry noticed. “But I didn’t find anything suspicious. Those with access to the schedules and paperwork were clean. And none of the employees at work on Thursday before the robbery remember the changes. And the witch working on Friday was certain that nothing was changed during her shift. That leaves the evening and night.”

Harry nodded. “Which means someone sneaked in or broke in.”

“That wouldn’t have been too hard for them - there aren’t many patrols on that floor at night,” Ron pointed out.

“But the security _was_ improved after Crouch’s attack,” Harry replied. “They couldn’t have used the stairs or the lifts without being spotted by the guards.”

“Unless they were disguised,” Ron said.

“We checked with the guards about anyone they saw during their shifts,” Bathilda revealed.

“You’ve been busy,” Harry said, then regretted his comment when he saw her flinch. She had been working very hard and still lost the case through no fault of her own.

“They could have hidden on the floor, though, and left in the morning.” Ron was on a roll.

“Possible,” Harry admitted. “But I don’t think so.” After the Night Nargles had been spotted using Disillusionment Charms during Crouch’s attack the Aurors and Hit-Wizards had started regular nightly patrols using the Human-presence-revealing Spell. Hiding would have been difficult. Not impossible, though.

He stood. “Let’s take a look at the department’s offices!”

*****

“We checked the offices and we found no trace of the thieves,” Bathilda said a few minutes later, standing near the desk of the secretary of the department head. The witch had, together with the entire staff, gone on an early break on Harry Potter’s suggestion - he couldn’t have them stand around during the investigation.

He nodded, looking around with the help of his glasses. He didn’t doubt Bathilda; she was a good Auror. But she was a little too… not naive, no. But she didn’t think outside the box. Not enough. And Dawlish had all the imagination of a rock. Less, if The Quibbler was correct about talking rocks in the Rocky Mountains.

There were no windows, of course. And Bathilda had checked the walls for any traces of holes - magical or otherwise. That would leave the door as the obvious means of access for a thief.

But the Night Nargles were anything but obvious. Ron was still calling Abigail to go over the spells on the door, of course. But Harry had a feeling that that wouldn’t net them any clues, even if Abigail was a better Curse-Breaker than the one Dawlish had called - and Dawlish would have known that. Perhaps he had wanted to hide something? Or was this another diversion? Did Dawlish count on Harry suspecting him?

Harry shook his head. He had to focus on tangible evidence, not speculation. The thieves had broken into the department. There were no good hiding spots on the floor, either. Not for a human. But his gut told him that the thieves wouldn’t have used the door. But how had they done it?

He spotted the grid up in the corner. Air ducts. A classic in many movies. And after seeing the female thief’s leather catsuit, Harry had no doubt that the Night Nargles were very familiar with movies. Or TV series. But the air ducts were far too small for a human to pass through.

“We checked the air ducts. They are protected against Extension Charms,” Bathilda said. She must have noticed his gaze. Sloppy of him.

He still conjured a ladder to take a closer look, ignoring Bathilda’s eye-rolling and sighing.

“Did you find any spell traces on the grid?” he asked.

“Faint ones. But the air ducts hadn’t been extended.” She sounded more than a little frustrated. But it couldn’t be helped.

But someone had manipulated the grid. “Do you know when was the last time that the air ducts were cleaned?”

Now she sounded a little uncertain - for the first time. “No. But it can’t have been too long ago - they were clean when we checked after the robbery.”

Or someone had cleaned them right after the break-in. Harry smiled.

“Let’s check with maintenance.”

*****

“You don’t clean the air ducts?” Harry Potter was surprised. And a little concerned.

The head maintenance clerk, Melchior Selwyn, coughed. “What I mean is that we don’t manually clean the air ducts. Charms do that for us. And we checked all of them for tampering after that unpleasant business with Crouch. They’re all fine.”

“Ah. Harry nodded. “And what happens to the dirt and dust in the ducts?”

Selwyn coughed again. “Well, it gets disposed of.” He smiled brightly. “Let me call our specialist. White! Come here! Auror Potter has a question for you.”

Harry didn’t think Selwyn had done much maintenance himself in a long time. Or ever.

White seemed a little more competent. More annoyed, too, though. “What happens to the dirt and dust in the air ducts?” He frowned. “It’s caught in a filter and later vanished. It’s basically a muggle system, just with magic at both ends.”

“And how regularly do you vanish the filter’s contents?” Harry asked.

“Once per week. On Friday.”

Harry refrained from cursing by pressing his lips together.

“Are you looking for something in the ducts?” White asked.

“I was. But it’s been vanished now,” Harry said.

“Oh, not necessarily. As I said, it’s basically a muggle system - some stuff takes weeks to get to the filters. Few years ago, some wizard brought a bag of red sand from the desert into his office - souvenir from a trip, or something. Well, he miscast a spell and created a whirlwind in his office. We had red dust in the filter for _weeks_.”

Harry smiled. “I need to see that filter. And I need whatever you use to check the ducts for damage.”

*****

“Mate, if this turns out to be a dead end…” Ron stared at the large bag full of dust that White had just handed over.

Harry would have commented that his friend should be used to dead ends after his trips with the Lovegoods, but swallowed his retort. He couldn’t prove it - although the fact that the air duct was cleaner than it should have been, compared to the other ducts, was a big clue - but he was certain that the Night Nargles had come through the air ducts. Somehow.

And the contraption White handed to him would tell him how they had done it. Or so he hoped.

“It’s basically a sort of Omniocular, but mounted on a moveable and extendable periscope,” White explained. “You strap it to your head, then stick it in a duct and move the periscope with these knobs. You can go around three corners - enough to reach the main shaft.”

“The great Aurors, doing maintenance work.” Ron chuckled.

Harry glared at him and grabbed the Periscopulars, as White called them. “Let’s do it.”

A few minutes later, he was starting to become familiar with the inside of the Ministry’s air ducts. And was very tired of White’s droning, repetitive instructions. But he could check the air ducts. And the main shaft. Which was just wide enough for a slim witch.

And if Harry could use his contraption to reach the shaft from the offices of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, then a thief could reach the offices from the main shaft with a similar tool.

It would be very tight, but with a few Sticking Charms, and perhaps some custom… He narrowed his eyes. What was that, stuck to a welding seam inside the shaft? He fiddled with the knobs until he had a clear line of sight. And smiled.

As soon as he had managed to retract the Periscopulars, Harry aimed his wand into the duct, visualising what he had seen to cast a Summoning Charm.

Twenty seconds later, a lock of brown hair landed in his hand. No, not hair, he realised - fur. He blinked. Somehow, the fur looked familiar.

*****

Harry Potter stared at the fur on his desk. Ron was still busy with the filter’s contents, and Bathilda had gone back to Dawlish for their new assignment - some altercation in Knockturn Alley. Brown, long, slightly bushy fur.

He closed his eyes and focused. Occlumency didn’t grant an eidetic memory, contrary to popular belief. But knowing your mind made ‘finding’ specific memories easier. And the fur’s colour was familiar...

He opened his eyes with a gasp. The colour was identical to that of the tuft of cat fur he had found in the garden in France. And the length of the hairs matched as well. But how would a French cat end up in the British Ministry? In the main shaft of the air ducts? Past the grills on the ducts? He cursed. The Night Nargles had been spying on them in France! One of them must have a cat and be using it as a spy. Or… one of them was an animagus!

He cursed. With Hermione being so fond of the little furballs, they would have easy access to Grimmauld Place!

He blinked. The stray! Once more he closed his eyes and searched. That damned stray of Hermione’s had the same fur! They had been inside Grimmauld Place! And hadn’t Bulstrode mentioned a stray cat that had been killed? But… why had they tried to break through the wards then? If, with a trained cat or as an animagus, they could swap out paperwork and manipulate schedules, they could have robbed Grimmauld Place as well. That made no sense. Unless they were more limited than he thought - he wasn’t an expert on animagi or cats. Hermione was the cat lady, he thought with a grin.

Which froze on his face. Cat lady. He shook his head. No. That was impossible. She wouldn’t… She couldn’t. Hermione was awful at Defence. Well, not as awful as she had been. And she was athletic, with a toned body - and she could fly well, as she had proven in their Quidditch matches at The Burrow. But… He shook his head again. She wouldn’t rob people, would she?

Granted, she had helped him and Ron steal the ingredients to brew Veritaserum, back at Hogwarts, but that didn’t mean anything - he and Ron were Aurors now, and Hermione was Sirius’s secretary!

This was absurd. He had become paranoid. Besides, Hermione couldn’t be a cat animagus - he had seen her with the brown stray, hadn’t he? He frowned. He couldn’t remember seeing her with the stray. Only with Crookshanks.

It was still absurd. Conjecture. But he couldn’t help thinking about it. She did know a lot about wards. But she wasn’t as stunning as the thief he had met. On the other hand, she always dressed down, never up. Almost as if she wanted to disguise herself. But her body was different - less buxom than the thief’s. And the thief’s face was fuller than hers. And her eye colour didn’t match either.

But those could be altered. Disguised. A padded suit for her curves. Coloured contacts. Implants for the face. Harry had looked into that, after Crouch’s arrest. But that had been plastic surgery. Could you simulate that with magic? He didn’t think so. But he wasn’t sure. Perhaps latex masks? No, those were movie special effects.

He realised that his breathing had sped up. Could Hermione be a member of the Night Nargles? She had an alibi for the heists - she was in France, with Sirius or with her family. As a matter of fact, she had been in France during each of the Night Nargles’ recent heists…

No. Sirius and Jeanne would have noticed. And they would never…

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw started to hurt. No. No. No. He shook his head. Hermione and them? No.

All he had was a tuft of fur that looked like it might belong to a cat that might have similar fur to Hermione’s stray. There were lots of cats around. Many wizards and witches had cats. Like Bulstrode. He huffed. And cats strayed. He had seen one in Knockturn Alley just…

He hesitated. No. He focused. Yes. Probably. The same damn cat. And… the night of Markdotter’s ambush, hadn’t there been a similar cat watching?

No. This was insane. Hermione wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t.

But, he heard Moody’s voice in his head, she has a motive - so far, all the victims of the successful heists are people who have hurt her. Borgin. Bulstrode. Davis. Greengrass. Parkinson. Everyone who testified against her - ruined by the Night Nargles. All of the ruined Old Families were allies of Malfoy. Sirius’s greatest rival.

He felt a shiver run down his spine. There was the motive. And the means? Hermione had worked for Dumbledore in the Order. And she was very close to Sirius, who had his own cell in the Order. Of which Harry hadn’t been a member. And he had never told Harry what they had done for Dumbledore.

Those were too many coincidences. But it was all conjecture. He had no proof. He thought this was fur from the stray. It could be from any cat. And he didn’t have an eidetic memory - he couldn’t rely on it.

But he could use Sirius’s Pensieve to view his memories. He could check if he had been seeing the same cat all this time.

He could check and find out if the Night Nargles were his own family.

But, deep down, he already knew.

*****

 


	63. Confrontations

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 4th, 1999**

Kreacher focused and snapped Kreacher’s fingers, and the large ham floated out of the pantry on to the kitchen counter. Another snap and a knife rose and started to slice the ham while Kreacher prepared the onions. Not many elves could do two things at once, but Kreacher was one of the most experienced elves. And one of the oldest elves. Kreacher could clean a room in half an hour and float two heavy plates at once to the dining room. As befitted the house-elf of the Black Family.

Kreacher was a content elf, these days. That had not always been the case. A mere few years ago, Kreacher had seriously thought about leaving the Black Family. After Mistress Black’s death. Actually, as shameful as it was, Kreacher had thought about leaving before Mistress’s death. Mistress had become… eccentric. Very eccentric. And loud.

But Kreacher had stayed. As a good house-elf should - elves had a reputation for good service for a reason. And Mistress had needed Kreacher more than ever in Mistress’s last years. Mistress had been lonely. The last of the Blacks, other than Master. All others had disgraced themselves. Or left the Black Family through marriage. Or both.

But Kreacher had endured. And had stayed even after Mistress’s death. Kept the house in order, as much as Kreacher, as much as any elf could have, with all the dark magic in the house no longer constrained by Mistress. Kreacher had stuck with the contract and stayed.

And Kreacher’s loyalty had been rewarded when Master had returned. Master wasn’t Master Regulus, but Master was still a Black where it counted - in Master’s blood, and in his magic. The last Black, once again - but not for much longer.

For soon, there would be a young master or mistress, born to Mistress Jeanne. Mistress would have been proud, Kreacher thought, that Master had chosen so wisely. Jeanne was a pureblood witch. A powerful witch. A graceful and beautiful witch. And a fertile witch. A wise choice indeed. With a proper pureblood family, albeit a split one, and a fitting wedding.

Yes, the Blacks were strong again. And powerful. And it was an honour to serve them. Kreacher could be proud again, and Kreacher’s head would be held high when meeting other elves. Such as Dobby, the elf of the Malfoys.

Kreacher’s lips drew back in a sneer. Dobby put on airs as if the Malfoys had been anything but upstarts until Mistress Narcissa married one of them. But soon, Dobby wouldn’t do that any more. At all.

Kreacher sniffed at the onions, then nodded and started on the cucumbers while the ham floated back into the pantry. It was time to toast the bread and melt the cheese. Mistress Jeanne would soon want her sandwich, and a good elf anticipated orders.

A minute later, Kreacher frowned when the bell in the kitchen signalled that the fireplace had been used. It was the family bell, but that didn’t mean much any more. Not since Master had taken in the half-blood godson.

Kreacher frowned again, then sighed and pulled the bread and cheese away. Kreacher hated to be late, but Kreacher had a duty to check on new arrivals. Kreacher quickly opened the elf-door to the elf-passage.

Kreacher reached the entry hall and peered through the lenses hidden in the wall. The arrival was the half-blood godson. The half-blood godson looked upset, Kreacher noticed. But it wasn’t Kreacher’s problem unless and until the half-blood godson called for Kreacher’s help. Which the half-blood didn’t.

Scoffing, Kreacher returned to the kitchen, checking if the owl or the cat had tried to sneak off with food. The animals never seemed to give up, no matter how often Kreacher thwarted them. The half-blood godson was too soft with them.

Mistress wouldn’t have liked the half-blood godson. Too squeamish. Too naive. Not Black enough. And not pure enough. But Master loved him. Even though the half-blood godson was infatuated with the mudblood servant. Which would produce more half-bloods. The shame. And the half-blood godson didn’t even know about the mudblood servant’s talents, nor had the mudblood servant potioned the half-blood godson - Kreacher had checked. At least the other house-guest was a pureblood courting a pureblood witch, as was proper.

And the mudblood servant was useful. The Black fortune had increased greatly thanks to the mudblood servant’s efforts. And the fortunes of the Blacks’ rivals had diminished greatly. Kreacher grinned, showing many teeth. Soon, Dobby would be working for a ruined family.

Unless the half-blood godson ruined the plan. Kreacher scowled. The half-blood godson didn’t know that family came first, as was natural. Laws and politics changed all the time, but blood didn’t change. Blood would tell, as Mistress used to tell Kreacher. And as Kreacher had seen. Even the half-blood cousin, from the disgraced cousin, had shown that and told Master, not the Ministry, first about the plot against the family.

Although it turned out to be a plot against the half-blood godson, in the end. Still, the half-blood cousin had tried to do right by the family.

Kreacher finished the sandwiches right when Mistress Jeanne called for Kreacher. Smiling toothily, Kreacher opened the elf-door again, passing through the walls to Mistress Jeanne’s room. Kreacher noticed that the half-blood godson was in the Pensieve, but paid no mind - the half-blood godson was allowed there. Master had said so. And a proper house-elf obeyed Master. Or sought a new Master.

But Kreacher wouldn’t do that. Not when the Blacks were on the rise again. Richer and more powerful than ever. Kreacher would be the most envied elf in the country!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 4th, 1999**

Hermione Granger wasn’t concerned. Not really. But she was a little annoyed that Harry apparently took his new case - hunting her! And Sirius, Jeanne and Mr Fletcher! - so seriously that he had gone straight to the Pensieve upon coming home, without even bothering to take a detour to greet her.

Which bothered her more than it should. She bit her lower lip, pushing away the proposed bill to evaluate a relaxation of the flying carpet ban. What memory was he watching, anyway? She had obliviated the Parkinsons, the Sphinx and the elf of any crucial information. And the Memory Charm worked on Sphinxes - she had checked that beforehand, of course. Any other memories Harry might be studying he had studied before - like the broom chase across London.

She grinned, faintly, as she remembered how often he had studied that particular memory. But her suit was padded, altering her body’s shape, and even if her protections against his glasses failed, she was wearing a disguise underneath it. So what was he studying? And why wasn’t Ron with him?

She knew there weren’t any witnesses. None that had seen anything that could finger her, at least. The clerk in the Ministry archives hadn’t noticed anything. She hadn’t missed any servants at Parkinson Manor. She hadn’t been sloppy.

Hermione pressed her lips together. There was no need to worry. But she was worried.

“Are you and Harry having a row?”

Sirius’s question made her jerk and whip her head round. He was frowning at her.

“You look like you’re about to eat your lower lip,” he went on. “So…?”

She sighed, though it sounded almost like a huff. “No, we’re not having a row. At least,” she added, “I’m not aware of one.”

He grinned at that. “Well, what’s got you so worried then?”

She refrained from claiming that she wasn’t worried; he knew her well enough to instantly see through such a lie. And he was stubborn enough to ignore such a claim even if it were true. Sighing, she admitted: “I can’t help worrying about which memories Harry is studying.”

“Which memories he cares so much about that he skipped kissing you on coming home?” The dog cocked his head with a teasing grin.

She glared at him, and his grin vanished. He sighed. “Sorry.”

She nodded, curtly, in response.

“Well, you could ask him.”

She bit her lower lip again. She didn’t want to abuse their relationship to spy on Harry. Sometimes it happened anyway - but she hadn’t found out anything important from him. Nothing that would have made or broken a heist.

Sirius sighed. She glared at him. But before she could retort, the door to the study was pushed open. It was Harry. And he looked… awful. And angry. And he hadn’t knocked, a part of her noted.

“Oh, Harry!” Sirius said with a chuckle - though Hermione thought it sounded a little forced. Maybe more than a little. “We were starting to get worried about you getting lost in the Pensieve.”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just stared at them. At her. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong when he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“You are the Night Nargles.”

Hermione felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. He knew. How?

“What?” Sirius said. Was he about to play dumb?

“Don’t you dare deny it,” Harry spat without looking at Sirius. Without taking his eyes off her. He was angrier than she had ever seen him, she realised. “You are the stray.”

She gasped. Despite her training, despite her experience, she couldn’t help it. He knew. And he was furious.

“I’ve never seen you together with the stray cat. But I’ve seen her - in Knockturn Alley. Twice. And I’ve seen her fur - in France. And in the Ministry.” He hadn’t moved from the door. Hadn’t come closer.

She gasped again. The Ministry? But she had cleaned up the air ducts. And she hadn’t left any trace during her earlier strolls through the Ministry. How?

She hadn’t realised that she asked the question out loud until he answered: “A tuft of fur, stuck to a welding seam in the main shaft of the air ducts.”

Where her cleaning charm wouldn’t have reached. She clenched her teeth and wanted to curse. And to cry. It was all her fault.

“Ah.” Sirius nodded. He was even smiling, Hermione realised. “Well done! No wonder you’re the Ministry’s best Auror!”

Hermione didn’t know who wanted to curse Sirius more right now - her or Harry.

*****

Harry Potter glared at his godfather and struggled not to draw his wand. “Do you think this is funny?” he spat through clenched teeth. Not only had they hidden this… this… this unbelievable betrayal from him, they were even being flippant about it!

Sirius sighed, his smile fading. “No, I don’t think it is. Sorry.” He stood. “I just wanted to…” He shrugged. “Let’s talk about this in a more civilised setting. It’s not just the three of us who are involved in this, anyway.”

“Jeanne,” Harry said.

“Of course.” Sirius nodded. “Did you tell Ron?”

Harry tensed. “I haven’t told him yet.” Would Sirius try to obliviate him?

Sirius nodded again, smiling faintly. “Perhaps we should tell him that we decided to have a double date because I don’t think we’ll be done before dinner, and he wouldn’t miss the general tension during the meal.”

His godfather was far too calm, Harry thought. Unlike Hermione, who hadn’t said more than a few syllables since his accusations and who looked stricken. “Why don’t you want to tell him at the same time?”

“This is family business,” Sirius replied. “And you didn’t tell him either, did you? You came straight to us.”

“That wasn’t because I want to keep him in the dark!” Harry retorted, glaring at Sirius. He wouldn’t do that to his best friend. He was better than that!

“Still, this should be discussed among ourselves first, I think,” Sirius said.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed.

He glanced at her. She was trying to put up a calm front as well, but she wasn’t succeeding - he could tell. Or he thought he could tell. She certainly had completely fooled him for a long time. He ground his teeth. He had to focus. Treat this like a case. A normal case. He couldn’t let his emotions rule him. “I’m not lying to him,” he pressed out.

“Do you want him involved?” Sirius asked. He sounded honest, but he, too, had fooled Harry. And had made a fool out of him.

And, if he was honest, Harry didn’t know if he really wanted Ron involved. But his partner was his best friend. Perhaps his only friend. “He’ll want to know what I found out, anyway,” he pointed out.

“True,” Sirius said. “I’ll tell Kreacher to prepare dinner as usual. It’s a good thing Moody’s still not able to join us at the table. That would have been awkward.”

His godfather was far too calm about this. Harry couldn’t understand. “Why are you so… so…”

Sirius chuckled, though he sounded rather rueful. “Some Black family dinners would make our upcoming discussion look tame, I’d say.”

Harry didn’t laugh. Hermione did, but it sounded more like a sob.

*****

Kreacher had prepared a great dinner - roast beef and pommes frites with julienne carrots - but Hermione Granger could only pick at her meal. Her stomach still felt as if it were tying itself into knots and trying to drop to the floor at the same time. She glanced at Harry. His jaw muscles were so tense…

She looked at her plate and pushed the piece of meat she had just cut around a little, then stabbed it and put it in her mouth. She didn’t notice when she stopped chewing and swallowed it, nor did she remember the taste. She glanced at Harry again. His lips were pressed together with such force, they formed a pale line.

Sirius and Jeanne were eating, but Sirius was far tenser than he was pretending to be - she could tell since he wasn’t joking around. And Jeanne… well, her smile looked frozen.

Ron’s voice broke through the silence after five minutes. “So, is anyone going to tell me what happened?”

Hermione drew a sharp breath and put the silverware down. This was it. She tried to steady herself. Focus. She could do this. She was a professional thief. Which was the problem. She swallowed.

“Harry found out that we’re the Night Nargles,” Sirius said, after recasting a privacy charm.

Ron blinked, looking stunned for a moment, then whipped his head round to stare at Harry. “What?”

“Yes,” Harry spat, then glared at Sirius - and then at Hermione. “It’s true.”

She flinched, then swallowed, raised her head and met his gaze.

Ron looked at everyone in turn, then cleared his throat. “Ah.” After a moment, he cleared his throat again. “So… I guess we’re not arresting them?”

“That’d be ‘trying to arrest’,” Sirius replied with a toothy grin, which quickly vanished at Harry’s glare. “Sorry.”

“We’re about to explain the whole affair.” Hermione surprised herself by speaking up, then pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t cower like a mouse - she hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, not without good reasons. Well-meaning reasons, at least.

“Over dinner?” Ron said.

“That was the plan,” Hermione replied. Talking to him was far easier than talking to Harry. Or looking at Harry. “Sirius’s, to be exact,” she added. “But it seems it isn’t working as well as he thought it would.”

“Pity. The beef is great,” Ron said.

“Let’s talk,” Harry ground out. “Why did you lie to me?”

Hermione took a deep breath. This was the crucial question. If she botched this...

“It was for your own good,” Sirius said.

Hermione closed her eyes, clenched her teeth and almost hissed in frustration.

*****

“My own good?” Harry Potter couldn’t believe his ears. He scoffed, shaking his head. “My own good?” How could Sirius claim such nonsense? “You fooled me for my own good?”

“You wanted to become an Auror to clean up the Ministry. If we told you that we were planning to rob Malfoy and his cronies of their gold, you would have had to abandon that dream,” Sirius said.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“After Voldemort’s death,” Hermione cut in, “when you told us of your dream of becoming an Auror, Sirius thought that if we told you, you would be forced to join us.”

He looked at her. She met his eyes, though he caught her flinching. “You thought I would become a thief?” Were they mad? He was an Auror! Not a criminal!

“Would you have become an Auror, knowing that we would be robbing Malfoy’s allies and so you’d be protecting us?” she asked.

He scoffed again. “I would have prevented you from starting this… this…” He shook his head. “This crime spree!” This madness!

“Why did you do it?” Ron suddenly asked. “The Blacks are the richest family in Britain. You don’t need the gold.”

That was a good question. Harry should have asked that first. He looked at Sirius, then Hermione and Jeanne. His godfather was still far too calm, as if this wasn’t serious. Hermione put up a good front, but she was biting her lower lip whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. And Jeanne was frowning. At Harry.

“We want to reform Britain. Root out the corruption. Get rid of Malfoy and his ilk,” Sirius said.

“By becoming criminals?” Harry laughed, once, out of sheer disbelief.

Sirius frowned at him. “As long as Malfoy has his gold, he’s untouchable. You should know how bad things are in the Ministry - how many he has bought. It costs a lot just to counter his plots. The Wizengamot will never find him guilty.”

“And ruining him is the only way to make him pay for what he did to my family and me,” Hermione said. “He and his friends tried to ruin me, and now they are ruined. Only Malfoy is left.” She scowled, baring her teeth.

“You can’t get justice by committing crimes!” Harry shot back. “That’s wrong!” It went against everything the law stood for. It was mere revenge.

“Dumbledore disagreed,” Sirius replied.

“What?” Harry blurted out, then pressed his lips together. As much as he avoided thinking about it, Dumbledore had taught him blood magic - illegal in Britain, and most countries - to defeat Voldemort. But only because there had been no other way.

“He had me trained as a thief since I was expelled,” Hermione said.

“What?” Harry gaped at her.

She frowned at him. “He needed thieves for the fight against Voldemort.”

“And spies,” Jeanne added.

“Did you think we just decided to start robbing manors after Voldemort’s defeat?” Hermione scoffed. “I trained for years for this!”

“So this was what you were doing for Dumbledore,” Ron said.

“Stealing books, gathering information, tracking Death Eaters,” Hermione said, shrugging. “Whatever he needed stolen without anyone knowing, we did.”

“She almost died a few times,” Sirius added.

What? Harry whipped his head around and stared at her, but she was glaring at his godfather. “Only once.”

“Twice at least - you were almost caught by Voldemort himself,” Sirius retorted.

What? Harry blinked. She had robbed the Dark Lord himself? Was she mad?

“Merlin’s arse!” Ron exclaimed. “What happened?”

Hermione huffed. “He only saw a cat; I was perfectly safe.”

“A cat?” Ron asked.

Before Harry could explain, Hermione changed into her cat form and jumped on the table.

“Blimey!” Ron gasped. “Wait a minute… I saw you before!”

“She’s been spying on us on a few occasions,” Harry said, clenching his teeth. Played the harmless cat to fool him.

Hermione returned to her seat and changed back. “Not like that!” she protested. “I was merely watching out for you!”

“Sure you were!” Harry spat. “You spied on us the whole time!” Even in their bed!

She jerked back, stunned for a moment. “I didn’t want to!” She sniffled, and her eyes seemed to glitter a little in the light. “I wanted to keep my distance to avoid exactly that!”

“Well, you failed,” Harry retorted with narrowed eyes.

“So it wasn’t Paul’s fault!” Ron blurted out.

“What?” “What?”

Harry glanced at Hermione, momentarily taken aback by her asking the same question at the same time.

“She wasn’t skittish because of what Paul did, but because of you,” Ron explained.

“Ah.” Harry started to nod, then caught himself. That didn’t matter right now.

“I didn’t want to enter a relationship with a secret between us,” Hermione said, then wiped her eyes. “That ruined my relationship with Paul. I couldn’t tell him about magic.” She glared at Sirius. “And I couldn’t tell you about our robberies, even though I wanted to.”

Harry scoffed at that claim. Of course she could have told him! And she had entered a relationship with him! And deceived him the whole time! Played him for a fool!

“It’s true,” Sirius said. “I forbade her to tell you.”

“It wasn’t just my secret to tell,” Hermione added, though she wasn’t looking at Harry as she spoke.

That made some sense, Harry had to admit. Sirius and Jeanne’s crimes would have been revealed as well. And… “Your tutor! He’s a thief as well isn’t he?” If she had been training to become a thief since her expulsion, then that was the only explanation. Unless there were books on robbing people.

“Yes.” Now she was looking at him.

“You still should have told me,” he said. She should have. “But you used me! You used my training to escape from us on your heists!”

*****

What? Hermione Granger snarled, baring her teeth. That wasn’t true! “I didn’t! Sirius trained me! I had to act as if I were worse at Defence to keep my cover!”

Harry jerked as if struck, then pressed his lips together. “So that was a lie as well.”

Hermione winced. She shouldn’t have worded it like that. She didn’t mean it like that. And she hadn’t tried to fool him - well, she had, but fooling him hadn’t been her goal, she had had to do it to keep her cover.

“It was almost as amusing as the time you threw her out of the house,” Sirius said. “She had to let herself get hit by Stinging Hexes in every session.”

Hermione glared at the dog, and Harry scowled with clenched teeth.

Sirius sighed. “Sorry.”

“We didn’t spy on you - not deliberately,” Hermione said. Harry’s expression didn’t change. “And I didn’t want to start a relationship with you because it would have been unfair.”

“Yet you did,” he said in a flat voice.

Seeing his expression hurt more than his worst hexes. She bit her lower lip, then slowly nodded. “Yes. It happened. I just couldn’t keep away from you.” She wouldn’t apologise for that.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but she saw his jaw muscles move. And he kept glaring at her.

She blinked to clear her eyes and fought not to sob. This was even worse than she had feared.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” Jeanne exclaimed. “She loves you, you idiot! Of course, she couldn’t keep away from you!”

“You don’t lie like that to someone you love,” Harry spat.

Hermione cringed. “I didn’t want to!” she protested before Jeanne could call Harry more names.

“Really?” He scoffed. “But you did. You lied to me for years.”

That wasn’t true. Hermione almost retorted that withholding the truth wasn’t the same as lying. But that would have made the situation even worse. Instead, she said: “You didn’t tell me what you were doing with Dumbledore either.” He flinched at that.

“And you never even asked me about my work for Dumbledore,” Sirius added.

Harry bared his teeth. “It’s not the same.”

Hermione bit her lower lip to keep from demanding to know how it wasn’t the same.

Harry glanced at her, then looked away. “And even if it was, you kept lying to me after Voldemort’s defeat. All of you.”

“Yes, we did,” Sirius said. “As I said, I decided that. I didn’t want to drag you into this and destroy your dream of becoming an Auror.”

“So you made the decision for me?” Harry scoffed.

Sirius grimaced. “Well… I couldn’t really ask you if you’d rather become a thief, could I? And whenever I tried to feel you out, you were adamant about enforcing the law.”

“That’s because you can’t fight the criminals by becoming a criminal!” Harry retorted.

“Of course you can!” Sirius shot back. “What did you think we did when fighting Voldemort? Without us, Dumbledore probably wouldn’t have had half the books he needed - those weren’t the sort you could buy in a shop.”

Harry flinched again, Hermione noticed.

And Sirius went on: “And you know how things work at the Ministry - if we don’t ruin Malfoy, we’ll never change the system. It’s rotten to the core. The worst criminals can have their friends judge them in the Wizengamot. You’ve complained often enough about this.”

“You’d ’ave been fired already if not for Sirius throwing ’is gold round,” Jeanne added.

Harry glared at her. “That doesn’t mean it was right.”

The French witch huffed. “Do you want Malfoy and his minions gone from the Ministry and the Wizengamot, or not?”

“Not like this!” Harry bared his teeth again.

“And that’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” Sirius said. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“You should have told me!” Harry spat.

“Yes, we should,” Sirius said after a moment. “I realise that now. I just wanted the best for you,” he added. “I’m sorry.”

Harry scoffed again. “And yet, you kept me in the dark. Did you find it funny when I complained about you without knowing you were the Night Nargles?”

Hermione pressed her lips together and clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to lie to him, but if she admitted that - sometimes! - it had been funny…

But the lack of answer was enough. Harry shook his head. “I see,” he hissed, then stood so abruptly, his chair almost toppled over. For a moment, he stood there, his lips moving without making a sound, then he turned and stormed out of the room.

With a grimace, Ron stood and followed him.

As soon as the door closed, Sirius sighed and seemed to collapse in his chair, covering his face with his hands. Jeanne moved to hug him.

Hermione looked at the door. Part of her wanted to run after Harry. Apologise. She hadn’t, yet, she realised with a shock. Part of her wanted to hug Sirius. Comfort him. Thank him for taking the blame. Or trying to take the blame, at least.

In the end, she did neither. She kept sitting, staring at the door.

*****

Harry Potter’s Bludgeoning Curse smashed into the stone figure, pulverising part of its shoulder and causing its left arm to fall away as it was bowled over. His next curse - a Reductor Curse - hit it before the arm had stopped rolling on the floor and blew up the figure’s torso, sending stone shards and fragments through the room, a dozen of them bouncing off his Shield Charm.

But the limbs and part of the hips were still around - thanks to his glasses, he could see them through the dust cloud his spell had thrown up. Snarling, he cast a few more Bludgeoning Curses, smashing the legs and arms to pieces before blowing up the head with another Reductor Curse.

As he waited for the new dust cloud to settle, he clenched his teeth. He didn’t feel any better. He still wanted to smash something. Hurt someone. Do anything to spread the pain he was feeling.

“Whoa!”

Harry whirled around, his wand rising out of reflex. Then he froze and took a short breath. “Ron.” His friend must have entered the training room without Harry noticing. Sloppy.

“Mate.” Ron seemed unconcerned about Harry’s wand pointing at him. He looked at the remains of the stone figure. “Feeling better?”

Harry snorted. “No.”

Ron nodded. “Didn’t think you would.” He flicked his wand and conjured a bench, then sat down.

Harry looked at him. “You gonna watch me vent my anger?”

Ron shrugged. “I figure you need some company, but the last thing you need is someone else pushing you. So I’ll simply wait.”

Harry laughed, once, then had to struggle not to sob. He shook his head and sat down next to his friend, his wand dangling from his hand, and stared at the rubble. After a moment, he took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing, mate.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Bloody hell, I still can’t believe they did this!” How could they have done this? To him?

“Well, in hindsight, it makes sense,” Ron said. Harry jerked his head to glare at him, and his friend went on: “That they robbed the manors, I mean.”

“What?” Harry snarled.

Ron held his hands up. “Mate, you know how it works. As long as Malfoy has gold to spend, he won’t get convicted no matter what he does. And no matter what we do.”

Harry pressed his lips together. “It’s still a crime!” A crime spree, even.

“Well, yeah.” Ron shrugged. “But if it’s the only way to get rid of Malfoy?”

“Ron! We’re Aurors - we’re supposed to enforce the law! We’ve sworn an oath!”

“Well, we did - but we also swore to faithfully serve and defend Wizarding Britain.” Ron chuckled. “And that kind of doesn’t go along with upholding the law in this case, if the law’s protecting Malfoy. And you know that if Sirius were arrested, we’d get fired as soon as Malfoy’s done celebrating - all of his enemies, gone.”

Harry closed his eyes. Not Ron too. Was everyone corrupt?

“And you heard them - Dumbledore had her trained as a thief,” Ron went on.

“Yes,” Harry spat. That didn’t mean it was right.

“And he sent them out to steal stuff.”

“If they’re telling the truth,” Harry replied.

“Do you think they lied?”

They had lied to him before! Harry drew a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. Lied, and laughed at him. He closed his eyes. “No. No, I don’t think so.” Hermione had looked… He shook his head. She deserved it. And Sirius… He didn’t think they had been lying. Not at dinner, at least.

“They should have told you, though,” Ron said.

Harry nodded. “Yes,” he pressed out, “they should have.” They hadn’t, though.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

“They made a fool out of me. Out of us,” Harry said.

“They did,” Ron agreed.

Harry glanced at him. His friend was far too calm. “Why aren’t you angry?”

Ron shrugged. “I am a little, I guess. But on the whole? I’ve been made fun of my whole life by my brothers - and not because they thought it would be best for me. And the entire school has made fun of Luna for selfish or cruel reasons. I guess this simply doesn’t seem so bad in comparison.”

Harry hissed through his teeth. Not so bad?

Before he could tell Ron off, though, his friend continued. “I don’t know what I’d do if Luna had done this, though,” he said.

Harry nodded stiffly. “I trusted her.” Well, not with everything. Not with what he had done with Dumbledore. What kind of magic he had learned, and used. Blood magic. Illegal magic, he added, unbidden, before pushing the thought, and the guilt, away. Again. But there were good reasons for not telling her all his secrets. More than ever, after these revelations.

Another moment passed in silence. The remains of one of the figure’s legs suddenly crumbled to the ground, sending dust motes up in the air.

“So, what are you gonna do?” Ron asked.

Harry sighed. “I don’t know.” He didn’t want to betray his oath as an Auror. He didn’t want to break the law. But he didn’t want to see Malfoy rule Britain, either. And to arrest his own family? And Hermione? They were criminals, and they had hurt him, but…

“I don’t bloody know.”

*****

Hermione Granger managed to stop biting her lower lip before she drew blood, but it was a near thing. As much as it hurt to see Harry like this, she was a professional thief - and she had responsibilities. She glanced at Sirius and Jeanne, who were still holding each other. Yes, someone had to speak up.

“What are we going to do now?”

Sirius didn’t open his eyes, but she saw him tense slightly. Jeanne frowned at her, but Hermione ignored that. They had to do something.

After a few seconds, she added: “We need to prepare in case the Aurors come after us.”

Sirius shook his head, causing Jeanne to loosen her grip on him. “Harry won’t rat us out.”

She bit her lower lip again, then hissed in frustration at herself and took a deep breath. She didn’t share his optimism. “We hurt him. A lot.” She had hurt him. And she had known he’d be hurt. She should have told him!

Sirius sighed. “I know.” He leaned back - still with his eyes closed. “I didn’t think it’d be that bad.”

Hermione swallowed the words that came to mind and stared at the door.

“You can say it, you know?” he told her.

“What?” She turned her head. He was looking at her and grinning, though it felt forced in her opinion.

“You can say ‘I told you so’.”

It wasn’t funny. She didn’t laugh. But she snorted. “We still have to be prepared. Just in case we… misjudge the situation. If Harry discovered our identities, then someone else could do so as well.” It was unlikely - Harry was the only one who had seen her in cat form that close up and so could have identified her. But Moody remained an unknown variable, even crippled as he still was. They had to be prepared. They needed to do something - anything.

“Ron was very quiet,” Jeanne remarked.

“Ron won’t rat us out either,” Sirius said. “Right, Hermione?”

She hesitated a moment - she didn’t know Ron as well as she knew Harry. Or had known, a dark part of her added. “I don’t think so. He’ll take his cue from Harry.”

“And Harry won’t betray us,” Sirius stated.

Hermione hoped that he was right. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “We still need to do something.” She couldn’t do nothing.

“We’ll continue as planned,” Sirius said. “While I sort this out with Harry.”

Hermione gasped. Was he serious? Just go on as if nothing had happened?

Jeanne shook her head. “Do you think you can do better than today?”

Sirius nodded. “Yes. Harry needs some time to think this over, but he’ll come round.”

“Come round?” Hermione sniffled. She wasn’t going to cry. Not here.

“He’ll understand why we did it. And we’ll finish Malfoy as planned.”

Sirius sounded more than a little as if he wanted to convince himself, Hermione noticed. She still hoped that he was correct.

She nodded and stood. “I’ll go over the plans in my room - without notes,” she added. Moody’s eye was still a threat.

But once she was in her room, sitting on her bed, which she hadn’t used in a while, all alone, she did nothing but cry until she fell asleep.

*****

His bed felt empty without Hermione. Harry Potter had gotten used to falling asleep with her. His arm around her body, her warmth on his skin…

He pressed his lips together as he stared at the canopy above. He shouldn’t feel like this. She had betrayed him. Lied to him. Deceived him. Spied on him. Played him for a fool. He shouldn’t miss her. But he did.

He remembered her expression when he had left dinner, and his lips curled into a grim smile. She had been hurt. She deserved it, too. And yet… He closed his eyes and pushed the guilt away. She had hurt him. And she was a criminal. A thief.

He snorted against his will. To think that she had become exactly that for which Malfoy had framed her - a thief! It was… He shook his head. It didn’t make sense. And Dumbledore had arranged the whole thing?

He didn’t want to believe it, but it rang true. The Headmaster had been quite ‘practical’ about fighting Voldemort. Breaking the law wouldn’t have fazed him.

Hadn’t fazed him, Harry knew - he had done the same, after all. Blood magic. He clenched his teeth. It wasn’t the same. There had been no other way to defeat Voldemort. And he hadn’t sacrificed anyone - he had merely used the protection his mum had granted him. Through her sacrifice. And the Headmaster had sacrificed himself.

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t. He had only technically broken the law. Blood magic was part of the Dark Arts and illegal because it required a sacrifice - but if you sacrificed yourself, then was it really a crime?

He snorted. The law was clear on that, although the Wizengamot had acquitted people in the past for using a dark curse or even an Unforgivable to defend themselves. Of course, those verdicts had been against members of the Wizengamot, or close relatives. And likely the results of massive bribes. From people like Malfoy. Or Sirius.

He rolled on to his side and almost reached out with his arm to hug someone who wasn’t there, then rolled back on to his back, cursing under his breath. Malfoy. If Harry enforced the law, as he had sworn he would, Malfoy would profit. With Sirius gone, the man would control the Wizengamot. And Harry knew what Malfoy would do with such power.

But if he didn’t enforce the law, then he wouldn’t be any better than a criminal himself. The end didn’t justify the means. Not always.

But, as he knew very well, sometimes it did. But was it the case here? Malfoy in power would be very bad for Wizarding Britain. Or was that just Harry’s desire not to have to arrest his family, and his… and her?

When he finally fell asleep, alone, he still hadn’t found an answer.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 5th, 1999**

Usually, Hermione Granger liked to sleep in at every opportunity - civilised cats didn’t go to bed with the livestock, nor did they get up at dawn; that’s when a good night’s prowl ended - but this morning was different. She was hungry - she hadn’t eaten much last evening - and she knew that staying in bed wouldn’t lead to a relaxing nap, not with her stomach about to growl louder than a scared dog and threaten to scare poor Crookshanks.

So she rose, cast the usual charms for facing the day, dressed and went to the kitchen for an early breakfast - which she hoped would allow her to take a decent nap afterwards. Fresh scones, honey, tea, maybe some rashers and sausages… She was licking her lips as she pushed the kitchen door open - and froze.

Harry and Ron were at the table, eating their breakfast. And Harry was staring at her… and then he looked away.

Despite the pang of pain at seeing that, she stepped inside. “Good morning,” she mumbled more than said.

“Morning.” Ron nodded at her. Harry merely bit into his toast and grabbed the Daily Prophet on the table.

Hermione ignored the pain that caused and took her seat. Kreacher was already serving her tea and scones - the elf had warmed up to her presence. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

He nodded, then went and started frying some sausages. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the tea with her eyes closed. That way, she didn’t have to stare at Harry but wouldn’t look as if she were avoiding eye contact. She cast a silent privacy charm, just in case.

“You’re early,” Ron commented after a moment.

She pressed her lips together, then took a sip to gain time before replying. “I was hungry,” she replied. “Couldn’t sleep in.”

Harry scoffed. She glanced at him, but he was studiously looking at the Daily Prophet. Unless the article about a new bill regulating cauldron bottoms was more controversial than she remembered, that scoff had been aimed at her, though.

Annoyance joined the guilt and pain she felt. “What are you going to do today?” she asked.

She frowned when she saw Ron glance at Harry, who didn’t react, before he cleared his throat and answered with a shrug: “The usual, I guess.”

Harry scoffed again. “We’re not going to arrest you, so you don’t need to spy on us,” he spat without looking at her.

She pressed her lips together, then snorted. “You mean you would _try_ to arrest us.” When he turned to look at her, scowling, she bared her teeth. She had escaped each time he had tried to catch her, after all.

He huffed. “You can’t be lucky every time.”

She almost hissed at that claim. She wasn’t lucky - she was good!

Ron cleared his throat again. “Well, we should go. Don’t want to be late. See you later, Hermione.”

“You’re right.” Harry nodded and stood.

Hermione nodded, curtly. It was Friday - they didn’t have a set shift and could come and go as they pleased. But she didn’t say anything as they left.

Then she sighed and hung her head. She hated this. She loathed the whole situation. Why couldn’t Harry be reasonable? Or at least talk to her so she could explain?

“Here, Miss.” Kreacher served the sausages, and Hermione bit into one with a snarl before she remembered to thank him.

She just wanted to curl up on her bed and nap until the day was over, but with that stupid Moody in their home, she couldn’t even change to do that properly. The sun simply didn’t feel as nice on her skin as it did on her fur.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 5th, 1999**

This was so bloody pointless! Harry Potter scowled at the file in front of him. He knew who the Night Nargles were. He knew where they were. He didn’t need to look at the evidence any more. The only thing he needed to do was to sort out what he was going to do about the whole thing. Which was much easier said or thought than done, of course.

He leaned back and sighed, closing his eyes.

“Break time?” Ron asked.

“Might as well,” Harry answered after a moment’s hesitation.

Ron didn’t comment on his lack of enthusiasm.

Harry frowned at him. “You know, you don’t have to treat me as if I’m about to have a breakdown,” he muttered.

Ron stopped at the door. “I’m more worried about you blowing up, actually,” he replied. ‘Something or someone’ remained unsaid, but Harry understood it anyway.

He sighed again. “I’m not gonna blow up,” he said. “I’m just frustrated since this is pointless.” He gestured at the stack of case files in their office. “But we can’t do anything else.” Not, at least, before they decided what they’d do about the whole thing. Not before Harry made up his mind.

“Well…” Ron said with a faint grin, “trying to figure out how they did it, now that we know who they are, is kind of fun.”

“What?” Harry stared at him. Ron really was spending too much time with the Lovegoods - his idea of fun had become more than a little weird.

Although, Harry had to admit to himself, as they left their office and the range of their privacy charms, he was wondering how Hermione had managed to call him from France while he was chasing her through London’s airspace. He had almost caught her leather-covered behind, too, he knew, until she cheated and snuck away as a cat.

That thought made him frown just as they entered the break room. And, of course, Bathilda noticed.

“Is something wrong, Harry?” she asked as Nott, sitting next to her, nodded a greeting.

Harry opened his mouth to lie to her, then reconsidered. He was better than that. “Personal problems at home,” he said as Ron fetched tea.

“Oh!” Bathilda stared at him. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

He nodded.

Nott, of course, had to comment. “Love trouble, Potter?”

Harry scowled at him, which seemed to surprise the man.

“Really?” Bathilda asked, then held a hand in front of her mouth. “Sorry, I was just surprised.”

Harry forced himself to smile. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

But, as he noticed how many other Aurors in the room had been listening in and were now whispering to each other, he couldn’t help thinking that the Night Nargles were causing even more trouble for him.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 6th, 1999**

Another morning after a silent dinner and a lonely night, Hermione Granger thought as she bit into a buttered scone in her room. Not even Crookshanks had kept her company. At least Harry and Ron had a weekend shift today - though she wondered if that had already been scheduled or if they had volunteered - and so they had already gone to work by the time she had left her bed.

Hermione would consider eating out to avoid having another awkward meal that ruined her appetite and mood, but she wasn’t about to abandon her home. Especially not with her parents still on their cruise.

If only Harry wouldn’t be so… She swallowed the thought. And the guilt, as well as the annoyance, with the last part of the scone. She had to focus on her work. One more heist and they were done. Done with heists.

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to stop. Heists were fun. Unless they hurt people about whom you cared. And if she continued her career, Harry would be hurt. She sighed. She really didn’t want to stop doing heists. The thrill, the challenge, the satisfaction of beating all the guards and wards… But if she had to choose between Harry and heists, she knew whom she’d choose.

Provided, she added with a grimace, that was still an option - Harry wasn’t showing any sign of forgiving them. Or her.

But she couldn’t let such gloomy thoughts distract her. She had a heist to plan. And at least part of the planning she could do at home, regardless of whether or not Moody’s eye could see through her privacy charms.

With a grin that was not entirely forced, she opened what passed for the Daily Prophet’s society pages. And froze, rage welling up inside her.

_Boy-Who-Lived Betrayed? Did His Girlfriend Cheat On Him With His Godfather?_

Hermione hissed. Whoever was responsible for this travesty would regret it!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 6th, 1999**

Harry Potter threw the Daily Prophet on the low table and barely resisted the urge to set it on fire. Once he found out who had started that rumour, he would teach them to respect his privacy! The Ministry was worse than Hogwarts - and that was already a pretty low bar.

“I’ll be in my room, talking to Luna,” Ron said. He was out of the living room before Harry could do more than nod in response.

Harry frowned - he hadn’t been that bad, had he? Anyone would have been angry at reading such drivel in the Prophet. And checking if Skeeter was still in Azkaban, and hadn’t escaped, was merely being thorough - it wasn’t as if they had anything more important to do, anyway.

Well, he could apologise to Ron later. Before dinner.

He scowled. He wasn’t looking forward to dinner. All that tension, the awkward glances, seeing Hermione being all… well, seeing her. Hearing her. Remembering…

He clenched his teeth and forced his eyes shut. He didn’t want to remember. Not the leather-suited thief, not the seductress, not the…

He sighed. If only Occlumency allowed him to erase memories. Maybe then it would hurt less.

The sound of steps in the hallway made him tense up. No one usually bothered him after he returned from work, not until dinner. It couldn’t be Moody - he still couldn’t stand up, much less walk. Kreacher used the elf-sized passages in the walls. And Hermione wouldn’t make so much noise when walking. Unless she wanted him to notice her.

“’Arry?”

Jeanne. He nodded at her. “Is it time for dinner already?”

She shook her head and stepped into the living room, closing the door behind her.

Harry tensed up again. He didn’t want to have another talk. But he didn’t want to flee from her. This was his home as much as hers, and Aurors didn’t flee from thieves.

She sat down in her usual armchair, sighing - she was showing her pregnancy now. “I’ve got a question for you, ’Arry.”

He nodded, already thinking of how to tell her that Sirius might love him, but he had hurt him a lot so she’d understand that this went past a simple row.

“What ’urt you more - that you were left ignorant or that ’Ermione beat you so often?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t have a problem with her escaping from me,” he said. She had been lucky. And she had cheated with her animagus form. And her disguises.

“Ah.” She nodded slowly - she didn’t believe him.

But insisting wouldn’t help, Harry knew. So he didn’t. She was wrong anyway. He wasn’t that petty. This was about trust, not about the fact that Hermione had played him for a fool.

“Sirius ’asn’t told me everything either, you know.”

He scoffed. “He told you about the thieving.”

“That was actually your fault.”

“What?” He blinked. “Oh, that.” He remembered.

She nodded. “I was recruited for Dumbledore’s Order after witnessing one of your visions. And since I was already involved with Sirius, I joined ’is cell.”

He shrugged. “That doesn’t change the fact that none of you told me.”

“I ’aven’t told Sirius everything I did, either,” she went on. “Nor what my family did. And neither ’as ’e told me much about ’is family. Or Azkaban.”

“Well, he doesn’t like to talk about it.” Not about his family nor about the Dementors. Harry suppressed the pity that made him feel.

“But ’ave you told ’im everything? Or ’er?”

He stared at her. Did she know? Did they know? If they did, why hadn’t they ever said anything? No, they didn’t know. She was fishing. Spying, like Hermione.

She smiled. “I see.”

No, she didn’t. This was different. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. He raised his chin. “If I kept a secret, then it wasn’t because I found it funny to play anyone for a fool.”

She shrugged in that French manner of hers, then grinned - rather maliciously. “But you did enjoy ’exing her during training, didn’t you?”

That was different. And it had been funny - in some ways. And he had done it because he thought she needed the training to be safe. Because he had thought…

He rose. “I’ll be in my room until dinner,” he snapped and left.

He didn’t look back but he knew she was smiling. As if she had won.

*****

**London, Greenwich, February 7th, 1999**

Hermione Granger was a professional thief. She wouldn’t let a family crisis keep her from doing her job, so to speak. Nor a libellous article in what passed for the leading newspaper in Wizarding Britain. Wizarding Britain really needed a professional newspaper. First the ridiculous moniker, now this rumour about her cheating on Harry…

She cleared her throat. “I’ve been studying the news. It seems that the Malfoys dare, once again, to socialise with the rest of Wizarding Britain’s so-called elite.”

Sirius snorted at that, but it lacked his usual humour. “Bloody parasites,” he muttered.

She glanced at him and bit her lower lip. He had been like this - forced cheerfulness and optimism, but a much darker mood behind his jokes - ever since the confrontation with Harry. She didn’t think he had fully recovered from his ordeal in Azkaban - and perhaps never would - and this rift in the family certainly wasn’t helping. But there wasn’t much she could do about it. She had to trust Jeanne. And hope that the situation with Harry would get resolved soon.

If only he’d talk to them! Or, at least, to her.

“That means your plan is feasible,” Mr Fletcher said. “Provided your boyfriend doesn’t have a change of heart and arrest the lot of you.”

Hermione pressed her lips together as Sirius snapped: “He won’t.”

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “I’ve heard that before.” He looked at Hermione, and she flinched. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had been more careful.”

“I had no way of cleaning the central shaft,” she defended herself.

“You should have had a solution prepared in advance,” he chided her. “And you should have noticed that you lost some fur there.”

He was correct, of course, even though she hated to admit it. It was her fault. “Yes,” she pressed out through her teeth.

He huffed. “And getting involved with him made it worse.”

She knew that as well. “I didn’t want to! It just happened!” Which was the truth.

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “What’s done is done. But I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. We need a plan that he can’t foil if he tries.”

That would mean deceiving him again. Luring him somewhere, distracting him or even drugging him for the heist’s duration. Hermione shook her head. “No. We can’t do that to him.” She wouldn’t sacrifice Harry for this.

“You don’t have to be involved,” Sirius said. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t know about you.”

“He knows I was trained by a thief, but he doesn’t know your identity,” Hermione nodded at Mr Fletcher as she corrected Sirius. And even if the worst happened, they would be able to warn Mr Fletcher so he could avoid being arrested.

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “You need to sort this out. Otherwise, this heist is doomed. And not just because of Potter’s meddling, but because you two can’t think straight right now.” He tapped Malfoy’s picture in the article. “Fortunately, you still have time for that - I’ll have to make a few inquiries about our mark’s habits before we can proceed with the next part.”

Hermione stepped on Sirius’s foot when he opened his mouth. The last thing she wanted was another row between the two men. She was feeling miserable enough already with the other half of her family falling apart.

Mr Fletcher grinned - he had noticed that, of course - and left their base.

Sirius frowned at her. “That was unnecessary.”

“Sorry.” She didn’t really mean it.

He sighed. “But the guttersnipe is correct - we need to set things straight.”

“Harry isn’t talking to us.” Jeanne had talked to him, but Hermione wasn’t sure whether that hadn’t made things worse.

“He will.”

She didn’t share his optimism. “Eventually.” Probably.

After a moment, Sirius went on: “I’ll take the blame.”

“What?” She stared at him.

“It’s my fault. I told you not to tell him.” He smiled thinly.

“I decided to go along with it,” she said. “I decided to get involved with him, even though I knew better.” Secrets had destroyed her relationship with Paul. Well, secrets and his attitude. And she had enjoyed outdoing Harry. Quite a bit.

“You would have told him without me, though.”

“And without Jeanne and Mr Fletcher,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “He would have been fine, and Jeanne wouldn’t have minded.”

Hermione agreed with that - although she suspected that Jeanne would have done something rather… French… if Harry had posed a threat to her family. And might still attempt to do so, if things grew worse.

Sirius shook his head. “No. It was my mistake, and I’ll shoulder the blame for this.” He nodded at her with a lopsided grin that reminded her of the dog. And with rather wet eyes.

She nodded, feeling both relieved and guilty about Sirius’s plan. And sacrifice. And worried whether it would be enough for her to save her relationship with Harry.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 7th, 1999**

“Harry?”

On his bed, on the part not taken up by Crookshanks, who apparently still thought that this was his room, Harry Potter looked up from the book he wasn’t reading. That was Sirius. And Harry didn’t want to talk to his godfather. “I’m busy,” he replied without getting up or opening the door.

“Good.” And Sirius opened the door.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That usually means that I don’t want to be bothered,” he snapped. Least of all by Sirius.

“Tough.” Sirius closed the door and cast a few privacy charms.

Harry sat up and crossed his arms. “This is my room.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it were someone else’s,” Sirius replied as he conjured a chair for himself. But he sighed right away. “Sorry. Didn’t want to sound so…”

“...Sirius?”

His godfather flinched. “I guess.” He took a deep breath. “I came to apologise. I should have told you from the start. And I should have listened to Hermione when she wanted to tell you.”

Harry scoffed. “She should have told me anyway.” She shouldn’t have valued his godfather more than him.

“Did you really expect her to?” Sirius shook his head. “Betray me, Jeanne and her mentor? After all we went through?”

Harry glared at him. “After all your heists, you mean.”

“More or less.” Sirius shrugged. “I taught her how to become an animagus, too. I would have taught you as well, but you were learning Occlumency…”

“You taught her?” Harry had thought she had learned that from her mentor.

“Yes.” Sirius looked at him. “I’m a dog.”

Harry pressed his lips together. Another secret. “No wonder she’s…”

“I also saved her life.”

“What?” Harry blurted out, then snapped his mouth shut. He didn’t want to hear about this. Not really.

“Yes.” Sirius nodded, looking at the wall behind Harry. “We were breaking into that vampire’s den. This was back when we were still inexperienced. And the vampire wasn’t asleep - caught her by surprise and took out her teacher. He was about to bite her when I got him.”

Harry resisted the urge to curse. If he had known about that…

Sirius nodded. “Yes, Dumbledore’s missions were dangerous.”

“She shouldn’t have been doing them,” Harry snapped. She shouldn’t have been trained as a thief in the first place!

Sirius had the gall to chuckle. “I would have liked to see anyone try to stop her from being involved - the missions were for you, after all.”

Harry gasped - he couldn’t help it. “You know?”

Sirius shrugged with a faint grin on his face. “Who do you think stole all the blood magic grimoires for Dumbledore?” He shook his head before Harry could say anything. “But that doesn’t make my mistake any better. I should have told you. I thought I knew best what was best for you, and I was wrong. And I made everyone follow my lead.”

“You didn’t put them under the Imperius Curse,” Harry retorted.

“I didn’t have to. I paid her debts. I restored her family’s home. I saved her life. I helped her get revenge on those who wronged her. What kind of witch do you think she would be if she could ignore all that?”

Harry didn’t want to answer that. She should have told him anyway. He huffed.

“Do you think Ron’s to blame for not arresting us?”

Harry glared at his godfather. Ron was his best friend. He wouldn’t betray him like that. Unlike... He closed his eyes and sighed.

“I understand why you did it.” And why she hadn’t told him. Even though she should have. “But that doesn’t mean I can forget it.” Or trust him. Them. Her. It still hurt. A lot.

“I didn’t expect you to,” Sirius said. But his expression told Harry that Sirius had hoped he would. After a few seconds, he continued: “We’re planning to rob Malfoy Manor.”

“I know.” Harry ground his teeth. “It’s wrong.” It was a crime.

“So’s blood magic.”

Harry glared at him. “It’s not the same.”

“But it’s close enough. And the principle is the same.” Sirius stood. “It’ll be her last heist, you know. If you ask her to stop. She’ll do anything for you.”

Harry snorted. Anything but telling him the truth about herself. He closed his eyes as Sirius opened the door.

“Harry?”

That was Hermione standing in the doorway, looking at him. He sat up and glared at her. He couldn’t bear another talk. Not now. Not here. Not her.

She flinched in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. And I shouldn’t have enjoyed playing with you on our heists. I’m sorry.” She sniffled. Once.

He managed to nod, curtly, in response.

“Will you try to stop us from robbing Malfoy?”

‘Try to’. He glared at her, but she didn’t flinch this time. “What choice do I have? It’s you or Malfoy.” He scoffed. Even if he followed the law, it would only lead to Malfoy breaking and bending it as he pleased. “I hate it!” he snapped, baring his teeth.

She nodded and left.

He closed his eyes and laid back down on his bed, dislodging the fat cat on his pillow. He couldn’t win. He had tried, he had done his best, and he couldn’t win. Not without breaking the law.

And that failure hurt more than anything she had done.

*****

 


	64. Contemplation and Preparation

**London, Diagon Alley, February 8th, 1999**

Draco Malfoy took a deep breath as he entered Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron. Even two weeks after he had finally been allowed out of the Manor again, it still felt great. You never really appreciated what you had until you lost it and had to fight to get it back, or something like that.

And how he had had to fight! He loved his parents, but they were far too protective of him - it wasn’t as if Draco couldn’t protect himself; he had passed his Defence N.E.W.T., after all. And Crouch was dead and not a threat to them any more, anyway. But even so, it had taken him days of struggling to regain his freedom. His mother just was too emotional to consider things rationally.

“Oh, look, Draco! They’ve got the new brooms in!”

He forced himself to smile in response to Pansy’s words. Her presence was the only flaw in an otherwise excellent day. It wasn’t as if he minded spending time with her - she was pretty, of the purest blood and born to an Old Family - but she had gotten clingy after her family’s fortune had been stolen by the Night Nargles.

But the worst thing was the way she was so grateful for him not ending their engagement despite her unfortunate circumstances. Draco hadn’t even considered breaking it before Father had ordered him to keep it, but his father had clearly implied that it would be a temporary affair - ‘for now’.

And it felt wrong to let Pansy hope that they would marry when Draco already knew it wouldn’t happen and the engagement would be broken as soon as his parents deemed it necessary. After their time together, Pansy deserved better than that. She had been ever loyal and supportive, as a partner should be. Like his parents were.

But Draco had had to struggle for days to be allowed outside the Manor or similarly warded homes - he knew it would be pointless to try to change his father’s mind about the engagement.

They spent some time looking at the new brooms in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Nothing truly groundbreaking; merely some slightly improved versions of older models. If not for Pansy’s presence, Draco would have bought the latest model of the Nimbus 2000 series anyway - nothing but the best was good enough for him, after all - but that would have been tacky, given the unfortunate reversal her family had suffered.

He’d have to visit the shop later this week to buy the broom.

“Can we go to Fortescue’s?” Pansy asked as they were leaving the shop.

“Of course,” Draco answered automatically. Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour was the best in Britain, and, despite the season, he wouldn’t mind sampling their latest creations. The owner might claim not to be actually related to the pureblood family of the same name, but there was no way a mere mudblood would be able to create such magical recipes.

Unfortunately, others had had the same thought, Draco discovered as they entered the Parlour - Daphne and Tracey were sitting at a table in the corner. He felt Pansy clinging even more to his left arm in response and turned to walk towards the bar instead of their usual place. It was rude to snub the two witches like this, but he was not the kind of wizard who’d expose Pansy to Tracey’s sharp tongue or Daphne’s scathing remarks.

They sat down on the stools at the bar - not the most comfortable seats, but they would do. If they picked a different table than their usual at the window, it would look as if they were avoiding Daphne and Tracey.

“Have you heard the latest?” Pansy asked after they had ordered - Draco had picked the new ‘Florence Cayenne Surprise’ while Pansy had gone with a ‘Spiced Strawberry Split’.

Draco cocked his head slightly as he looked at her. “About?” He was well-informed about everything important, as befitted a Malfoy.

“I heard Theo is actually dating his Auror colleague.”

“Really?” Draco was surprised. The witch was a pureblood, but not closely related to an Old Family. He didn’t think Nott’s parents would approve of such a match.

“Indeed. I heard it from my aunt, who works in the Ministry. They’ve been spending their lunches together for two weeks now.”

“Ah.” That didn’t sound too serious, yet. Draco nodded anyway. Stranger things had happened. Mother’s sister had married a mudblood, after all - though that wasn’t a subject that ever came up in polite conversation, of course. Although… He frowned. “Isn’t she a friend of Potter and Weasley’s?”

“Well, last I heard, so is Theo,” Pansy said.

“What?” Draco stared at her. “Theo? Friends with Potter?”

“They’ve spent all their breaks together - Theo, her, Potter and Weasley.”

Draco sneered. How could anyone associate with such disgraces to their kind? Weasley was apparently engaged to a witch with hereditary madness, and Potter had not only been sleeping with Granger, but the mudblood had been cheating on him with his own godfather! How Draco’s poor mother was suffering at the sight of how far her family had fallen! “It seems Granger’s finally showing her true colours,” he commented.

“Disgraceful,” Pansy agreed. “Although one can hope that Black’s wife will settle things in the French manner.”

Draco nodded. Duels were outlawed, but that wasn’t really enforced in the right circles and wouldn’t stop a French witch anyway. And if she managed to kill Black, perhaps Father would manage to get her prosecuted, which would let Mother reclaim her birthright… “We can but hope,” he said. Seeing Black and Potter both brought low by their weakness for mudbloods would be delightfully fitting, even though Father said they were still needed until the thieves were caught.

Draco disagreed - lesser families might fall prey to that kind of criminal, but not the Malfoys. The thieves had failed to break into Longbottom Manor and Grimmauld Place; they obviously had their limits.

And Malfoy Manor was far better protected than either of those two locations. His father had seen to that.

No, Draco had much more pressing problems than worrying about some irrelevant criminals. After the last few months, spent as basically a prisoner in his own home, he was in dire need of reacquainting himself with a few locations in the Alley. And some of them he couldn’t visit with Pansy on his arm.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, February 9th, 1999**

Hermione Granger frowned as she studied the building across the street from her perch on the roof. The ‘Oasis’ didn’t look like much from the outside - it was very discreet, only a small plaque announcing the club’s name. But a ‘private club’ - a brothel according to her information - frequented by the likes of Malfoy would need to be very discreet, and Mr Fletcher had found out that Malfoy had been a regular there until Crouch had scared him into hiding in his home.

There were two other brothels Malfoy had frequented according to her mentor’s information, but those were in Knockturn Alley, and Sirius didn’t think the Malfoys would let their scion visit there yet.

Hermione wasn’t sure whether she agreed with that assessment, but someone had to take care of the Oasis, and everyone but herself had been in agreement that she was the best choice for that job.

Hermione suspected it was less her skills as a thief than a desire to keep her out of Knockturn Alley without anyone backing her up, but she hadn’t protested against the decision - the Oasis was the hardest location to break into since, unlike the other brothels, you couldn’t just enter as a client; it was a private club, after all.

And a very well guarded club at that, she noted as she studied the building. Strong wards covered not just the club, but the two neighbouring buildings as well. She wouldn’t be able to break into the club using the same method she had used to break into Greengrass’s shop.

And she doubted that the cellar was a weak spot, either, if the club’s owners had gone to that extent to secure the walls. She might be able to use a disillusioned floating platform to break through the wards, but she had a suspicion that the roof was quite well protected against breaking in beyond the wards. That would be the smart thing to do, after all - especially after the decoy attack on Grimmauld Place had revealed that method.

No, she didn’t think that going through the wards like a Curse-Breaker would be a good idea here. Fortunately, she added to herself with a grin, she was no mere Curse-Breaker - she was a professional thief. And that meant she wasn’t limited to a Curse-Breaker’s methods.

Her grin faded a little as she remembered, unbidden, what else being a professional thief meant for her: relationship trouble. She bared her teeth. She had to focus on her job. She couldn’t afford to dwell on her troubled private life. Or wonder what Harry was doing right now. And how he was feeling.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 9th, 1999**

The house felt empty without Sirius, Jeanne and…

Harry Potter hissed in frustration. They had hurt him. _She_ had hurt him. And they were criminals. Thieves. He was an Auror.

“Something wrong?”

Harry looked up from the book he wasn’t really reading - an old Defence tract from the family library - and noticed that Ron was looking at him, apparently having turned down the volume on the live wireless broadcast from the Bulgarian Quidditch Cup game. Crookshanks was looking at him as well, from his perch on the sofa, but Harry ignored him. He wasn’t fond of cats at the moment. Nor of dogs.

“No,” he lied. At his friend’s frown, he sighed. “It’s just… It was better when I didn’t know, you know?”

Ron nodded.

Harry explained it anyway. “I was merely waiting for my… for them to return from France, or from work. I didn’t know they were out there, breaking into homes, or preparing to break into homes.” And risking their lives, but that was something else he didn’t want to think about.

“Ah.” Ron nodded again. He didn’t turn back to the wireless receiver, though.

“Is the game over already?” Harry asked, despite knowing better.

“No. But Krum’s team is leading a hundred seventy to ten, and he’ll get the Snitch anyway.”

“Ah.” Though Harry was aware that knowing the outcome of a match never stopped Ron from avidly listening to any Cannons match. Why was his friend here, anyway, and not chatting with Luna through the mirror - or sneaking into Hogwarts? Was he keeping an eye on Harry? He snorted at the thought. Perhaps he was a little too paranoid. “You don’t have to keep me company, you know,” he said. “I’m fine,” he added before he could help himself.

Ron snorted at that, of course.

Harry closed his eyes. “I really am fine,” he insisted.

“You always say that. Mate, you’re not fine. I can tell, Bathilda can tell, Nott can tell. Hell, even Dawlish could probably tell, if he weren’t sulking in his office all day.”

Harry huffed and picked up his book again.

“You miss her.”

Harry refrained from lashing out. Of course he did, but, damn it, she had lied to him. Hurt him. He glared at Ron. “She made her bed.”

Ron shrugged. “She made a mistake.” Harry scoffed. “A big, stupid mistake,” Ron amended. “But she apologised, didn’t she?”

Harry sneered. He knew where this was going. “She didn’t hurt _you_.”

“Well, not like she hurt you,” Ron replied. “But I know what making a mistake feels like.”

Harry almost scoffed. Ron wasn’t the Auror with a girlfriend who had turned out to be Britain’s most wanted thief. Ron was the one who was happy with his girlfriend - had been so for years, now. “What did you do?”

Ron sighed. “I was a jerk to Luna when we were younger. Made fun of her behind her back, too.”

“That was years ago,” Harry retorted. “And you were kids.”

“I still feel bad when I think about it. And I never told her or apologised.”

Harry snorted. “It’s not the same.” Not even close.

“Of course not. But we all make mistakes, don’t we?”

Harry snorted again and focused on his book. Some mistakes were worse than others.

He still missed her, though. Usually, she’d be here, they’d be talking, reading together, discussing what they were reading, listening to music, perhaps going to see a movie…

He closed his eyes. It was her fault, not his. He hadn’t done anything wrong. And he wasn’t doing anything wrong, either, no matter what Ron was implying.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, February 9th, 1999**

Hermione Granger shook her head as she studied the side alley next to the Oasis. Even though all the members of the private club entered through the Floo Network instead of through the front door - as important members of the Old Families they couldn’t be seen entering such a club, after all - the staff was still forced to use the side entrance. Jeanne had uttered a few choice words about the foolishness of British morals upon hearing that from Mr Fletcher. In Magical France, courtesans were a respected profession - well, some of them were. Those with influential lovers.

Hermione had her doubts that the kind of witches working in the Oasis would be any more respected if they were working in a similar club in France. On the other hand, the French would keep in mind that any such witch might become the mistress of a member of the Duc’s Court, so they might not dare to snub them and risk their revenge.

In any case, the British peculiarities made her job easier. She changed and descended via the roof, gutter and windowsills to the alley below. And she double-checked that she hadn’t left any fur behind.

Once on the ground, she picked a rain barrel - with enough holes in the wood to qualify as a sieve - as her perch. The wood was rotten - soft enough that her claws dug in without any effort -  but clean, and seemed stable enough. And even if her guess turned out to be wrong, there wasn’t any water inside the barrel, so there was no danger of getting wet either way.

Now she had just to wait until the witches working at the club started to leave - no one would be able to resist a beautiful cat like herself. Well, almost no one, she corrected herself, remembering the time Harry had thrown her out of her home. Growling, she pushed that humiliating memory out of her mind. That wouldn’t happen here.

She got comfortable on her spot and rested her chin on her front paws. As much as her… situation… with Harry hurt, at least she didn’t have to lie to him any more and make up excuses for her absence. And she could spend more time on a heist such as this one, too.

But if she were honest, she really would prefer the alternative.

With that gloomy thought, she settled in to wait for her opportunity.

She didn’t have to wait as long as she had feared - shortly after midnight, the side entrance opened, and two witches stepped out. Well, it was Tuesday - Wednesday now - and those club members with family probably wouldn’t want to explain where they had spent the night.

Hermione studied the two witches for a moment, her gaze not hindered by the alley’s shadows. They were both pretty, young-looking and knew how to apply makeup to great effect. Employees.

She let them come towards her, then miaowed.

“What was that?” one of the witches asked. Apparently, not a very bright one.

“A cat,” the other replied.

Hermione took her cue and jumped down from the barrel, then padded towards them, tail held high.

“Oh, there it is.”

She almost huffed. She was a cat, not a thing. But she was also a thief on a mission. So she approached them and rubbed her flank against their legs, miaowing again, more softly this time.

As expected, both witches cooed over her. The smarter one crouched down and started to pet her. Yes, this witch knew how to treat cats. She probably had one herself at home. Hermione pushed her head against the woman’s robes and sniffed. She didn’t detected the scent of another cat, though.

Which was ideal. A cat-lover without a cat of her own would be more willing to take in a cat at work.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 10th, 1999**

Harry Potter wasn’t in a good mood when he arrived in the kitchen for breakfast. Apparently, Crookshanks had decided that with Hermione absent, he’d take over her spot and had picked Harry’s chest on which to sleep. The fat cat’s snoring face wasn’t the kind of view with which Harry wanted to start the day. And it had made him remember how he used to start the day as well, which made him miss her. Again.

And Kreacher had him wait for his breakfast, too - the elf made his annoyance at Harry subtly known. He didn’t mix up Harry’s food or burn it, but when you were used to your favourite breakfast already being ready when you entered the kitchen, having to wait a few minutes while the elf fixed it was clear enough.

Especially since Jeanne’s breakfast was ready when she arrived - and Kreacher had prepared not only her usual croissants and coffee, but pickles, mustard, salted fish and dark bread as well. Harry hoped she’d lose those pregnancy cravings soon - the smell was almost bad enough to cast a Bubble-Head Charm.

“Bonjour.” She nodded at him.

“Morning.”

“Where’s Ron?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s probably still asleep.” His friend must have talked too long with Luna through his mirror after they had gone to bed last night. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Still sleeping. ’E spent the night out,” she replied.

“Oh?” Harry cocked his head, then frowned. Of course - they were preparing their next heist. He stared at his meal, then grabbed the Daily Prophet.

“There won’t be anything in the news,” she said, after casting a privacy charm. “They didn’t do anything.”

Harry snorted. “They did nothing for the whole night?” Yeah, right.

Jeanne shrugged. “Just reconnaissance. In brothels.”

“What?” Harry gaped at her. Reconnaissance? In brothels? Hermione?

Jeanne smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. ’Ermione’s going as a cat. She’s not posing as a courtesan - not that you ’ave courtesans in Britain, anyway.”

Harry clenched his teeth and glared at her. She had worded it like that on purpose, to get a reaction out of him.

But he was still relieved.

*****

**London, Greenwich, February 10th, 1999**

“...and ideally, I should be able to slip inside the club in my cat form in the next few days,” Hermione Granger said in their safehouse. “If they do not let cats inside, though, I’ll have to slip in behind one of the staff while disillusioned as a cat - and for that, I’ll need help.” That way, she’d be able to avoid triggering any Human-presence-revealing Spells.

“I’ll do it. Or Black, then,” Mr Fletcher said, “since it doesn’t look like Malfoy’s son has been visiting Knockturn Alley.”

“That doesn’t mean ’e won’t in the future. I can disillusion ’er,” Jeanne cut in. Before anyone could object, she narrowed her eyes. “My pregnancy doesn’t prevent me from casting spells.” She twirled her wand to emphasise the point.

Hermione smirked when she saw Sirius close his mouth and frown.

“But if something goes wrong,” Mr Fletcher pointed out, “Hermione’ll need backup.”

Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from protesting. She had made a mistake, which had led to Harry discovering their identities. But she wouldn’t make another mistake!

“I can create a distraction as well as you could,” Jeanne said. “Neither of us will be able to break through the wards in time, anyway. And,” she once more cut off Sirius’s objection, “if you were able to become a member of the Oasis, chéri, ’Ermione wouldn’t ’ave to sneak in.”

This time, Sirius pouted. Hermione shook her head. They were a little too protective. Besides, she didn’t doubt that, should she be discovered, she would be able to escape. She had escaped from far more dangerous wizards than whoever guarded a brothel. Like Harry.

She suppressed a frown. She hadn’t even seen him today - by the time she had woken up, Harry and Ron had already left. Breakfast hadn’t been awkward, but it had been lonely. Which, as she had found out, was worse.

But at least they didn’t waste much time hashing out the assignments for the evening. Which were the same as yesterday evening’s, with the exception of Jeanne covering Hermione.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 10th, 1999**

“I talked to ’Arry.”

Hermione Granger had just gotten comfortable in her favourite armchair in the living room when Jeanne’s words made her jerk and almost drop the book in her lap. She glanced at the older witch and frowned at the faint smirk on her friend’s face. “You did?”

“So I said.” Jeanne leaned back on the couch, one hand resting on her belly.

“What did he say?” Hermione bit her lower lip. When had Jeanne talked to Harry? And why hadn’t she said something sooner?

Jeanne’s smirk grew more pronounced. “’E was relieved when ’e ’eard that you weren’t infiltrating a brothel disguised as a courtesan.”

Hermione blinked. That was… reassuring, somewhat. But also annoying. “Did he really think I would do such a thing?” She was a thief, not a prostitute! That was among the first things Mr Fletcher had taught her!

“’Ave you talked to ’im about what you do and what you don’t do?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She had apologised - after a fashion. Nothing more. But still!

Jeanne shook her head. “’E doesn’t know anything about your secret life.”

Hermione sighed and hung her head. “And he won’t trust me until he does.” And perhaps not even then.

“’E still loves you.”

Hermione hoped that her friend was correct. “That’s not enough.”

“Then talk to ’im.”

Hermione frowned at her. “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“So? ’E didn’t want to talk to me either.” Jeanne scoffed. “But if ’e’s acting like a little boy nursing ’is wounded pride, I’ll treat ’im like one.”

Hermione glared at her. “This isn’t about his pride! This is about his trust!” In her.

Jeanne sniffed. “’E’s smart enough to understand that sometimes, you have to keep secrets even from those you love. ’E kept secrets as well, didn’t ’e?” She shook her head. “And yet, ’e expects to be told everything?”

“We should have told him about our plans!” Hermione insisted. “It was a mistake to keep him in the dark!”

“Yes, it was. But everyone makes mistakes. This isn’t about the secret. This is about pride. ’E doesn’t like that you proved to be better as a thief than ’e was as an Auror.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Hermione replied. Harry wasn’t like that.

Jeanne shook her head again. “It’s also about your pride.”

“What?”

“Go to ’im. Apologise again. You can’t just wait for ’im to come to ’is senses because you’re too proud to take the first step.”

“I’m not too proud to take the first step,” Hermione retorted. She wasn’t.

She was afraid that it wouldn’t work.

“Then do it. Explain. Grovel if you ’ave to. You love each other.”

Hermione knew that. But she also knew that, sometimes, that wasn’t enough.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 10th, 1999**

“Have you heard the latest?” Nott asked as soon as Harry and Ron had sat at their table in the break room.

Harry Potter had grown to loathe such questions after the recent slew of rumours about him, his family and his relationship. But if he snapped at Nott, Bathilda would get upset. Even though Nott had started it with his smirking expression.

So he shook his head. “No, but I guess you’ll lose no time telling us everything in great detail.” There, polite and diplomatic.

“Temper, temper, Potter,” Nott replied. He looked as if he was about to add another needling comment, but a glare from Bathilda shut him up. Nott even looked apologetic, Harry noticed. “Sorry. Anyway - they’re expediting Umbridge’s trial. The Wizengamot really wants this over and done with.”

Ron snorted. “They don’t want to risk her spilling all the secrets she knows about them. Are they pushing for the Veil?”

Nott shrugged, apparently unconcerned about the witch’s fate. “Father didn’t say, but I guess so - even in Azkaban, she could make trouble. It was different with the Dementors, but now? Too easy to let something slip to a guard.”

Reducing the horror of the Dementors to a convenient way to keep prisoners from spilling secrets… Harry clenched his teeth, wanting to tell off the jerk. Sirius had gone through hell for over ten years. And if he got caught, he’d be sent back to that horrible place. Even without the Dementors, the memories would… He almost shook his head. Why was Sirius risking so much - his family, his sanity, his accomplices?

Because Malfoy couldn’t be left in power, of course. Harry knew that already. That was why he had become an Auror. An Auror who had to let thieves commit crimes to do what he was unable to achieve legally.

He pushed the thought away. “If Umbridge was smart, she’ll have prepared a dead man’s switch.”

“A what?” Nott asked.

“Necromancy?” Bathilda looked shocked.

“It’s a muggle term,” Harry explained. “It means setting up a way to ensure that your information will be revealed to the public after your death - usually by making it so you need to do something regularly to prevent that from happening.”

“Clever. And the Wizengamot can’t risk questioning her thoroughly, or the secrets they want to keep hidden will be spilt anyway.” Nott looked impressed.

“Well, if she could think of such a thing, wouldn’t she have had a better plan for hiring an assassin?” Ron asked.

“But she has to have had a way to keep the Old Families from dealing with her before this,” Nott pointed out.

“That’s true.” Harry nodded. “And we know what our esteemed members of the Wizengamot would have done to protect their secrets, don’t we? Some of them, at least.”

Nott snorted. “The Blacks have a reputation for a reason.”

Harry almost blurted out that Sirius wasn’t like the rest of his family. But in a way, his godfather was - he didn’t care what laws he broke, as long as he got what he wanted.

But then, if there was no other way… sometimes, the end did justify the means.

Harry just wished it wouldn’t apply here.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 10th, 1999**

Harry Potter didn’t seek out Hermione once he was back from work, but he didn’t avoid her by going to his room, either. He went to the living room instead. It was empty, but if she wasn’t hiding from him - or busy planning her heist - she would show up there. At least for dinner.

He closed his eyes at that thought and sighed. He could go to his room until dinner. Ask - confront - her then. He wouldn’t appear as though he missed her, then. He would just be checking up on the crimes they had committed last night.

But, damn it, he did miss her.

And he wanted to know what she was doing. Where. And how dangerous it was.

But he couldn’t - wouldn’t - go and ask her. She had hurt him, not the other way round.

He clenched his teeth in frustration and anger as he read an issue of Quidditch Weekly he had already read before. It was her fault, not his. Hers and Sirius’s. And Jeanne’s. And the fault of that still unknown tutor of hers who had taught her to be a thief. And Dumbledore’s, for setting it up.

It wasn’t his fault at all. He was doing the right thing. Had done so, at least, until he had found out their secret.

The sound of steps in the hallway - he had left the door open - made him look up. That sounded like… it was her.

Hermione appeared in the doorway, stopping for a moment before entering. “Hello, Harry.” She sounded more timid than usual.

“Hello.” He nodded at her. Curtly.

She didn’t react to that and took her favourite seat, but she didn’t pick up a book or newspaper, so he didn’t bother acting as if he were reading his magazine either.

“I’m sorry,” she said after casting a privacy charm.

He was tempted to reply with “Again?”, but managed to control himself and nodded instead.

“I should have told you. And I shouldn’t have enjoyed escaping from you,” she went on.

“But you did.”

She flinched, then nodded. “Yes. And I can’t change that. I can only apologise.”

“You could stop stealing right now, too,” he not quite snapped.

“Before we ruin Malfoy?” She shook her head. “As long as he has gold to spend and the reputation of a hero, Britain won’t ever change. He’ll be pulling the Ministry’s strings as he’s done for years.”

“You’ve already robbed four Old Families. Sirius can outspend Malfoy without even touching the family fortune,” Harry retorted.

“By feeding corrupt officials.” Hermione scoffed. “Leaving aside how that would only further entrench the culture of nepotism and corruption in the Ministry, it would also take far too long. Years, at least. Decades, if Malfoy starts to use his gold sparingly - just enough to keep his position. And if he sees his ruin coming, he might decide to copy Umbridge - but he has the money and experience to actually hire a skilled assassin.”

As much as Harry loathed to admit it, Hermione wasn’t wrong. “Malfoy can’t do as he wishes any more, not with Sirius blocking him in the Wizengamot and undermining him in the Ministry.”

“He still can block all of Sirius’s proposals for reforming the Wizengamot and the Ministry. Too many members will realise that the reforms will curb their power and won’t need much to follow his lead. Wizarding Britain wouldn’t change for years. Is that the kind of country in which you want to live? Where you want to raise your children?”

Children? He buried that thought. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” He asked, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She shook her head. “If that were true, then I’d know how to deal with... this.” She waved her hand in a gesture that encompassed both of them. “I never wanted to hurt you. But I didn’t see a way to tell you without betraying the others.” She sighed.

“But you enjoyed beating me.”

“Yes.” She nodded. After a moment, she went on: “It’s a rush. A challenge. Planning a heist, finding a way past or around the target’s protections, into their vault, and getting away with it?” She shook her head with a wry grin. “It’s a great feeling. Like catching the Snitch in the Cup.”

He knew how that felt. But it wasn’t the same. “It’s not a game. It’s a crime.”

She shrugged. “We use Stunners. We don’t kill or curse anyone. And if we don’t break the law, it’ll keep being bent and twisted by the Wizengamot. And people like Sirius or me will suffer.”

He didn’t have an answer to that. Not one that didn’t make him sound like he preferred Malfoy over her and Sirius, at least. “I still don’t like it,” he said after a moment.

“I know.”

He sighed. “Will you stop after Malfoy, at least?”

“If you want me to. And if there’s no need for me any more.”

He nodded. There wouldn’t be. He would make sure of it.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, February 11th, 1999**

Hermione Granger saw her prey approaching and prepared herself. She got up on all fours and stretched, then shook her head and jumped down to the ground just as the witch in question - Laura - came close.

The witch gasped and took a step back in surprise, and Hermione cocked her head, letting out a confused miaow.

“Oh, it’s you. The stray.”

Hermione pushed the memories that brought up away and approached the witch, rubbing her flank against the witch’s robes.

“Do you live here? This is the third time we’ve met.”

Hermione miaowed in response, then stood on her hind legs and patted the witch’s thigh.

“Aw… are you hungry? Do you want some food?”

Hermione replied to that offer as any self-respecting cat would and purred.

“Aw… but I have no food on me.” The witch sounded contrite as she petted Hermione’s head.

Hermione added a more pitiful miaow. Who could resist a hungry cat?

“Poor thing… maybe I could sneak you some food from the bar…”

Yes!

“Laura? What are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

The witch gasped. “Merlin’s beard! You’re right! Bye, kitty!”

No! Hermione followed Laura as she joined her friend and quickly walked towards the side entrance.

“You and your love for cats! The little buggers are exploiting you!”

Hermione didn’t like that witch. At all.

“Mary! Look at the poor thing! Hungry and cold!” Laura shook her head.

“It looks well-fed to me.”

“That’s just because her fur’s so bushy.”

Hermione miaowed again.

“You can’t take her with you!”

“Why not?”

“Quentin will hex the thing as soon as he spots it.”

“He wouldn’t!”

“Of course he would. Didn’t Rebecca tell you what he did to the dog her friend took to work once?”

Hermione was a cat, not a dog, but this ‘Quentin’ might not appreciate the difference. And while she was nimble and graceful, and a thug or brute working in a brothel would not find it easy to hit her, she wouldn’t be able to accomplish her mission if she had to dodge hexes. So she took her leave when Laura half-heartedly shooed her away.

It looked as if she would have to have Jeanne disillusion her. And she was already relying on Jeanne’s enchanted bug for the mission.

This heist wasn’t doing much for her pride. Especially not if it was to be her last.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 12th, 1999**

“We have heard how the accused planned to have Auror Potter assassinated. We have heard how she tried to hire an assassin - and would have succeeded if not for fortunate circumstances.”

Harry Potter snorted, silently, at the way Scrimgeour hid Tonks’s role in the affair. While the Wizengamot was, without a doubt, aware of her talent and assignments, the general public - meaning, those without ties to the various Old Families - wouldn’t be told about her undercover missions. He grew serious as soon as he looked at Umbridge, chained to accused’s chair, who sneered at the prosecutor’s words. She had been quite defiant during the trial so far, though if she had made a deal, then Harry hadn’t heard anything about it.

“Moreover, we have heard her motive: Auror Potter was targeted merely because she disagreed with the policies - _suspected_ future policies, to be precise - of his godfather, Mr Black, and wanted to deprive him of the support of his godson and heir.” Scrimgeour raised his head, throwing his thick mane of hair back. “Imagine her disagreeing with your policies next - and targeting your children in an insane attempt to stop you.”

Harry could hear several members of the Wizengamot gasp at that. Umbridge, though, looked shocked. She was gaping at Scrimgeour with wide eyes and rapidly growing pale.

“This is no mere murder attempt, as abhorrent as that would be - this is a despicable attack on the Wizengamot as a whole - and a threat to the families of every member of this chamber!”

Umbridge was shaking her head now, wildly, frantically. Her lips were moving, but one of the Aurors guarding her must have cast a Silencing Charm on her. That wasn’t unusual - the Wizengamot didn’t tolerate the accused disrupting a trial - but it had been a little too smooth. Umbridge hadn’t managed to say anything before she had been silenced.

“For such a heinous crime there is only one fitting punishment: the Veil.” Scrimgeour drew a deep breath as he raised his chin and looked at the Chief Warlock presiding over the trial, before stepping down to retake his seat.

Umbridge looked frozen on her seat. Harry was surprised - even multiple murders usually didn’t result in a death sentence. He glanced at Sirius. His godfather was baring his teeth in a snarl. But Harry couldn’t tell if it was aimed at Umbridge, or at Scrimgeour. Or at both.

Rosier, who would be speaking for the accused, rose from his seat. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The guilt of the accused has been proven by her own words under the effects of Veritaserum. Her motives are also known. I can only appeal to my peers to consider mercy, despite the gravity of the accused’s crimes and the utter lack of remorse she has shown during the trial.”

Harry pressed his lips together. This was the worst attempt at defending the accused he had ever witnessed. Rosier didn’t even try to fake an effort. Umbridge was crying now, shaking - no sign of the defiance she had shown just minutes ago. She had realised that she would be executed.

Sirius rose from his seat, not bothering to hide his anger and disgust. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! No one here will be under the impression that I harbour any sympathy for the accused, seeing as she tried to have my godson murdered! But even a criminal like her deserves a better defence than this… this farce! And when the death penalty is on the table, no less!”

Harry’s godfather wasn’t reprimanded for speaking out of turn. But Harry could see from the reactions of the rest of the members that Sirius’s attempt to stop this travesty would fail.

Apparently, the Wizengamot members had decided to ensure that whatever secrets of theirs that Umbridge knew wouldn’t be revealed to anyone, ever - law and justice be damned.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 13th, 1999**

_Umbridge Executed After Trial!_

One glance at the headline of the Daily Prophet was enough to ruin Harry Potter’s appetite for breakfast. The witch had been a murderous bigot, but what the Wizengamot had done… He flicked his wand and floated the newspaper over to the counter so he didn’t have to look at the picture on the front page showing her getting dragged out of the Wizengamot Chamber to the Death Chamber while he spread some butter over his toast.

“Morning, Harry.” Sirius entered the kitchen dressed in a house robe.

“Morning.” Harry nodded curtly at his godfather. He didn’t want to talk to him. Not now. If only Ron were here, instead of in Hogsmeade. Or Hogwarts.

Sirius seemed to hesitate for a moment, then sat down. He glanced at the newspaper, then at Harry, but didn’t say anything.

Harry pressed his lips together. He knew what Sirius was thinking. “Just say it!” he snapped after a moment. “Tell me how that proves that the system isn’t working!”

“Those are Hermione’s words,” Sirius replied with a frown. “Is she up already?”

“Haven’t seen her this morning,” Harry muttered.

“Ah.” Sirius sounded disappointed. “I would have been surprised - she likes sleeping in.”

Harry knew that already. He had been disentangling himself from her sleepy form in the morning for two months. He shook his head at the memories. “I still don’t like what you’re doing,” he said.

“I know. But it has to be done,” Sirius replied.

But not by you. Or Hermione, Harry thought. He finished his toast - he didn’t remember starting to eat it - and stood. He didn’t tell Sirius where he was going, nor did his godfather ask.

Back in his room, Harry let himself fall on his bed and stared at the ceiling. As much as he loathed to admit it, he didn’t see a better way of dealing with the Wizengamot than what Sirius, Hermione and Jeanne were doing. The Wizengamot members were willing to abuse their power to murder Umbridge so she couldn’t reveal their secrets. To expect them to uphold the law… He closed his eyes and cursed. Even if Sirius and... the others… were right about that, that didn’t change the fact that they had lied to him. Betrayed his trust. With good intentions, but still… It hurt.

Jeanne was wrong - this wasn’t about Hermione beating him. It was about her hurting him. He cursed again, clenching his teeth.

“Were you bitten?”

Harry blinked, then turned his head. Mr Biggles was looking at him from the snake’s favourite spot in his habitat.

“You look like you’re hurting. Did someone bite you? I don’t see any blood, though.”

Harry snorted. His snake’s concern was touching, but he had got it wrong. “I’m hurting, but it’s not a wound.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

Harry chuckled. “No.”

“Why are you hurting then?”

“I was… betrayed,” Harry replied. The snake didn’t understand much in the way of nuance, after all.

“Betrayed?”

Case in point. “I was lied to by my family.”

“Oh. Did they eat all the food and not tell you?”

“No. They kept a secret they should have told me because they thought I would be happier not knowing.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “That’s because they lied to me, not because I now know the secret.”

“Oh. Did your mate go and have sex with someone else?”

“No.”

“Will she do that?”

“No.” He didn’t think so.

“Doesn’t she want to have sex with you any more?”

Was he really discussing his love life with a snake? Harry shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

“You’re weird.”

“Weird?” He was talking to a snake, Harry reminded himself. But Mr Biggles was Harry’s snake - he would have expected some support, at least.

“Yes. If you don’t have anything to worry about in the future then you shouldn’t worry.”

“She hurt me,” Harry snapped, glaring at the snake.

“You’re not even bleeding.”

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Mr Biggles was a snake, not a human. He didn’t understand human emotions. It was still annoying. “She beat me.”

“Beat you?”

“She stole food I was guarding.” That should be clear enough for a snake.

“Did you go hungry?”

“No. It wasn’t my food.”

“Why are you guarding someone’s food?”

Harry sighed. “That’s not the point. She fought me.”

“Will she do it again?”

“No.” Unless she was still lying to him.

“What’s the problem then?”

“I don’t know if I can trust her,” Harry replied.

“You said she won’t do it again.”

“Yes,” Harry pressed out through clenched teeth. Was he losing an argument with a snake?

“So you can trust her.”

“It’s complicated;” Harry said, turning away from the habitat.

This was about trust, not his ego. She had lied to him. And made him look like a fool.

And Jeanne was wrong. She had to be wrong.

Hermione had cheated anyway. And she had enjoyed beating him.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, February 15th, 1999**

“’E’ll come around, you know.”

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth. Jeanne meant well, but this wasn’t the time to talk about her troubled love life. “We need to focus on the heist,” she said in a low voice. They were disillusioned and using a privacy charm, but you couldn’t be complacent. Being complacent had revealed her secret to Harry, after all.

“We’re just waiting for the first girls,” Jeanne replied. “And we don’t even know if Malfoy will visit this evening.”

“He’s got nothing else planned as far as we know,” Hermione said. According to Mr Fletcher, Draco Malfoy’s visits tended to happen on Sundays, but yesterday had been Valentine’s Day, and Malfoy had been seen in Diagon Alley for hours with Parkinson stuck to his arm, playing the happy couple, which meant he hadn’t been able to visit in the evening.

And, she added with a sneer, after a whole day with Parkinson, he probably needed other company - she certainly would. If she had spent Valentine’s Day with Harry, though, instead of alone… She buried that thought. She had to focus on the heist. “It won’t be much longer. I’ll change.”

Jeanne made a snorting sound but agreed. “Alright.”

A moment later, Hermione was disillusioned and padding towards the side-entrance to the Oasis, a small leather pouch gripped between her teeth. She had to be ready when the first girls arrived. Which, according to her observations last week, shouldn’t take long.

Her estimate was proven correct a few minutes later when a lone witch entered the side alley and headed straight towards the entrance. Hermione let her pass, then followed her silently. The witch knocked on the door. A moment later, it was opened from the inside, and a tall, lanky wizard peered at her.

“Gwen?”

“Yes, Brad,” the witch replied with a sigh.

The wizard scoffed and waved his wand, casting a Human-presence-revealing Spell. “Can’t be too cautious, you know.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Isn’t the Thief’s Downfall enough?”

Hermione revised her estimate of the club’s security. And their financial means. That could be a problem. Even the dullest guard would notice if a cat suddenly appeared out of thin air after passing through that.

If she had to pass through it, of course - she was a cat, and cats could squeeze into places humans could only dream of. And if it were too dangerous, she would simply wait and leave once the next witch arrived.

So she darted past Gwen and through the door as soon as the wizard stepped aside. There was indeed a Thief’s Downfall - or something that looked like it, she belatedly realised; it might be a fake meant to scare off thieves. Such as herself.

Still, she didn’t need to take that risk - the corridor in which she found herself was wider than the contraption barring the way. Wide enough for a lithe cat to pass through. Without leaving pieces of her fur behind, of course.

Once past the Thief’s Downfall, she had no trouble finding the main area of the club - someone was giving orders loud enough to be heard in muggle London if not for the privacy charms covering the house. Probably the ‘Quentin’ Laura feared would hex innocent cats, she thought. He certainly sounded like that kind of monster.

And, she noted once she reached the main room and looked around, he looked like it as well - a small, thin man with a whisker-like moustache and thinning hair. He reminded her of a rat in human form, and the way he was yelling at the bartender to hurry up didn’t do anything to repudiate that impression. If he treated his clients like that...

On the other hand, the main room was impressive. Far larger than would fit into the building without Extension Charms, it had a stage that wouldn’t be amiss in a muggle club like the Moulin Rouge. The tables on the floor were elegant, with comfortable-looking benches and seats, a circular bar forming a barrier between the main area and the entrance hall and booths lining the walls to the left and right, with curtains and plants providing privacy.

Definitely no mere brothel - though the robes, if the skimpy scraps of fabric which the witches preparing for the evening wore even deserved that name, made it clear that the club offered more than drinks and a show.

But she wasn’t here for either. She was here for her prey - Draco Malfoy. Hermione strolled through the room, dodging the waitresses and other staff Quentin - that was indeed his name - was ordering around and looked for a nice spot out of the way with a good view of the fireplaces in the entrance hall.

Now all she had to do was to wait for her prey to arrive and use Jeanne’s device when he was about to leave again.

*****

A few hours later, Hermione Granger was ready to change back and curse Malfoy even if that would ruin the heist. The blasted mark had spent hours in the club already and didn’t seem ready to leave yet! She had seen far more of what the club offered as entertainment on stage than she had ever wanted to see, and far more of what Malfoy’s robes hid than she could stomach as well - and she hadn’t even tried to follow him into the private room in which he had spent an hour.

She should have brought some of the Weasley twins’ Puking Pastilles. Drop one in Malfoy’s drink - she could easily do that as a cat - and see him rush home to get pampered by his mother. But given her current luck, he might instead rush to St Mungo’s, fearing for his sorry life, and ruin the heist.

She closed her eyes when yet another ‘waitress’ ended up on Draco’s lap while the witch’s robes dropped to the floor. No wonder everyone was so friendly towards the git - he must be tipping more than any five other guests combined!

But, she noticed with relief a few minutes later, all the gold in the Malfoy vault couldn’t keep him going forever. He finally announced that he was leaving. Of course, the staff’s token attempts to make him stay delayed his departure a few minutes longer, but things were finally moving!

Hermione gripped the pouch in her mouth again and silently padded into the entrance hall ahead of Malfoy. She had picked her spot hours ago and disappeared behind a potted plant there, where she dropped the pouch and tapped it three times with her paw as soon as Malfoy appeared nearby.

That would start the recording. She watched attentively as Malfoy threw Floo powder into the fire, and even more closely when he waved his wand before stepping into the green flames.

Perfect!

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 16th, 1999**

Harry Potter found Sirius and Hermione in the living room after he arrived from work. Both were reading books - probably from the Black Library, judging by the look of them. “Where’s Jeanne?” he asked, after casting a privacy charm. Moody was still confined to his bed, but that wouldn’t stop him from spying.

“Pouring over the recordings Hermione took last night,” Sirius answered.

And both of them were here? Harry looked at Hermione before he could help himself.

She pouted. “It’s her device, not mine. I wouldn’t be of much help.”

Which would vex her, he knew. “Ah.”

“It’s part of the plan to enter Malfoy Manor,” Sirius explained. “We recorded him using the Floo Network.”

“That won’t get you into the manor,” Harry pointed out. Mere words were not enough to beat the security charms.

Hermione frowned. “Of course it won’t. It’s a little more complicated than that.”

As far as Harry knew, it wasn’t possible. But he wasn’t a thief.

“Jeanne’s working on it, so we don’t know yet if it’s possible,” Sirius added.

“If not for Crouch, we could have used the original plan.” Hermione scowled as if spoiling her heist was Crouch’s worst crime.

“Ah,” Harry said again.

“We’ll also ensure that whatever method we discover cannot be used against us,” Hermione said after a moment. She was smiling, tentatively, when he glanced at her.

He nodded in response, and her smile vanished as she bit her lower lip. He had the sudden urge to comfort her in her obvious distress but pushed that feeling away. He couldn’t. Perhaps… but not yet. Certainly not now.

“I just wanted the best for you and dragged everyone else along,” Sirius said a moment later. “And I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Harry replied.

“And there is no alternative - we need to ruin Malfoy and his allies,” Hermione added. “You’ve seen what happened to Umbridge.”

“I know,” he repeated himself, a little sharper than he had intended.

She flinched at that. “Sorry.”

He closed his eyes - it was easier that way - and sighed. “I know why you did it. I know you meant well.” He heard her draw a sharp breath. “I don’t know a better alternative either,” he added through clenched teeth. “But what you did still hurt me.”

“Sorry,” he heard her whisper.

“It won’t happen again,” Sirius said. “You know that. No more secrets. We told you about the next heist, didn’t we? Without the boring details, of course.”

“I know,” Harry said once more. “But I can’t help still feeling hurt.”

Hermione seemed to shrink a little as she ducked her head. “Sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” Sirius said.

Hermione looked so miserable, Harry shook his head and reached out, touching her knee. “We’ll need to sort things out once this is over.”

She nodded, slowly, and smiled faintly as she brushed some tears away.

*****

 


	65. Crossing Wands

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, February 16th, 1999**

“You look _ravissante_ today, dear.” Lucius Malfoy smiled at his wife as he bent down to kiss her before taking his seat at the table.

Narcissa smiled in return. “It wouldn’t do to look less than perfect for our meeting with the Rosiers, would it?”

Of course not. Standards had to be maintained, and his family had, owing to their position at the very top of society, the very highest of standards. And as a Black, Narcissa had been raised, from birth, according to those same standards.

And even after more than twenty years, he still had to smirk at her frown when Dobby served his breakfast - croissants and coffee, instead of what she considered a proper British breakfast. Which, of course, she was eating.

But even a member of an Old Family like Lucius was allowed some eccentricities. And no one would dare claim that a meal favoured by the Duc d’Orléans himself was unsuitable for a pureblood with French roots, no matter how long ago the family had left France.

Which, in the Malfoys’ case, had been when William the Conqueror had taken over Britain and civilised the barbarians. Not many families could claim such a lineage, even though the family had been a little closer to muggle nobility than was fashionable to mention these days.

“Draco came home late again,” Narcissa remarked after a moment. “Very late. I worry about the quality of his friends.”

Lucius knew what she really meant - she disapproved of the boy’s visit to that private club. “He’s still young. Let him enjoy his freedom. Especially now the recent unpleasantness is finally behind us.” Draco had really resented being confined to the manor and similarly protected homes of trusted families, but it had been for his own good - Lucius shuddered at the thought of what those monsters would have done to the boy, should they have caught him.

Narcissa’s frown deepened. “Appearances matter. What will people think if he’s seen carousing with courtesans while he is engaged to Miss Parkinson?”

Lucius chuckled. “The club’s very discreet.” The penalties in the contracts of the staff should ensure that there would be no indiscretions - Lucius certainly hadn’t had any trouble when he had frequented the club in the past. Not that he would mention that, of course - despite the fact that his visits had ended when they had become engaged, and that Narcissa would know who had referred Draco to the club.

She sniffed in response.

“Good morning, Mother. Good morning, Father.”

Draco arrived - Lucius had expected him ever since he had seen Dobby getting ready to serve his son’s meal.

“Good morning, Draco.” Narcissa smiled at him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Ah, yes, Mother. Thank you.” Draco nodded, but Lucius caught a slight blush - his son had caught the hidden reproof. Good. Draco would need that kind of subtlety to one day succeed him.

“Is there any news about the affair between the mudblood and Black?”

Lucius almost sighed at his son’s eager expression. Yes, Draco still had a little way to go in that area.

Narcissa took it upon herself to educate the boy. “Draco, dear, that’s scandalous gossip and almost certainly not true. And certainly not a subject for breakfast.”

“But Mother! It’s in the Prophet!”

“Which means you can read about it, but there’s no need to talk about it,” she retorted.

Draco sulked. “Pansy talked about it as well.”

Narcissa frowned. “That’s really not proper. It was at least in private, I hope?”

The boy hesitated for just a moment. “Yes, Mother.”

“At the very least, it’ll give us another pretext to break off the engagement once the time for that has arrived,” Lucius said, then frowned when Draco pressed his lips together. Was the boy having second thoughts?

Narcissa hadn’t missed that either. “Is there something you want to tell us, Draco?”

“No, Mother,” Draco hastily replied.

And wasn’t that worrying? Lucius sighed. “Draco, we’ve explained to you that, due to the Parkinsons’ altered circumstances, Miss Parkinson isn’t a suitable match any more.”

“I know,” Draco replied. “And I understand.”

Which didn’t mean that he approved, Lucius noted. But Draco was a good boy - he’d do right by his family.

“It just feels as if I’m stringing her along,” Draco said.

Well, he was doing precisely that, of course. Lucius had no doubt that the Parkinsons knew that as well - with the possible exception of their daughter, who seemed genuinely infatuated with Draco. But it was politics. Lucius couldn’t be seen to be abandoning his old allies just after they had suffered a robbery. Appearances had to be maintained. And the Parkinsons would be grateful for any help in maintaining the illusion that they weren’t ruined. Delusional, but that was how things were.

It wouldn’t be necessary if not for Black, anyway. Lucius had to struggle not to sneer - thinking of that blood traitor had a way of enraging him. How far could a man fall that he would betray not just his peers, but also his own family? They could rule Britain together, if only Black weren’t so obstinate.

And so determined to carry on Dumbledore’s legacy. Lucius had hoped that foolish ideal had died with the Headmaster, but Black had taken up the wand. And had proven to be a far better schemer than Lucius had expected based on his and Narcissa’s prior experience of the man.

But even Black wouldn’t be that much of a problem - the Black fortune was great, but their coffers weren’t bottomless - if not for those damnable thieves! Four of his closest allies, ruined. They still held their seats, but no one of substance took them seriously any more. And while that bound them even closer to him and let him control them better, it also made him look weakened.

At least the days of the thieves were numbered. Potter, for all his faults and stupid notions, was a great Auror. After dealing with the Lestranges and Crouch, he wouldn’t take long to catch the thieves. Especially after they had made it personal by going after Black’s home and made Potter look like a fool.

And, once the thieves were caught, Lucius would ensure that they were thrown through the Veil post-haste. Such dangerous criminals couldn’t be allowed to live.

Which was why Lucius had strengthened his own protections as well. Should the ‘Night Nargles’ dare to come after him, they would rue their mistake - while they died in agony.

Lucius was no fool, and he had learned from his former peers’ mistakes. It had cost him quite a sum and was not even remotely legal, but he was ready for them. Even if they reached his vault they wouldn’t be able to escape.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 16th, 1999**

Hermione Granger knew Jeanne had bad news as soon as the French witch entered the living room - she was scowling severely. Hermione quickly cast a privacy charm.

“We need ’is wand,” Jeanne announced as she sat down on the couch next to Sirius, who lost no time wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

Hermione had suspected that. “Well, we’ll have to steal it then.”

“Can’t you fool the fireplace like you crack wards which need a key item to pass?” Sirius asked.

Hermione shook her head, refraining from snorting. Sirius was a skilled, very skilled, wizard and a superb duellist, but he wasn’t a Curse-Breaker. “No. I would have to be able to see the fireplace at the destination - the spell’s on that; the Floo Network merely contacts it to check. Unless I can observe a spell, I cannot manipulate it.” There was a reason the Floo Network was so popular, beyond the much more comfortable travel experience compared to Apparition - it was also very secure. Its protections were almost impossible to crack.

Impossible unless you had a wand which was keyed in. Which would be Malfoy’s wand.

“Getting his wand without him alerting his father will be tricky,” Sirius remarked.

Hermione shrugged. “When I observed him, he drank quite a lot in the club. It shouldn’t be hard to slip into a private room with him, stun him and his company, and then use Polyjuice Potion to impersonate him.” Stuff him into an enchanted pocket, obliviate the girl and no one would be the wiser.

“You’ll need to deal with the spells on the room, though,” Jeanne added. “I don’t think they’ll leave their staff with their clients without anyone keeping an eye on them - and they’ll want to keep other guests from spying on rivals.”

“That could be tricky.” Hermione bit her lower lip as she pondered that. She’d have to crack those protections - though they wouldn’t be too complex; they were already inside the wards. Probably a detection spell or two and some privacy charms. But she wouldn’t be able to do that as a cat. “I’ll have to hide as a witch undetected for that. I can do that.” They wouldn’t be casting Human-presence-revealing Spells there - she hadn’t seen anyone do that inside the club, anyway. Still, it would make the heist more difficult.

But not impossible.

*****

They were planning their next heist. Right now, while he was sitting in the living room reading. Harry Potter knew it - now that he knew about them, they weren’t trying to hide any more. Not from him, at least. And in hindsight, their absences for their heists and planning were rather obvious. He had been such a fool.

But he had no idea what exactly they were planning - only that it involved a brothel and was aimed at the Malfoys. Although that last part was obvious. Malfoy himself probably was aware of that. But would he make the connection to Sirius and Hermione?

Harry doubted it. The faked attempts to break into Longbottom Manor and Grimmauld Place would obfuscate the issue sufficiently. Probably. At the very least, Malfoy wouldn’t have any proof. Unless he caught the thieves.

Harry snorted despite himself - he sounded like a criminal in his own head. He sighed. Malfoy would be prepared. The man had the gold to buy the best defences, and as a former member of Voldemort’s inner circle, he certainly knew a lot of dark spells as well.

None of that seemed to impress Hermione.

He pressed his lips together. She was foolhardy, in his opinion. Granted, she had managed to break into four Old Family manors so far, but she had come close to getting caught twice as well - and those were just the incidents of which Harry was aware. She had been lucky, not just skilled. And no one was lucky forever.

And she was cocky. He frowned at the thought. Just because she had escaped him twice, she acted as if she couldn’t be beaten. And that attitude was exactly what caused you to lose. Or get killed. She should have learned that already, but she had been playing the struggling klutz in their training sessions, so Harry hadn’t thought that would be a problem.

He clenched his teeth - she had completely fooled him. In Defence training and at the Yule Ball. And when she had called him and acted concerned after the broom chase. He grinned - he had almost caught her then. She had been lucky, no matter what she claimed. And he had been going easy on her, too. If she had been a Death Eater or another dark wizard, he’d have used different spells. Lethal spells.

She wasn’t as good at Defence as she thought she was. Harry had been holding back in their training as well, after all - people didn’t learn anything if they were crushed in practice. But getting crushed would have been good for her. Teach her not to lie to him!

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He understood why they had done it. He didn’t like it, but he did understand their reasons, as mistaken as they had been.

But they didn’t have to make him look like a fool!

He looked at the clock on the wall. Almost dinner time. What was taking them so long? Perhaps he should go and check on them. Sirius hadn’t barred him from joining them, had he?

He scoffed. He was tolerating them, but sitting in on a planning session for a heist, as an Auror? No. He wouldn’t sink that low.

The door opened, and his head whipped round.

Hermione looked at him, eyes wide for a moment. “Hello, Harry.”

He nodded in response. After a moment, he said: “Done already?”

She cast a privacy charm and shrugged as she took her usual seat. “More or less. We’ve got the basic scheme down.”

She acted as if she were talking about a family outing or a hobby, instead of a crime! “Malfoy is dangerous,” he told her.

She smiled at that. “We know what we’re doing.”

Harry scoffed. Typical. “You shouldn’t underestimate him. He won’t stick to Stunners or hold back because of regulations.”

She narrowed her eyes a little in response. “That won’t help him, either.”

“No one’s lucky forever,” he retorted.

“I wasn’t lucky!” she shot back. She was showing her teeth now. He wondered if she’d hiss.

“You were. I almost caught you, and I was holding back.” He was glaring at her.

“Holding back?” She glared back. “You didn’t let me escape.”

“A Death Eater wouldn’t have escaped. We don’t use the same force against mere thieves.”

“‘Mere thieves’?” She was scowling now.

Harry nodded. Seeing her riled up for a change felt good. He smirked. “Yes. You’re a good thief, but you’re not a duellist.”

“I’ll have you know that I can take care of myself in a fight!”

Harry snorted. This was wrong, but it was also fun. Payback. “I’m sure you can. Care to prove it?”

She hesitated a moment, then hissed: “Of course.”

*****

The nerve of him! Hermione Granger ground her teeth. To act as if she were the clumsy girl she had played in their lessons, and then claim that he had been holding back? That she had only escaped capture because he hadn’t taken her seriously? She scoffed. She had beaten him each time they had faced off on a heist! She sniffed. “But we won’t be doing it in the house.” Not when Moody was stuck to his bed and so wouldn’t have anything better to do than spy on them.

He understood right away. “We’ve got privacy charms.”

“I don’t trust them. I doubt that his eye is using normal See-Through-Walls Spells,” she replied. He flinched slightly at that. She hoped that that didn’t mean he had trusted the charms. Well, at least sound should be safe. “And a ‘real duel’ will attract his attention.”

“Where do you want to do this, then?”

She grinned. “We can use an abandoned factory.” She had just the place in mind.

He frowned at her. “I’ll pick it.”

Hermione didn’t pout. Having the advantage of knowing the terrain would have been nice, but she didn’t really need it.

*****

**London, East End, February 16th, 1999**

Hermione Granger wasn’t familiar with this particular factory, but it looked like some of the ones she knew: Machinery that had been outdated even before the Second World War and had spent a few decades rusting, broken windows, some of them boarded up, and rubble and dust strewn around, mixed with rubbish.

She nodded, then turned to Harry. “Do you want a duelling ring?” she asked, twirling her wand.

He shook his head. “No. Let’s make this as authentic as we can,” he said with a toothy grin.

She matched his expression. “We’ll need a vault then.”

He snorted as he took a few steps back and drew his wand.

“You’re usually not wearing jeans and a winter jacket when you’re on duty,” Hermione pointed out as she slipped out of her coat, revealing the catsuit she wore underneath it. His eyes widened in response, and, for a moment, he was staring at her. She smirked.

“You’ve padded the suit.”

She scowled at him. “Slightly, to throw off suspicion.” She was fine with her body, anyway. Proud of it, even - cats were supposed to be lithe and agile.

He smirked. “It worked.”

She knew what he was insinuating. “Of course it did - men are easy,” she shot back. “If I had used more padding, I probably wouldn’t even have needed my mask.” She pulled her mask out of her enchanted pocket, together with her wig. “I won’t use my normal disguise under the mask,” she added, “as that won’t affect the duel.”

“You wore a disguise under the mask?”

“Of course I did.” She put the wig on and shook her head to test the fit. “I don’t depend on luck.” She bared her teeth at him before putting her mask on.

He scoffed. “Neither do I.” He twirled his wand. “How do you want to do this? What are the rules?”

“No Apparition - that would be blocked. No lethal spells.”

He nodded. “Duel lasts until one is unable to fight or surrenders.”

She snorted. “I’m not trying to take you down - I’m a thief; all I have to do to win is escape.”

He frowned. “Alright. If the duel doesn’t end before fifteen minutes have passed, you win.”

“I will indeed!”

He rolled his eyes at that. “And who’ll give the signal to start? We don’t have a referee.”

She grinned behind her mask. “Oh, that’s easy. On my mark, wait a minute, then try to catch me! Mark!”

She launched herself into a somersault, landing in a crouch on a low table behind her, then darted through the adjacent door.

She’d show him!

*****

Harry Potter scowled - Hermione was far too cocky. Overconfidence was a fatal weakness. And that jump was just showing off - grandstanding was another weakness a good Auror couldn’t afford.

He checked his watch. Fifty seconds left. He could use his glasses to track her, but that would be cheating. Besides, as soon as the duel started he could use them to find her anyway. She couldn’t hide in a muggle building without wards.

Forty seconds. And she hadn’t liked his crack about her padding her suit. Another weakness. She did look good in her suit, though, padded or not. But that wasn’t an advantage. He knew that already, anyway.

And he knew her tricks, now, while she didn’t know his. He patted the enchanted holster in his sleeve, where the Elder Wand was stored. Not that he’d need it, of course. Not against her. She was good, but not good enough.

Twenty seconds.

He’d show her!

Ten seconds.

Five...four...three...two...one.

As soon as the time was up, Harry cast a Shield Charm and a Human-presence-revealing Spell, tapped his glasses, activating the See-Through-Walls Spell, and started looking for her. The factory was large but not too large for his spell - he could cover almost all of it from here.

But there was a lot of rusty machinery and other barriers cluttering up the place - parts of the ground floor looked like a veritable maze. Like the garden of Greengrass Manor, he thought with a sneer, where she had fooled him.

Even so, adjusting his spell to check behind every broken tool and boiler was still faster than doing it in person. His gaze swept past rusted metal and crumbling bricks, looking for his prey.

He didn’t find her. She wasn’t on the ground floor. Which meant she was either up on the first floor - if you could call the rusting catwalks and few offices that - or in the basement. And cats liked high places.

He narrowed his eyes and looked up, then grinned when he spotted a familiar cat padding over a mangled catwalk. How fitting! He shook his head as he started to move to a spot from which he could stun her. Did she really think he’d fall for her trick twice?

Blinking, he suddenly stopped. She was overconfident, but not stupid - far from it. She wouldn’t assume that hiding as a cat would work on him. Which meant that this was a diversion - a transfigured or conjured decoy. Clever, but not clever enough. And he could use her own ploy against her!

Harry started towards the cat’s position, moving slowly as if he were afraid of a trap. Just in case she was observing him - it would be just like her to make him think that she wanted to hide and wait out the agreed length of the duel, so she could ambush him. But he was actually moving slowly so he could keep searching for her as he passed the rusting machines and engines.

She would want to watch him fall for her plan, just as she couldn’t resist taunting him, back at Greengrass Manor. And there weren’t too many spots upstairs that would allow her to observe him and the cat. Fewer still if she wasn’t in her cat form. And she would be further away from his starting position than the decoy so he wouldn’t spot her first.

There! She was in cat form, probably to avoid his Human-presence-revealing Spell, crouched behind a broken desk on the upper floor, about twenty yards from the decoy. Her position allowed her to cover all the approaches - but that exact fact made it too obvious for anyone who’d been trained by Moody.

He almost shook his head as he walked closer to the decoy, keeping her in view. The desk and the remaining walls of the office area provided her with cover - a good, defensible position.

For an amateur.

He suddenly whirled and sent a pair of Blasting Curses at two of the steel pillars under Hermione. Both blew up in clouds of steel and rust, and, with the sound of shrieking metal, the whole side of the office area they had supported started to come down, sending furniture, rubbish and one cocky cat slowly sliding down towards the ground. She would need to change back to use her wand to save herself, and then he’d have her.

She didn’t change. The cat leapt on the desk as it slid past the remains of the door, then jumped off towards the closest catwalk. It was a long, desperate jump - and she couldn’t dodge in the air. His Stunner hit her in mid-jump, and one Summoning Charm later, he held her by the scruff of her neck, smirking at the caught thief.

“Not so cocky any more, are you?” She couldn’t hear him, of course, but it felt good to say it anyway. Perhaps he should put her in a cage before he woke her up. Just to drive the lesson home. Perhaps…

He clenched his teeth as he was seized by a sudden suspicion, then put the cat down and waved his wand. “Finite!”

The cat turned into a piece of parchment. With a message written on it in a familiar style.

_This is not the thief you’re looking for._

Cursing, he vanished the parchment. He’d still get her - there was plenty of time left to find her. And if finesse and guile didn’t work, there was always brute force.

*****

Harry was cheating! Vanishing everything that could serve as cover might not be against the rules of the duel, but it certainly went against the spirit! He wouldn’t be able to do that in a manor.

Hermione Granger scowled as she retreated further to the back of the factory, staying out of range of his Human-presence-revealing Spell. At the rate he was going, she’d run out of cover in a few more minutes - long before he’d run out of time, the cheater!

She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t stay on the ground floor. And the upper floor was no option either, as Harry had just demonstrated. That left the basement. Which would be a maze of dark, damp rooms and narrow corridors, with few locations to dodge or retreat. She would be trapped down there, like a rat.

She hissed at the thought. No, the basement was not an option either. That would just delay the inevitable - and not for long enough. She blinked. But would Harry know that?

He probably would. She grinned and changed, quickly climbing an old metal shelf and peering into the factory ahead. There he was - advancing steadily.

She jumped down and raced to the back stairs leading down to the basement. She had to hurry. A precious minute later, she was darting through the dusty and dirty corridors below, trying not to think about what all the mud did to her fur as she raced to the stairs on the other end of the factory - behind Harry.

She stopped ten yards before the foot of the stairs, though - you couldn’t be too cautious when going up against such a cheater. She quickly changed back, cast a Shield Charm by reflex, then tapped the side of her mask.

A glowing field appeared on the stairs - an alarm charm. A simple one, though - Harry was no Curse-Breaker, after all. Clever, but not clever enough. She grinned as she quickly modified it - child’s play for a professional thief - before transfiguring another piece of parchment into a cat.

Now she could head back, hide in one of the basement rooms, then trigger the charm. That would convince him that she wasn’t hiding in the basement.

That was when the ceiling behind her suddenly exploded. She threw herself into the next room as pieces of brick and concrete filled the corridor, pelting her Shield Charm. Harry had seen through her plan, somehow! She had to escape - if she blew a hole into the wall behind her, she’d reach the next room, which would allow her to get close to the stairs she had used before…

But he’d be expecting that. Expecting her to run and hide. She’d have to do something he wouldn’t expect. Preferably something that would teach him not to underestimate her.

Snarling, she blew a hole in the wall behind her anyway, waited a moment, then sent another Reductor Curse through the hole into the next wall.

And then she charged out the door, into the corridor - straight at an advancing Harry.

*****

She had thought she could fool him - as if he’d fall for her tricks! Harry Potter had turned the tables on her instead and cut off her retreat. She was trying to run, as usual - going through the walls in her desperation. All he had to do was to cut off her line of retreat…

His eyes widened when he saw her charging at him, but he was already moving, twisting his body, flicking his wand up, sending a Stunner directly at… the empty air above a sprinting cat? He cast another Stunner at her, but she had already changed back, jumping and casting herself.

His Shield Charm shook under the impact of her Piercing Curse right before she crashed against it - and bounced off. He whipped his wand down, but she rolled over the floor, into the room to the side, and his spell missed before she vanished round the corner.

Harry hesitated a moment, then gritted his teeth and cast a Reductor Curse at the wall, angled up so the blast would hit the ceiling. Well, most of it. He heard a shriek and winced - she hadn’t cast a Shield Charm! He was about to rush into the room when he hesitated, focusing on the enchantment on his glasses.

She was waiting for him!

Snarling, he blew a hole in the wall right next to her. The explosion flung her across the room, and he charged through the doorway, following up with a Stunner.

Once more she changed into a cat, causing his spell to miss her, then dove into the dust cloud that had been formed by his Reductor Curses. Harry sent two more Stunners after her, then threw himself to the side as she answered in kind.

Judging by the angles of her spells, she was rushing towards the holes he had blown in the wall. He sealed them with a conjured wall, then turned the floor in front of it into mud. When he heard something splash and saw a small creature stuck in it, he grinned. His next pair of Stunners flew straight at the cat, and at the space above her. She would have to change to get unstuck, and…

She didn’t change. The cat slumped over. Harry cursed and dropped to the ground, just in time to avoid a barrage of spells coming out of the cloud, which still hadn’t settled. He rolled to the side and returned a volley of his own, then jumped up and rushed into the cloud.

He saw a shape in front of him. His spell missed, but his boot caught the cat as she changed and flung her at the wall. She managed to twist mid-flight and hit it with her paws, then jumped off before he could aim at her, disappearing back into the cloud. He pounced - she was running out of space to dodge - but instead of landing on a cat or witch, he landed on concrete. Greased concrete - he slid into the wall, and before he managed to roll and get up into a crouch, she had hit his Shield Charm, shattering it with a volley of Bludgeoning Curses. Her next spell went wide, though, as she had to jump to the side as his own wand flashed.

But the whole exchange had left her next to the door and him at the wall. He started to conjure a wall to seal the entire room off, but she darted into the corridor outside before he finished casting.

Cursing, he abandoned his spell and gave chase.

*****

Her side felt as if it were being stabbed with knives. Burning knives. Hermione Granger clenched her teeth and flicked her wand, numbing her side as she forced herself to run. Harry’s kick must have bruised, if not broken, her ribs.

She flicked her wand, conjuring a wall behind her, and another, with a conjured patch of grease between. She had to gain some distance. Treat her wounds - enough, at least, to be able to move without too much pain.

She could see the stairs in front of her. She was almost… running into a trap. She stopped and darted to the side, into another room. Hissing at her own foolishness and the pain, she quickly ran her wand over her side. Not broken, just bruised. She wasn’t in danger of bleeding internally.

Snarling, she cast a Shield Charm, then numbed her side some more before blowing a hole into the ceiling directly above her. Harry appeared in the doorway but her wand was already moving, and the pillar she conjured beneath her threw her through the hole an instant before his spells reached her.

She landed gracefully in a roll, came up and sprinted towards the area of the factory which was still covered with rusty machines, blowing up the concrete floor to her left and right so a dust cloud would conceal her.

Her Human-presence-revealing Spell warned her of Harry’s approach - he was above her! - and she flung herself to the side as spells peppered the ground around her. He was disillusioned and on a broom. She cursed under her breath - that would render her cover useless; the clouds were too thin from that angle. She could use Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, but she’d need to use the Hand of Glory then - and she had used that trick before.

She sent a few hexes up, just to force Harry to keep moving and spoil his aim. His spells still came too close. Far too close. She had no choice.

She reached into her enchanted pocket as she darted towards the next cloud, pulled out a packet and dropped it at once. Darkness filled the area around her as she recast her Shield Charm while she kept moving. Then she grabbed the Hand of Glory. Now she could see again. And Harry would need to adjust - if he could.

She spotted his marker circling above her and was tempted to send a Stunner up - but he’d have a shield up. And he’d be waiting for her to give away her position.

So she’d oblige him. A special firework should be enough to… He was coming straight at her! How?

She snarled and dropped under his first spells, then rolled to the side. He’d have to pull up, and then she’d…

He jumped off his broom and crashed into her. Both of their Shield Charms broke, and they were sent rolling over the floor in a tangle of limbs. She tried to cast a Stunner, but he pushed her wand arm away. She hissed and hit his wand hand in return. He grunted, rolling on top of her, narrowly avoiding a knee to his privates but not a fist to his ribs. Not that it affected him much.

He had her pinned, and while neither of them could use their wands, she couldn’t escape.

She tried anyway, changing and scratching and scrambling, but ended up pinned again - and facing his wand now.

She had lost.

*****

Harry Potter had her. She had bitten, hit and scratched him, but he had her pinned in her cat form underneath him. He bared his teeth in a feral grin - he had won. She changed back, and he almost stunned her out of reflex before he realised that she wasn’t fighting him any more.

And then he realised that he still had her pinned, her hands caught in his. He could feel her body beneath his own. Feel her chest pressing into his as she panted. And he remembered that training session that had ended just like this. But for the mask hiding her face, of course.

He released her hands but didn’t get up. She slowly reached up to her face, tapped the edge of the mask, and it slid up as if it were on rails, revealing her flushed face.

“I win,” he managed to say. And with five minutes to spare.

She nodded, her tongue wetting her lips.

He kissed her. She kissed back.

*****

Her side hurt. As did her arms and hands. And her back. Dust covered most of her clothes and hair. And she was sore in other places. If Hermione Granger hadn’t already known that the middle of an abandoned factory wasn’t a good place to have sex, she would have just discovered plenty of reasons why it wasn’t.

They shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have done it. But it had happened. Like that time in the training room.

She closed her eyes and sighed, then groaned at the pain that caused her bruised ribs. Reaching out, she summoned her wand and numbed her side again before she sat up.

“You’re hurt.”

She narrowed her eyes at Harry, who was sitting up himself. “You kicked me.” Kicking a cat like that...

He opened his mouth, then closed it again without replying as she cleaned her suit before dressing.

“It was a duel,” he said, zipping himself up.

“Yes.” She summoned her mask and wig, then cleaned both.

“I won.”

She briefly clenched her teeth. “Yes.” He didn’t have to rub it in. And in a real heist he wouldn’t have been able to remove all her cover with Vanishing Charms! But she had lost the duel to which she had agreed. And she would do better next time.

“And then…” he trailed off, then held up the remains of his shirt. “Like in the training room back home.”

“Yes.” She cast a Mending Charm on his shirt before he could complain about the shoddy fabric not standing up to a little wear and tear - her own clothes were just fine!

He pulled the shirt on, then stared at his robes.

She ignored his frown - she hadn’t done anything to them; that was all his own fault, and he could clean those himself. “Where does this leave us?” she asked, trying not to sound as insecure as she felt.

He sighed, and she held her breath. “I don’t know,” he said after a long moment.

“We just had sex,” she pointed out. That hadn’t been a fluke. Couldn’t have been. They still cared.

“After hurting each other,” he replied.

“Physically.”

This time, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t you think we went a little overboard?”

Of course - he shouldn’t have kicked her. You didn’t do that to cats. She shrugged, though, then winced. “I think we needed this. All of it.”

He nodded. More slowly than she would have liked, but at least he agreed.

“That doesn’t mean things are fine,” he said as they both got up.

She nodded. But it was a good sign.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 16th, 1999**

Harry Potter went straight to his room as soon as they got home. He had beaten Hermione. Proved her wrong. Taught her a lesson about arrogance.

And they’d had sex. He sighed as he lay down on the bed. He hadn’t expected that. Not at all. Perhaps he should have - that was how their relationship had started, after all.

Obviously, there was still… passion? Love? Something, anyway. Something he couldn’t define. He had wanted to beat her. Perhaps even hurt her. But he still wanted her. Despite everything. And she wanted him. But was that enough?

He sighed, then wrinkled his nose. Something smelled.

“The owl dropped her food.”

Harry turned his head and looked at Mr Biggles, then at the dead rat on the floor. “Hedwig dropped that?”

“Yes.”

That was unlike her. Unless she had learned the wrong things from Hermione’s monster cat - Crookshanks did tend to leave whatever he caught in the house. Fortunately, he didn’t bother hunting too often - he usually preferred to extort food from Harry.

“Can I eat it?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s a rat. You don’t know where it’s been.” He vanished it, then cast a cleaning charm on the floor.

“What a waste of a perfectly good meal.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “You already ate this week.”

“So?”

“If you grow as fat as Hermione’s cat, you won’t fit into your habitat any more,” Harry pointed out.

“Then you can enlarge it.”

Harry rubbed his eyes. He should be able to win an argument against his pet.

A knock on the door saved his pride. “Harry?”

That was Sirius. Harry bit his lip, then answered: “Yes?”

“May I come in?”

He was tempted to tell him no but didn’t. “Yes.”

His godfather entered and closed the door behind him. “Hermione was rather beaten up. Jeanne’s not happy.”

“We had a duel,” Harry replied. “She wasn’t exactly gentle either,” he added.

Sirius frowned. “Do you need some potions or ointments?”

“No.” That meant Hermione had needed some treatment, then. “She changed into a cat in the middle of a fight, and I kicked her,” he added.

“Ah.” Sirius shook his head. “Did she claw your nose?”

“No.”

His godfather chuckled. “You got lucky then.”

Harry hadn’t been lucky - he had beaten Hermione fair and square. “She’s not as good as she thinks she is.”

“What do you expect? She’s a cat.”

“She’s an animagus, not an animal,” Harry pointed out. Hermione was a witch, not a cat.

Sirius inclined his head. “Well, she’s a little of both - sort of.” He sat down on Harry’s swivel chair. “We don’t just take the form of an animal - we take on some of the animal’s instincts as well.”

“She thinks like a cat?” That would explain a few things.

Sirius frowned. “That’s not quite correct. On some level, an animagus has the urge to act like they think an animal would act. Muggles would call it a psychological effect.”

“She thinks she’s a cat?”

Sirius frowned at him. “No. She merely acts a little cattish at times.”

Well, Hermione certainly had a catty streak, Harry knew. “And you’re a dog.”

“Yes. Padfoot,” Sirius said.

“Padfoot?”

“That was the name your father and Remus gave my animal form.” Sirius cocked his head and frowned. “Well, it was also meant to be my nom de guerre, but that didn’t really work out.” He suddenly smiled. “Your father was Prongs - he could change into a stag.”

“Ah.” Harry pressed his lips together, suddenly feeling very jealous of Hermione. His father had been an animagus, just like his godfather, but Sirius had taught her and not Harry.

“I wanted to teach you, but Dumbledore warned me that you’d need to learn Occlumency instead,” Sirius said. “I hadn’t even met you after my escape, yet,” he added with a frown. “I couldn’t tell you, either, or so he said.”

Harry scoffed. “That seems to be a theme.”

Sirius nodded. “I should have told you after Voldemort was dead, but…” He sighed. “Being an unregistered animagus is illegal.”

Harry didn’t say anything. They should have told him.

“So… are you together again?” Sirius asked. “Hermione looked pretty happy for having lost a duel. Unless you did something else,” he added with a grin.

Harry winced. “It just happened.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “You mean you two did?”

“It’s complicated,” Harry replied.

But it didn’t look like his godfather shared his view.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 19th, 1999**

Harry Potter nodded at Ron as he entered the kitchen. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

Greetings exchanged, Harry went back to buttering his toast.

“Hermione’s sleeping in again?”

Harry glared at Ron. “I wouldn’t know.” They weren’t sharing a room any more. Though he assumed she was. Like her cat.

His friend wasn’t impressed by Harry’s glare. He shook his head.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“Nothing,” Ron replied. “Just thinking we’ve been here before.”

“Where?”

“You waiting for her to make the first step.”

“I’m not,” Harry retorted. He didn’t even know how he’d react if Hermione showed up at his door. Which she hadn’t, anyway.

“What are you doing, then?” Ron asked. “After your ‘duel’.”

Harry drew a breath through his clenched teeth. “Does everyone know about that?”

“Well… the muggles think you were thieves.”

“What?” Harry stared at him. Had Ron gone mad?

Ron held up The Times, folded to display a small article circled in red.

Harry blinked. “Scrap Metal Thieves Loot Old Factory?” He flipped the newspaper around. “It’s yesterday’s issue.”

“I found it on the stack in the living room,” Ron explained with a grin. “They think you stole all the stuff you vanished and wonder if you committed similar thefts.”

It wasn’t funny at all, in Harry’s opinion.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 19th, 1999**

“Seriously, after what happened, she won’t dare take the first step.”

Harry Potter closed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t you have anything more important to do?”

“Actually, no. It’s not as if we’re really working on our case, is it?”

Harry reflexively cast another privacy charm, even though their office was well-protected already. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Ron ignored his wishes, though. “You need to make a decision. Either get back together with her or break up. This is worse than before you got together. For both of you.”

Harry didn’t want to break up with Hermione. But to get back together with her… “It’s complicated.”

“It’s tearing you up. And I doubt she’s doing any better, judging by the way you two treat each other at dinner.”

Harry pressed his lips together. That was her fault. She had hurt him with her secrecy. She should fix it.

“She won’t make the first step. She’s afraid you’ll turn her down.”

Harry demonstratively held up the file he was staring at. “We do have work, you know.”

Ron snorted. “Another pointless meeting with the goblins? They already know everything we do about the Night Nargles.”

Everything they knew officially, of course. “If we don’t meet them, they might refuse people the use of their vaults again,” Harry pointed out. “And then we’ll have to deal with rioting idiots again.”

“At least we’re allowed to hex them,” Ron replied. “Imagine if we were allowed to curse the goblins whenever they didn’t cooperate!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “They never cooperate anyway.”

“Exactly!” Ron grinned.

“You want another goblin rebellion?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows.

“Well, they seem to want one really badly.” Ron shrugged. “But not really. I’m just fed up with all the obstructions. Goblins, foreign ministries, the Wizengamot…”

Harry scoffed. That was another thing he didn’t want to talk about. “Let’s go over what we’re going to tell them.”

He ignored Ron’s long-suffering sigh. At least it would take his mind off of her. And her plans.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, February 21st, 1999**

After almost a week’s worth of evenings spent hidden in the Oasis, sneaking into the club was routine for Hermione Granger. Change into a cat, have Jeanne disillusion her, wait until the first witches arrived and follow them into the club. Skip the Thief’s Downfall and hide behind the plant pot in the main room.

Of course, she was still careful and cautious - as Mr Fletcher taught her, you could never take anything lightly on a heist, especially not something you had done before.

But there was no real challenge, other than not going crazy from not being able to do anything except wait for Draco Malfoy to make an appearance. Which he hadn’t so far. But today was Sunday, and - since it wasn’t Valentine’s Day - she hoped that he would return to his usual schedule.

Mostly because she was heartily sick of observing the kinds of things that went on in the main room. Especially since Harry hadn’t shown any sign yet that he wanted to do anything like they had done after their duel. She had thought about asking him, but she didn’t want to push him. He didn’t deal well with that. And she wouldn’t deal well if he broke up with her for good.

She silently sighed, dropping her head on to her paws. He had said they’d have to sort things out once they were done with Malfoy, but she had no idea how that would end. The sorting out, of course - Malfoy’s fate was already sealed.

As soon as his son finally visited the club again.

Trying to second-guess her target’s plans and possible reasons for deviating from his usual schedule, as well as trying not to watch the show on the stage, almost made Hermione miss his arrival - he was a little later than expected.

But now that he was present, all she had to do was to wait until he retired to a private room and then proceed according to the plan.

Easy.

Especially compared to sorting things out with Harry. Or duelling him.

*****

Two hours later, Hermione Granger had to revise her assessment of the mission. Slightly. The spells on the private rooms weren’t quite as basic as she had expected - apparently, the club owners hadn’t skimped on their internal security even though the wards on the building were impressive and the Thief’s Downfall had to have cost a fortune.

But whoever had cast the detection and privacy spells on the private rooms would have charged an arm and a leg as well. The spells were intricately entwined, resulting in a scheme that both kept out any eavesdropping charms as well as allowing the detection spells to circumvent most common privacy charms.

If she weren’t stuck to the ceiling so drunk patrons wouldn’t stumble over her disillusioned form, she’d take notes. It was a very elegant scheme - perfect for a heist, should she need a similar setup.

Although Harry clearly expected her to stop pulling heists, so this was academic anyway.

She forced the dark thought away and focused on disabling the detection charms - in a way that anyone using them would think Malfoy had managed to cast an exotic privacy charm. The target was unlikely to have mastered such a spell, given his lacklustre skill at Charms, but gold went a long way to compensate for such deficiencies.

She flicked her wand, adjusting the Far-Listening Charm. It was a variant she hadn’t seen before, but the principles were the same, and so the usual techniques would still work - if you had mastered Arithmancy so you could adapt them. Which, of course, she had.

Done. That left the Far-Seeing Charm. Which was more complicated - but not overly so. A twist here, some adjustment there, dissolve the link to the protection spells… and done as well!

Now all that was left was the locking charm on the door. Which looked like a typical locking charm - but for some small changes. Which, as she found by analysing the scheme, weren’t small at all. Clever. Very clever. But then, only an amateur would assume that a Curse-Breaker able to install the protections she had already disabled would stoop to using a basic charm on the door.

Unless that was another trap…

She ran a few more detection spells. Just in case. But she found no more traps.

She was still a little nervous - and ready to bolt - as she checked if the coast was clear, then opened the door and rushed inside, wand flashing as she pushed the door closed with her free hand.

Two Stunners later, it was over. It was almost anti-climatic - neither the target nor the witch - Laura - had even noticed her. She had literally caught them in the act.

The dog would find this incredibly amusing.

But she was a cat and on a mission. She hit Laura with a Confundus Charm before waking her up, then having her drink half a bottle of Fermented Fairy Baobab Juice - a very expensive, very exotic and very potent magical liquor Sirius had acquired. Just the thing a wizard like Draco Malfoy would use to display his wealth. And the kind of liquor that would keep a witch like Laura from suspecting anything or noticing Hermione’s False Memory Charm after she woke up from another of Hermione’s Stunners.

That done, Hermione turned to the still-stunned scion of the Malfoy Family, pulling out a small vial which was even more expensive than Fermented Fairy Baobab Juice: Veritaserum.

*****

“What else do you know about the security measures your father has added to your vault?” Hermione Granger asked.

“They will stop the Night Nargles,” Draco Malfoy answered with a vacant expression.

“Do you know where your father acquired them?”

“No.”

“Do you know if he had a Curse-Breaker install them?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything else other than that they will stop the Night Nargles?”

“No.”

She wanted to rub the bridge of her nose, but she was wearing her mask. Apparently, Malfoy didn’t trust his own son with his vault’s security. Smart, of course, but annoying. She’d have to tackle them blind.

At least the idiot in front of her knew where the vault was and how to enter it - and she knew that, whatever time he returned from the club, he would be ignored by his parents until the next day. And she was now certain that there were no additional security measures on the Floo connection in the manor either.

She was tempted to interrogate him further, but she couldn’t afford it - breaking into the Malfoy Vault would be difficult and take a lot of time. She stunned Malfoy again, cut off a lock of his hair and stuffed him into a specially-prepared pocket.

She hissed in disgust as she dropped a hair into a vial of Polyjuice. She really didn’t want to swallow that, nor did she want to wear his form. Especially not after having seen him naked.

But she had to to break into his manor.

A sip later, she started dressing in his discarded - and now thoroughly cleaned! - robes.

At least everything was going according to plan. In less than a day, the Malfoys would be ruined.

*****

 


	66. Full Circle

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 21st, 1999**

Sitting in his favourite chair in the living room, Sirius Black wanted to change. As a dog, things were simpler. Safer as well. Happier, in any case. He didn’t have to think so much, and mistakes didn’t hurt as much. And waiting while others risked their lives and he couldn’t do anything to help them wasn’t such a pain. He hadn’t even been allowed to assist Hermione in infiltrating the club - Jeanne had insisted on doing that, even though Sirius and Fletcher weren’t watching the Knockturn Alley brothels any more.

And now everyone but the old thief was sitting around, worrying. And Fletcher was worrying by himself somewhere. And probably drinking. Sirius understood that, of course - it wasn’t easy to let Hermione do this by herself. It never had been, but Malfoy was the most dangerous of their targets. Unfortunately, he was also the most important one - if he kept his gold and reputation, all their efforts would have been for naught. And Sirius wouldn’t accept that. Couldn’t. Umbridge’s execution was just the latest proof that the system had to change, and for that, Malfoy had to be dealt with.

But he wished there was another way. One that wouldn’t involve waiting and worrying. If not for Moody’s presence, Sirius would have changed already. A dog’s antics cheered everyone up. Even cats, though they didn’t want to admit it. But with the old Auror still in the house, he couldn’t risk it. Sirius was an unregistered animagus, and that was a crime.

He glanced at Harry, who tried to pretend that he was reading the latest Quidditch Weekly issue instead of waiting for any news. At least, Harry didn’t hold that crime against Sirius. Not when James had committed the same crime.

There was a lot Harry held against him, though. Sirius sighed and let his shoulders sag in his seat.

“She’ll be fine,” Jeanne said and touched his thigh. “It’s a good plan.”

Sirius forced himself to nod, even though he didn’t share Jeanne’s optimism. So much could go wrong.

“It’s not a good plan!” Harry suddenly snapped, glaring at them. “You know what she said - Malfoy didn’t know anything about the latest protections his father added. She’s going in blind.” He glanced at the mirror resting in front of Sirius. “You should order her to abandon the heist.”

“It’s a calculated risk,” Jeanne retorted with a glare. “Just because you beat ’er in a staged duel doesn’t mean she’s suddenly incompetent.”

“She’s overconfident! And she’s alone - you won’t be able to help her once something goes wrong!” Harry dropped his magazine to the side.

Sirius sighed. His wife and his godson. His closest family, together with his best friend and the cat. They both cared and should get along. But they didn’t - and that was his fault. If only he hadn’t kept the truth from Harry!

But he had. He hadn’t been able to destroy Harry’s dreams - and in doing so, he had crushed them. Father would have loved that; he’d always been fond of those kinds of twists. At least Harry had started to forgive them, which meant there was still hope. His godson truly was the best kind of wizard.

“’Ermione’s dealt with worse than the efforts of a family of cowards who fled France!” Jeanne sniffed.

Sirius knew better than to correct his wife, even though the Malfoys hadn’t exactly fled France - quite the contrary, actually. Jeanne had everything he could want in a wife - beauty, talent, passion, courage - though that went without saying; she was French - but she had a temper as well and didn’t like to be proven wrong. Not unlike Hermione. Their little cat loathed admitting any mistake - typical for cats, of course.

“Underestimating Malfoy is a mistake,” Harry retorted. “Voldemort made that mistake!”

Sirius cleared his throat. “We’re not underestimating him. Hermione knows what she is doing.” He hoped so, at least.

Harry glared at him, and Sirius struggled not to flinch. He had hurt the boy so much.

Jeanne sniffed again. “You couldn’t help ’er, anyway.”

Sirius sighed. Jeanne thought Harry was mostly angry because his pride had been hurt by Hermione beating him. But Harry was better than that. They had hurt him - it was their fault. Sirius’s fault.

“And why is this even necessary? You’re already twice as wealthy as Malfoy. At least!” Harry stood. “His allies are ruined - sooner or later, his power will crumble!”

Sirius hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “He could rebuild his power base. Make new allies. And even if he didn’t, it would take too long to topple him.” He looked at Jeanne and smiled. “I don’t want our child to grow up in a country where Malfoy pulls the Ministry’s strings.”

“Hermione said the same thing,” Harry muttered as he sat down again.

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Sirius smiled, a little.

Harry scoffed. “She’s wrong more often than she thinks!”

“Probably.” Sirius shrugged. “It takes a lot for her to admit a mistake, though.”

Harry grunted in response.

Sirius was about to subtly remind him that Hermione had admitted being wrong to Harry numerous times when Jeanne cut in: “She’s not the only one.”

Harry glared at her. “Are you trying to imply something?”

“No, I’m saying it outright: You also loathe admitting your mistakes!”

Sirius loved his wife, but, sometimes, she could be very annoying.

“I admit my mistakes just fine!” Harry snarled.

“Really?” Jeanne’s tone and expression left no doubt what she thought about that.

“Please!” Sirius held up his hands. “We’re all worried about Hermione, but if we tear into each other, we won’t be able to help her, if she should need us.”

Jeanne was now glaring at him, and Harry suddenly looked even worse.

Well, Sirius tried to console himself, at least it’s obvious that he still cares for her a lot. Not that their ‘duel’ left that in any doubt, of course.

If only they would sort things out already - Sirius had been the one to keep Hermione from telling Harry the truth, after all. It was his mistake.

He sighed again. He really wanted to change. Harry needed some cheering up, and so did Sirius. And if the cat took too long to finish the heist, or even got into trouble, Sirius could chase her round a bit.

*****

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, February 21st, 1999**

Hermione Granger stepped out of the fireplace into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. It was decorated more tastefully than she had expected, she noted with a covert glance as she made her way to the stairs leading up to the first floor, where Draco Malfoy’s room was located.

She walked quickly, despite the unfamiliar body - any stumbling would be attributed to being drunk, or so she hoped. Not that she expected anyone to observe her, other than the family’s house-elf - ‘Dobby’, according to Malfoy. The little rat was probably watching from the walls, in case Malfoy stumbled and fell - or needed something done. Like pulling off his boots.

Well, the elf could watch all he wanted - for now.

As soon as she reached Malfoy’s room - which wasn’t tastefully decorated, she noted with hidden glee; green and silver everywhere - she raised her voice. “Don’t bother me for the rest of the night, Dobby!” She didn’t wait for an acknowledgement and quickly cast a privacy charm, then changed into a cat and back, ending the effect of the Polyjuice Potion. Shuddering, she ditched the fool’s robes and quickly put on her catsuit, then pulled out a puppet from her enchanted pocket, enlarging it and placing it on the bed. Covered in a sheet and turned to the side, away from prying eyes, Jeanne’s decoy would fool an observer - provided they didn’t try to wake it up. Hermione would get a warning if that happened, though. For all the good it’d do her.

She shook her head. It would be safer to leave Draco Malfoy here, obliviated and drunk, but she needed his presence to get into the Malfoys’ vault. Just dealing with the protections Malfoy had added without his son’s knowledge would take long enough, she would never crack the rest of the wards on the entrance before morning arrived.

It would be a close call as it was. She did a last check of her gear and appearance, then disillusioned herself and sneaked out of the room. According to the results of her interrogation of Malfoy, the entrance to the family vault was hidden in the wine cellar - how cliché!

But it meant she didn’t have to deal with additional protections as she quickly and silently made her way through the manor, past the entrance hall and into the cellar. Which was filled with French wine, of course. A large number of them, she noted, were muggle vintages. It seemed that the Malfoys weren’t quite so bigoted when it concerned their drinks.

Shaking her head at the hypocrisy, she walked to the corner Draco had described and activated the detection spell on her mask. And winced.

The area was covered in spells. Just sorting out which ones were new and would have to be dealt with, and which ones Draco’s presence would neutralise, would take more time than she had anticipated. For a moment, she wished she had brought Mr Fletcher with her, like she had smuggled Draco. But he wouldn’t have been able to pass through the protections using the idiot - that would only work for one person - and so would be more of a liability. Which was why he had opposed that plan.

Sirius, of course, had wanted to come, but she and Jeanne had opposed that - he wasn’t a Curse-Breaker and would have been of no help at all. Unless this turned into a battle. Which it wouldn’t without the dog messing around.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 21st, 1999**

Harry Potter was tempted to set the stupid magazine on fire. Or hex Jeanne. Or Hermione, as soon as she finished her heist. Or Ron. Quidditch Weekly for being boring and not being a viable distraction. Jeanne for insinuating that this was about his pride. And Hermione for making him worry about her. And Ron for chatting with Luna in his room over their mirror instead of distracting him.

“She’ll be alright,” Sirius said. Not for the first time.

Harry scoffed. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Sirius flinched in response, and Harry suddenly felt guilty.

Before he could say anything else - like ‘sorry’ - though, Jeanne snapped: “Don’t vent your frustration on ’im! If you were so worried about ’Ermione, you could have ’elped ’er.”

Help a thief? Harry clenched his teeth. He was an Auror, not a criminal! Not any more, at least, he added with a small pang of shame. “There has to be another way,” he said instead. “Not… this.”

“What else can we do to get rid of Malfoy?” Sirius asked. “Unleash Fiendfyre on the manor? It wouldn’t get through the wards before the Ministry’s forces deal with it.”

“And ’Ermione won’t use Fiendfyre inside the wards,” Jeanne added. “Too dangerous for everyone else.”

That was something, at least - they wouldn’t stoop to murder. A small consolation. Harry sighed. “And what if Malfoy has part of his wealth stored in his Gringotts vault?”

“He’ll most certainly have done so,” Sirius said. “But he won’t trust the goblins too much, even considering the recent detente. And even if he manages to save part of his fortune, he’ll lose so much face for getting his manor robbed, he won’t be able to convince anyone that he’s not ruined. Not without actually ruining himself.” He smiled, showing his teeth.

“Even if that works, it’s not worth risking her life!” Harry snapped. Malfoy was too dangerous.

Sirius’s smile turned rather rueful. “You know her - she won’t stop no matter what.”

“But she’ll be glad to know you worry about ’er so much,” Jeanne butted in with a smug smile.

Harry glared at her. That was between him and Hermione. And none of anyone else’s business. They’d sort that out themselves.

*****

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, February 22nd, 1999**

By the time Hermione Granger had disabled the last of the protections on the secret passage that weren’t keyed to the blood and wand of Malfoy’s son - not quite blood magic, even if it shared some similar principles - midnight had passed. She bit her lower lip for a moment. That had taken longer than planned - the Curse-Breaker who had done this had been very skilled - but not too long. She could still do this. The vault’s actual protections would, naturally, be even harder, but if their relative strength was the same as these, she had time to deal with them.

And if they were too strong...

She hissed silently at the thought. Failure would mean she would need a new plan. Which would be difficult - this was the best plan they had managed. She shook her head. She had to do this.

She opened the specially enchanted pocket where she had stored Malfoy’s son and pulled the boy out - just enough to grab his arm and push his wand into it, then wave it around in the correct pattern before touching the enchanted stones in the wall.

A moment later, they folded away - which looked remarkably like when the wall in the back of the Leaky Cauldron opened - and revealed a narrow staircase winding downwards. Perfect.

She kept her unwitting accomplice’s hand out as she descended - just because he hadn’t known about any traps covering the stairs didn’t mean there were none, and that he had been taught to always cast a Wand-Lighting Charm before going down into the vault could be a cover. Of course, she still went slowly enough that the spells on her mask would allow her to detect traps - Mr Fletcher had taught her better than to assume anything was safe.

But there were no traps on the stairs. No spells at all, other than protections against See-Through-Walls Charms. Recent ones. Which was rather suspicious, in her opinion. Why would anyone spend so much gold on additional protections, but not add a few more spells to the stairs? She would have done so, if only to catch overconfident thieves. And what were they hiding? She had disabled one of the protections, but hadn’t found anything suspicious behind the walls. And she didn’t have the time to do that to all the walls and ceilings.

On the other hand, Malfoy’s son might trigger any traps by accident. She snorted.

In any case, she had reached the vault. It was far older-looking than the ones she had encountered before - the massive stones forming the walls of the anteroom reminded her of old Egyptian construction, and the metal door covered with glowing runes seemed to have been made out of bronze, not steel.

She drew a deep breath. If the Malfoys had never bothered to replace the door, then the protections on it would have grown immensely powerful with age. She had thought the Black Vault was well protected, but this…

But Draco had known how to pass through these protections - as expected from the scion of the family. It would be very embarrassing if an inconvenient death of the Head of the Family resulted in the vault becoming inaccessible due to the rest of the family’s ignorance.

So all she had to deal with were the new protections Malfoy had added. Which, she quickly realised as she took a closer look at the spells on the door, were even more impressive than she had expected.

For a moment, she wavered. She could retreat. Leave and try to find another plan that left her with more time to tackle this vault. But she knew there wouldn’t be a better opportunity. This was her best chance to ruin Malfoy. Probably her only chance. She had to do it.

Taking a deep breath, she started to carefully analyse the spells in front of her. Fortunately, she was, after dealing with their work in the cellar, now somewhat familiar with the work of the Curse-Breaker Malfoy had hired. Enough, at least, to recognise elements of his ‘style’. The spellwork of the unknown wizard or witch was intricate and elegant - a little too elegant compared to the older spells on the vault. They had done a good job of blending their spells into the lattice formed by the other spells, but they hadn’t managed to perfectly match it.

Grinning, she started to unravel the new scheme - very carefully, of course; the spells would be linked to the lethal protections. Not directly, which would have been illegal, but to the spells triggering the older defences - the results of which would be no less fatal, but still legal - a loophole she was certain the Wizengamot had deliberately implemented.

She had already dealt with half a dozen spells and traps when she encountered something unexpected - a spell that wasn’t just linked to the old protections on the door checking for Malfoy’s blood but linked to a spell behind the door. Narrowing her eyes, she took a closer look at the spell’s effect, not just its trigger, and she almost whistled. It would lock down the vault when triggered. And if one of its trigger spells had been cast inside the vault, then this would not only serve as a way to keep people out but also trap those who managed to bypass it inside the vault. It was a quite insidious trap, probably using the goblins’ security measures in Gringotts as an example.

But now that she had spotted the trap, it was as good as disarmed. She grinned as she moved her wand, then hesitated. Something wasn’t right. She took a closer look at the second trigger spell. It looked like a standard detection spell. But it fit a little too well with the older spells on the vault. Older, long-since banned, spells. Spells that often had been cast using sacrificial magic. Blood magic.

Hermione gasped. Malfoy hadn’t just hired a Curse-Breaker - he’d hired a blood mage!

She checked her watch. She was running out of time. She couldn’t deal with whatever blood magic had been cast inside the vault before someone checked up on Malfoy’s son. And she couldn’t drop him back in his room - she needed him to pass through the older protections; disarming them would take too much time as well.

She bit her lower lip. This couldn’t be happening. Malfoy couldn’t get away again. She blinked as the solution came to her.

She smiled, baring her teeth, and reached into one of her enchanted pockets. The one which wasn’t housing a stunned Malfoy.

Oh, yes, this would be perfect.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 22nd, 1999**

“Who’s you?”

Harry Potter, kneeling in front of the Auror fireplace, his head stuck in the green fire, looked up at the elf in front of him, the Malfoy Manor entrance hall visible around them. “I’m Auror Potter, and this is Auror Weasley.” He noticed the creature frown at the names. “We have to talk to Mr or Mrs Malfoy - it’s urgent.”

“It be very late. Dobby cannot wake up Master Lucius or Mistress Narcissa.”

“Auror business,” Ron, standing behind him in the Ministry office, added. “Your employer and his family might be in danger, so get to it and inform them we need to speak to them at once!”

Not even that seemed to startle the elf. “Dobby will do so. Please be waiting here.” He turned and walked away, soon leaving Harry’s limited field of view.

“He’s got the unflappable butler attitude down, but his language needs work,” Harry commented, shifting his weight while he remained kneeling in front of the fireplace.

“All elves talk like that,” Ron replied. “How does Malfoy Manor look? Any new defences?”

“I didn’t see any,” Harry told him, “but that doesn’t mean there aren’t.”

“I could have told you that.”

Harry shrugged. He was the one kneeling on the floor and dealing with an obstinate house-elf.

A few minutes later, he saw Malfoy walking towards his spot. “Auror Potter? What’s this about? It’s four in the morning!” The man didn’t look like he had been sleeping a few minutes ago, but then, Sirius always said that the Malfoys were masters of appearance-improving charms.

Harry snorted. “I’m aware of that - I hadn’t planned to be working this early either. But we’ve received an anonymous tip that someone might have attacked your son.”

He heard a gasp from someone outside his field of vision. “Draco?” That would Mrs Malfoy, Harry realised.

“Dobby saw Master Draco return and go to his room,” the house-elf added.

“It seems your information was wrong, Auror Potter,” Malfoy drawled with a slight sneer.

Harry suppressed his anger at the man’s attitude. “Could you check on him? According to our information, your son was acting ‘rather peculiarly’ when he left the Oasis last night.”

That caused another gasp.

“Dobby, go and check on Draco!” Lucius snapped.

“I’ll go myself!” Mrs Malfoy said, and Harry saw the witch brush past her husband and rush up the stairs.

“The Aurors have informants in the Oasis?” Malfoy scoffed. “That won’t be well received by certain of my peers.”

“We don’t have regular informants, according to my knowledge,” Harry retorted. “So when we received a tip, delivered anonymously to my home, not to the Auror Corps, I decided to investigate.”

“I see.” Malfoy had lost a bit of his arrogant attitude, or so it seemed. “The staff there would risk a lot by breaking the club’s tradition of utmost discretion.”

“It might have been a patron,” Harry pointed out.

“That doesn’t explain why they didn’t contact our home, though.” Malfoy frowned. “In fact, I think…” A woman’s scream interrupted him.

“Mrs Malfoy’s got quite a set of lungs,” Ron muttered behind Harry as Malfoy jerked and whirled round.

“Narcissa?” he yelled.

“They took Draco!”

“Mr Malfoy? Can we enter your home? This is now a matter for the Auror Corps,” Harry said.

Malfoy blinked and hesitated. But before he could answer, his wife returned and rushed down the stairs. “They kidnapped Draco!” she said, panting. “They left a puppet in his bed to fool us!”

“Mrs Malfoy? Can we enter your home? We need to investigate this,” Harry repeated himself.

“Now, we do not know this is a kidnapping,” Malfoy said. “It could just be a prank - by Draco.”

“A prank?” Harry frowned and reached into his pocket. Perhaps...

“Draco wouldn’t do this! Not to us!” Mrs Malfoy snapped, shaking her head. For the usually always composed witch, this was almost a nervous breakdown. “Auror Potter! Enter our home!” she said, waving her wand at the fireplace.

“And my partner, Auror Weasley, please,” Harry said before he got up and threw more Floo powder into the fire. “Malfoy Manor!” He reached into his pocket and activated the mirror as he walked into the green fire.

A moment later, he was stepping out of the fireplace in Malfoy Manor, stumbling slightly. “Mrs Malfoy.” He nodded at her.

“Auror Potter. Welcome to our home.” She turned and nodded at Ron, who didn’t stumble at all as he stepped out of the Floo connection. “Auror Weasley. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy,” Ron said, looking around. “When was the last time you saw your son?”

“At dinner,” Malfoy answered, still frowning. “We didn’t wait for his return before we retired for the evening.”

“Dobby, was it?” Harry looked at the elf. “Did you see Draco Malfoy return?”

The elf nodded. “Yes, Dobby did. Master Draco went to his room.”

“Which means he was kidnapped after he reached his room - or it was an impostor who entered your home,” Harry said.

Mrs Malfoy gasped.

“And I think we all know who would be able to do such a thing.” Ron looked grim. “The Night Nargles,” he added, unnecessarily.

Malfoy drew a sharp breath. “They are thieves, not kidnappers.”

“They will do anything to break into a manor,” Harry pointed out. “They might even have forced your son to help them break in.”

Mrs Malfoy was pale now. “But they… they haven’t killed anyone.” She looked at her husband. “They aren’t murderers!”

“Your protections wouldn’t hurt your son, would they?” Ron asked.

The Malfoys looked at each other, paling. Malfoy started to answer, but a loud noise - a gong being struck hard - interrupted him.

Harry wanted to curse Hermione right then.

“That’s the vault’s alarm!” Mrs Malfoy gasped. “Your new protections! They wouldn’t hurt Draco, would they?”

Malfoy’s expression was answer enough, and the witch whirled around and started to run towards the door behind them.

“Mrs Malfoy, wait!” Harry yelled as he rushed after her. “You can’t face the thieves by yourselves! Let us do it!”

“No!” Malfoy yelled. “It’s our family vault!”

But his wife stopped and turned, glaring at him. “It’s our _son_!” She shook her head. “Auror Potter, Auror Weasley. Come with me! We must hurry!”

Harry glanced at Malfoy as Ron and he followed Mrs Malfoy. The wizard shook his head, then pressed his lips together and followed them.

“Narcissa, wait! Let the Aurors go first!”

Harry clenched his teeth. That was sound advice, of course, but it would also mean that Harry and Ron would be running first into any traps left.

A minute later, they reached the cellar, where Mrs Malfoy went straight to a corner, flicking her wand until the stones started to draw back, revealing a stairway leading further down. “There are no traps until you reach the vault,” she said as she cast an Episkey on her hand.

Harry nodded, but Ron had to add: “No traps placed by you, at least.”

That gave both Malfoys pause, and they exchanged a long glance. But when Harry and Ron entered the stairs, wands out and ready for anything, Mr and Mrs Malfoy were following close behind them, despite the risk. For all their faults, they must love their son, he realised.

To Harry’s relief, they didn’t encounter any traps on the stairs. He hadn’t expected any, although you never knew, and Moody had trained him better than to assume he was correct.

But when they finally reached the entrance to Malfoy Manor’s vault, the first thing they saw was an unmoving body on the floor - in front of a door covered in glowing runes.

“Draco!” Mrs Malfoy rushed past Harry, almost shoving him out of the way. “Draco!”

“Narcissa! Watch out!” Mr Malfoy yelled, stepping past Harry as well.

A moment later, a Piercing Curse from the ceiling shattered the wizard’s Shield Charm, followed by a Stunner that took him down. Mrs Malfoy tried to get up from where she was kneeling next to her son, but a Stunner dropped her on top of him.

Ron whistled at the sight. Harry glared at him, then at the ceiling. Sighing, he cast a privacy charm.

Laughing, Hermione ended her Disillusionment Charm and unstuck herself, gracefully dropping down to the ground next to him. “Well need to deal with the elf as well,” she said.

“He stayed up in the manor,” Ron said. “I’ll get him.”

“Good!” She turned. “Now give me a little while - I have to crack this vault.”

“We’re not here to help you rob the place!” Harry snapped. “We’re here to arrest Malfoy for using blood magic!” he reminded her. That’s why she had called them, after all. She couldn’t expect him to let her rob the vault while he watched, could she?

She nodded. “Oh, I know. But in order to prove that, we’ll need to open the vault. That way, you can claim you found the Malfoy stunned on the ground, next to their son - and while you were looking for the thieves responsible, you discovered the blood magic protections inside the vault. The thieves, of course, had already robbed the vault and vanished by the time you dared enter the vault - like always!” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t spot the blood magic through a closed, warded door, would you?”

She could.

Harry stared at her. She was grinning at him behind her mask, he knew.

He also knew that he would have to let her do this if he wanted to arrest Malfoy and make it stick. And that she would be enjoying every minute of it.

He pressed his lips together and glared at Ron, who wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement.

“Hey!” Ron held up his hand. “It’s the only way to finally bring Malfoy to justice for everything he’s done.”

He understood that. But she didn’t have to rub it in - she was even humming as she worked!

On the other hand, this would be her last heist.

Harry consoled himself with that thought as he watched Hermione break into the vault.

*****

**Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, February 22nd, 1999**

Hermione Granger smirked behind her mask as she finished disarming the last protection on the door that Malfoy’s blood and wand wouldn’t allow her to bypass. Had Harry really thought she would let her chance to rob Malfoy blind pass? The man had framed her, ruined her and her family and had gotten away with it for years. Until now.

Today he’d pay.

And, of course, having the best Aurors in Britain who were supposed to catch her instead help her complete her last heist was the perfect way to deal with her recent inglorious defeat against Harry. This would be her masterpiece - the crowning achievement of her career as a professional thief.

She let out her breath as she took a step back from the vault’s door, then licked her lips. “Alright, I’ve dealt with the additional protections - the ones linked to blood magic.”

“Are you sure?” Ron asked. Harry merely kept frowning.

“Of course.” She glared at him behind her mask. “I’ll need Malfoy and his wand,” she added.

Harry looked like he wanted to say something, but he merely nodded - curtly.

She didn’t want to push him further - she had achieved what she wanted - and didn’t say anything either as she stuffed Malfoy into her specially enchanted pocket until only his arm stuck out.

“That looks creepy,” Ron commented.

“It does,” she agreed as she used Malfoy’s wand to cast a Cutting Hex, drawing blood on it before sticking it to his hand - just as she had done to his son earlier.

Despite her earlier claims, she held her breath as she waved Malfoy’s hand and wand in a complex pattern. If she had made a mistake…

She hadn’t. The door slowly swung open - no muggle locks for this family, it seemed - and revealed the vault behind it. Row upon row of chests and trunks and strongboxes…

She frowned. There were a lot. Far more than she expected after her earlier heists. To her knowledge, the Malfoys hadn’t allowed anyone else to use their vault. And a single chest with an Extension Charm cast on it could store an entire fortune. So why would there be so many chests? More than the Davises had had in their vault!

She narrowed her eyes, checking with her detection spell for traps as she slowly entered the vault. There was the blood magic curse she had expected - on the magic lantern illuminating the vault. Probably linked to the spell activating it as well.

A quick analysis confirmed her suspicion. Another trap. She carefully made her way around it.

There were spells on all of the chests - standard spells. Easy to deal with. Nothing to stop a thief who had managed to break into the vault. She knelt down and took a closer look. As she had suspected - the spells had the same style as the latest protections added to the vault.

The blood mage had cast them. And Hermione would bet all the wealth that she had stolen so far that the chests were trapped - probably with more blood magic.

Blood magic… of course!

She slowly approached the closest chest, studying the intricate pattern of the spells on it. Yes… there was another hidden spell. Scoffing, she added another cut to Malfoy’s hand, then drew a drop of his blood on his wand and touched the chest.

Its lid swung open in response.

She withdrew to the entrance of the vault and flicked her wand, levitating, then turning the chest upside down.

Nothing fell out of it. No spell was activated either, but that was scant consolation. A few Summoning Charms confirmed it - the chest was empty.

So were the next half a dozen she opened. And the next.

She finally found gold and jewellery in two chests at the back of the vault - but far less than the Malfoys should have had in their vault.

Hissing, she had to face facts: Malfoy had hidden his gold elsewhere. And she couldn’t interrogate him with Veritaserum - that would be found by the Aurors and Unspeakables and ruin their planned deception. The timing wouldn’t allow them to explain that.

She bit her lower lip in frustration. Even though Malfoy would end up in Azkaban for using blood magic, the thought that she wouldn’t be able to deprive him of his gold was unbearable. And the notion that he had outwitted her was even worse. If only...

She blinked, then grinned.

Malfoy had been clever, but not clever enough.

Let’s see the Malfoys try to get their gold when they couldn’t remember where they had hidden it - or even that they had hidden it!

*****

“I’ve never seen so many Unspeakables in one place,” Ron commented, looking at the dark robes filling the vault.

“I didn’t even know there were so many,” Harry Potter replied. He wasn’t feeling nearly as nonchalant as he sounded, of course. It was one thing to theoretically know that blood magic was considered one of the worst crimes in existence, but to actually see the reaction of the Ministry to his alert was something else. Especially if you had used blood magic yourself.

“I didn’t even know we had so many Aurors left.” Ron snorted. “They must have dragged everyone out of bed - or out of retirement. We should be glad they didn’t drag Moody here, still stuck to his bed.”

Harry nodded. Malfoy Manor was crawling with Ministry staff. Unspeakables, Aurors, Hit-Wizards, Curse-Breakers, even Obliviators - it seemed everyone who could wield a wand and was available was here.

And so were Bones and Scrimgeour. And Bones wasn’t in a good mood as she looked around the vault’s entrance before addressing them. “So, you received an anonymous tip about Draco Malfoy having been the victim of an attack, or kidnapping, and contacted the Malfoys to verify this.”

Harry Potter nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“A tip delivered to your home, not to the office.” Bones’s frown grew fiercer.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Harry wasn’t lying. Not really.

“And after arriving here, you ascertained that Draco Malfoy had been kidnapped.”

“The Malfoys discovered that a decoy had been left in his bed in place of him,” he said. “We were still in the process of dealing with that when the Malfoys were alerted to an attempt to break into their vault. They rushed down here to check what was happening but neglected to inform us whether or not they had disabled the protections, so we had to proceed very carefully down the stairs. And when we arrived, we discovered that they had been stunned and obliviated - and the vault robbed.”

“The work of the Night Nargles,” Ron added. “They’re the only ones able to pull off such a heist.”

“And they made us look like fools, again,” Harry added. He didn’t have to fake all of his anger - Hermione had put one over on him, again. He should have realised when she had called him on the mirror that she wouldn’t be content with just getting Malfoy arrested for his crimes.

“But their actions also exposed the use of blood magic,” Scrimgeour added.

“Unless they did this to frame Malfoy,” Bones snapped.

“That’s very unlikely,” Abigail said. Bones turned to glare at the Curse-Breaker who had dared to cut into their discussion, but Moody’s friend merely flashed her lopsided, half-paralysed smile at her. “I’ve looked the vault’s protections over - it’s not something you can do in a few hours.”

“Have you identified it as blood magic?” Scrimgeour asked.

Abigail nodded. “Yes. It’s definitely blood magic. Fresh spells, too - this wasn’t done before the ban.”

“The Department of Mysteries hasn’t finished their analysis,” Bones replied.

Abigail shrugged. “They’re probably figuring out whether the sacrifice was murdered here or in the vault and what kind of spell was used. But this is blood magic. I’ve dealt with such spells before.”

Harry hadn’t considered that. He looked at the floor, briefly wondering if Malfoy had been present when the murder had taken place.

“It looks like this will be an open and shut case, then,” Scrimgeour said. “But the fact that the Malfoys have been obliviated could complicate matters.”

“They could have done that themselves,” Ron pointed out. “They spotted the open vault, realised that we were coming down behind them and decided to fake an attack to obliviate themselves of any incriminating knowledge.”

Bones glared at him. “Which would also mean that the thieves had already left, and didn’t manage to escape from under your noses again, wouldn’t it?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t think that they would have lured us here if they didn’t have an escape plan.”

“You seem remarkably unconcerned about your failure, Auror Weasley,” Bones snapped.

Harry’s friend shrugged again. “It’s not our fault if the Malfoys prevented us from pursuing the thieves as soon as we were aware of the break-in.”

“Unless you think that we should have charged down the stairs without checking for traps,” Harry added.

Bones glared at him. “Do you remember what I told you when you took the oath?”

Harry nodded. “But this isn’t about Malfoy being an enemy of my family. This is about Malfoy using blood magic.”

“That remains to be determined,” Bones said. “This investigation has barely started.”

“Of course,” Scrimgeour agreed. “To accuse, much less convict, a member of the Wizengamot of such heinous crimes requires overwhelming proof of his guilt.”

Which they would get, Harry knew. The Malfoys wouldn’t be able to avoid interrogations under Veritaserum. Not with blood curses found in their vault. Of course, that they looked as if they had lost their fortune to the Night Nargles and wouldn’t be able to bribe anyone wouldn’t help them either.

And the interrogation would reveal their guilt. Hermione hadn’t touched _those_ memories when she had obliviated them and the elf.

“Well, we can but wait for the results of the investigation,” Scrimgeour said. “Although I wonder, Auror Potter... how did you realise that blood magic had been used in the vault?”

“Dumbledore taught me how to identify such curses when he trained me to face Voldemort,” Harry said. It was the truth - although Dumbledore had also taught him how to use blood magic. “He suspected - correctly, as we found out after Crouch’s arrest - that Voldemort had been using such spells and rituals.”

“You didn’t mention that before.” Bones narrowed her eyes at him.

Harry met her eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

“I see.” She pressed her lips together and turned away to yell at a Hit-Wizard handling the still stunned elf.

“Amelia doesn’t like her Aurors keeping such secrets,” Scrimgeour said in a low voice after the Head of the DMLE had walked away.

Harry shrugged. “Then she’ll have to decide whether she wants to know my secrets more than she wants me to stay in the Corps.”

Something that Harry, if he was honest, hadn’t yet decided either.

*****

**London, Knockturn Alley, February 22nd, 1999**

Hermione Granger sighed as she levitated the stolen trunk into the middle of the empty room. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“Something wrong?” Sirius asked. He looked around. “Fletcher picked this location.”

She frowned at him as she turned. “The location is fine. It’s the whole plan.”

“It’s your plan,” the dog pointed out. “Did you make a mistake?”

She rolled her eyes behind her mask. “No. The plan will work. It’s just…” She sighed again. “It’ll make it look as if Malfoy won in the end. That’s not how I want the… the thieves who broke into every manor they wanted to be remembered by the public.”

“You almost called us the Night Nargles, didn’t you?”

She didn’t deign to dignify _that_ with a response. Nor did she acknowledge his smirk.

“Well, the public will also think that you did steal the Malfoy fortune.”

She snorted. That was scant consolation when all she had done was erase any memory of where they had hidden most of their gold, and of the act of hiding itself, from their minds.

“And you did get their gold - what they had left in the vault,” he went on.

She scoffed. “One single trunk.”

He chuckled. “Others would call it a small fortune.”

Others hadn’t robbed four Old Families of their wealth. “And I couldn’t get their library.”

“You mean Harry didn’t let you.”

She glared at him. “He made a convincing argument that we already were pushing the limits of a plausible timetable for the events we want the Ministry to believe.” Otherwise she’d have left the manor empty. At least she had been able to take the Malfoys’ wands.

Sirius nodded, his smile fading a little. “But he accepted you looting their vault.”

“Because he had no choice - otherwise, the Malfoys would have escaped justice. Again.” She sighed once more.

“Well…” Sirius walked up to her. “I would think that’s the most important part - he accepted that you needed to break the law to bring Malfoy to justice.”

He was correct. It still felt wrong to end their heists by pretending to have fallen victim to a last trap by Malfoy, though - she was a professional thief; she wouldn’t fall for such an obvious ploy. Hadn’t fallen for similar traps.

“Don’t frown like that!” He chuckled. “Jeanne would tell you to get over your pride.”

She pressed her lips together. Reputation was important. If this was to be her last heist, then it should end on a high note. The thieves triumphing over both the Malfoys and the Aurors.

But that would run counter to the whole plan. And Harry wouldn’t like it at all.

She sighed and pulled a bottle out of her enchanted pocket. “Let’s do this.” She put it down next to the trunk, then blew it up with a Reductor Curse, splattering blood all over the room before summoning and vanishing all the shards that had caused.

“Alright.” Sirius conjured a cow next to the trunk, then waved his wand. A moment later, the cow shuddered and cried out as all the blood in it was forced out through its pores.

Hermione winced at the gruesome sight, but she was already moving her wand - they had to vanish all traces of the cow, set fire to the place and leave before anyone came to investigate.

Whoever arrived to deal with the incident would only find a few traces of a dark curse, charred remains of a trunk belonging to the Malfoys, and drops of human blood they had ‘missed’. Blood belonging to a dead woman, in case they managed to trace it - Mr Fletcher hadn’t gone into details, but Hermione suspected that he had robbed a muggle morgue.

And she hoped that the news of Malfoy having used blood magic to protect his vault would push the news of the Night Nargles losing at least one member to his traps to the back of the newspapers.

*****

**London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, February 22nd, 1999**

Harry Potter wasn’t exhausted when he finally stepped out of the fireplace, but he certainly was feeling the additional hours he had spent working thanks to Hermione’s improvised plan. Getting up closer to midnight than morning and working until the evening did tend to tire anyone out. It wasn’t bad enough to tempt him into drinking a Pepper-Up Potion, risking Bathilda calling him a hypocrite, but he still sighed with relief as soon as he set foot in Grimmauld Place. He was home.

And then he froze for a moment. Hermione was waiting for him. “Hello.” He nodded at her.

“Hello,” she replied. She sounded a little meek, but he saw her casting a privacy charm. “How was work?”

Harry used his wand to clean the soot from his robes, which kept him from having to talk for a moment.

Ron filled in. “Bones was in rare form today. She probably even drove Scrimgeour mad with her hovering and yelling at everyone.”

“Well,” Hermione said, “arresting a member of the Wizengamot, especially one of the most prominent and influential ones, can ruin careers.”

Harry scoffed. That was true, but it shouldn’t be. “Well, she made it clear that if this is a plot by Sirius, we’ll regret being involved.”

Hermione scoffed. “It was my idea, not his.”

“I don’t think she’ll care about that distinction,” Ron said, stretching. “But it doesn’t matter. We know he’s guilty. And it’s blood magic - he’s not going to wriggle out of that.”

“Not without his gold,” Harry added. Then frowned when Hermione beamed at him. He hadn’t meant it like that - she had still tricked him into helping with a heist. Even though Malfoy had outsmarted her as well in the end.

“At least that’s a fitting result for the Manor Thieves’ last heist,” she said, tossing her head a little in that familiar way.

“You mean the Night Nargles,” Ron corrected her.

Harry had to grin at her expression. She really didn’t like that name. And she was accepting that this was her last heist. And Malfoy would be facing justice for his crimes. Finally.

Harry could live with that.

*****

Hermione Granger took a deep breath. Things had improved between her and Harry, but there was still some lingering awkwardness. Some tension. And a distinct lack of intimacy, of course. Which was why she hesitated to knock on his door. What if she had pushed him too far? He had gone along with the plan, and she hadn’t been lying - without the vault having been robbed, the story wouldn’t have held up; Harry wouldn’t have been able to spot the blood magic spells inside.

But she had been rubbing it in. A little. Though what thief worth their wand wouldn’t have done the same, if put in her place?

Still, Harry had accepted it. And he hadn’t been angry when he had returned. Nor had he been distant during dinner. She pouted. On the contrary, he had been almost cheerful - when he had been using that silly name. At least he had confirmed that their ruse in Knockturn Alley was already being connected to the heist.

Of course, Harry had also speculated about the possible results from that investigation. And the news articles it would generate. With enthusiastic help from Ron. If The Quibbler actually wrote anything like that, she’d know who to blame.

Still, it was one thing to talk over dinner, another to visit him in his room. At night. Not that she expected to end up… well, in his bed.

She sighed. Standing in the hallway and wavering, much less slinking away like some cowardly dog, wouldn’t do. After another deep breath, she knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

“Harry? May I come in?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, and she felt her anxiety rising. “Come in.”

He was sitting on his bed, in his pyjamas. Well, she was wearing her house robes over her own. He was looking at her as she closed the door, then went over, first towards his chair, before turning towards the bed and sitting down near to him.

He didn’t object. He didn’t slide over to wrap his arm around her either, though. She pushed that thought away. “So.” She nodded, pulling up one leg and wrapping her arms around it. “I wanted to ask you: Are you OK with the whole… heist?” No need to mince words here. She didn’t bite her lower lip, though she felt the urge.

Harry sighed. “I wish things had been different.”

That didn’t sound promising. “Different?”

“We didn’t just have to break the law to arrest him. We had to... deceive everyone.”

“You mean we had to lie to everyone.” She looked straight at him.

He frowned for a moment. “Yes.”

She didn’t say anything in return.

After a moment of silence, he sighed. And rolled his eyes a little. “I know it was the only way. And I’m aware that Malfoy would have gotten away with even worse crimes than I had expected if we hadn’t done it.”

“Blood magic.”

She saw him wince at that. “Yes. And not the self-sacrificial kind.”

She nodded. That confirmed some of her suspicions, but she wouldn’t push him for more answers. That was a far too delicate subject.

“But at least with him gone we won’t be needing to do that any more.” The way he said it, it sounded more like a question. Or a challenge.

She nodded. “With Malfoy gone, Sirius can push the rest of the Wizengamot around and start the reforms.” It wouldn’t be easy, of course. Not the real reforms, the ones that would cut the Old Families’ power. But cleaning up the Ministry? That wouldn’t be that hard with the deadlock in the Wizengamot gone.

“I’ll still depend on Sirius, though.”

She frowned. “Is that a problem?” She depended on his godfather as well, after all. Even with her part of the loot - people would wonder where she got her fortune if she started flashing gold around.

He sighed. “It feels like I’m not doing much by myself.”

Ah. This time, she bit her lower lip before answering. “As long as you’re working for the Ministry, people will always look not just at you, but at Sirius as well.”

“I know.”

And he obviously didn’t like it. She understood. But she didn’t have a solution. Not one he’d like, at least. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. She could feel him tense, then relax. And then he put his hand on hers. “It’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?” she asked.

He nodded. After another moment of silence, he asked: “And what will you be doing now?”

She knew what he meant - what would she be doing now that she wasn’t doing heists any more? She shrugged. “I’ll do more work for Sirius as his secretary. He’ll need help now that things will be moving.”

“Ah.” He slowly nodded. “That seems like a significant change.”

“Well, my skills have other uses, too. It takes a thief to catch a thief.” She certainly wasn’t going to be a mere secretary. No matter what she had told her parents.

“Or an Auror,” he replied. But he was grinning.

She sniffed. But she was grinning as well.

She didn’t end up staying the night. But he had his arm wrapped around her long before she left.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 23rd, 1999**

“Did you have any knowledge of what kind of additional protections your husband had ordered for your vault?”

“No.” Mrs Malfoy droned, her eyes not quite focused, under the effect of the Veritaserum.

Scrimgeour - he was handling the Malfoy case personally, though Harry Potter suspected only because Bones hadn’t been able to find a rule that would let her take over - nodded. “Did you suspect that he had hired a practitioner of blood magic?”

“No.”

“What did you suspect?”

“That he had found a dark wizard on the continent.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because he knew dark wizards.”

“As friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you meet them?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see him use the Dark Arts?”

“Yes.”

“After his pardon in 1997?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any crimes he committed after his pardon in 1997?”

“No.”

Harry pressed his lips together. If he were leading the interrogation, he would have pushed and asked about past crimes. But Bones had all but removed him from the case - if not for Sirius, he wouldn’t even have had the opportunity to watch the interrogations. And while Scrimgeour might be claiming to focus on crimes for which they could prosecute Malfoy, Harry had no doubt that the Head Auror also didn’t want to embarrass and annoy other members of the Wizengamot by revealing their past sins and connections to Malfoy.

“Looks like Mrs Malfoy will get acquitted,” Ron whispered next to him, despite the privacy charm they had cast. “Or not even indicted.”

Harry shrugged. “If she didn’t know about Malfoy’s crimes she shouldn’t get punished.”

Ron snorted. “I still think giving birth to Draco Malfoy should be a crime.”

“He didn’t know about the blood magic either,” Harry pointed out.

“Well, of course not - his father knew that Draco dear would have bragged about it.”

Ron was joking, Harry knew, but he wasn’t too far off. Malfoy hadn’t told either his wife or his son, probably for their own protection, but Harry suspected that, at least in Draco’s case, it had been for his father’s protection as well.

“Well, it doesn’t look like Scrimgeour will find out anything interesting,” Ron said. “Nothing like Draco’s tales about his brothel visits.”

“And nothing about the blood mage’s identity,” Harry added.

“Well, she confirmed that he was a foreigner,” Ron pointed out. “French, probably.”

Which meant that the odds of being able to arrest the wizard were low - the French wouldn’t let British Aurors run an investigation on their soil. And Harry didn’t think they were up to the task of finding the criminal. No matter what Jeanne might claim.

He scoffed. “Do you ever wish we could just go and run an investigation without politics interfering at every opportunity?”

“All the time,” Ron replied. “But at least things will get better now, with Malfoy arrested.”

Harry snorted. Better, but not good enough. Politics would still be interfering, just on his behalf. Even when he didn’t want them to - people would still try to do what they thought Sirius wanted. He sighed. “Do you ever want to quit working for the Ministry? Seriously, I mean.”

“Yes.”

Harry blinked. “You do?”

“Of course.” Ron looked at him as if that was a stupid question. “I don’t want to keep working for the Ministry forever.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t known that. Ron hadn’t said anything, had he? Apart from the usual griping about stupid superiours, stupid regulations, stupid co-workers and stupid politics, which everyone did.

“Hey,” Ron said. “I wanted to become an Auror - we were needed when we joined. Still are needed, I reckon, given how few good Aurors we have. And we’re a great team. But, I figure, you’re not going to stay a simple senior Auror forever.” He chuckled. “You don’t like taking orders.”

Harry pressed his lips together. He could follow orders just fine - provided they made sense. “What do you want to do, then?” he asked. “Wait - you want to work with Luna for The Quibbler.”

Ron nodded. “Yes. I love going on expeditions with her. And, no offence, mate, but if I have the choice of spending time with my girlfriend or you, I know who to pick.”

Harry knew that Ron was joking again - his friend was laughing - but he couldn’t help thinking that Ron wasn’t exactly wrong.

*****

**London, Ministry of Magic, February 26th, 1999**

Seeing Malfoy in chains, in the same chair she had been years ago, facing his judgement, felt very satisfying, Hermione Granger had to admit. But knowing he was there because of her? Because of what she had done, after years of training? Because of her plan? That feeling was perfect. After so many years, she finally would have her revenge. Malfoy would finally pay for his crimes.

She managed to restrain herself from grinning widely as she looked at the man. He was holding up well, for someone who had admitted to hiring a blood mage under Veritaserum. Facing his fate with more dignity than she had expected.

It wouldn’t help him, though. Not with all the evidence against him.

“...and, while the accused claims he didn’t exactly know what the dark wizard he had hired would do to protect his vault, he knew that he was hiring a practitioner of blood magic - one of the vilest of the Dark Arts. The accused knew exactly what kind of sacrifices would be required for the task he wanted done - human sacrifices. Sacrifices, as we have heard from Unspeakable Smith, which then took place in the accused’s home while he pretended not to know what was happening.”

Scrimgeour scoffed, not bothering to hide his disdain.

“His claimed ignorance is, therefore, no excuse. He knew what he was doing, he knew what he was asking for and he wanted it done. But, even more damning, he didn’t do this because he feared for his life or his family’s life. He didn’t want his home’s protections strengthened - only his vault’s. It was fear for his gold, and nothing else, that motivated him.”

Hermione suppressed a snort. Scrimgeour wasn’t mentioning that if Malfoy’s hired blood mage had strengthened the manor’s wards with his craft, anyone analysing them would have noticed.

“And for such a vile crime, committed for such base reasons, there is only one fitting punishment: The Veil!”

Multiple gasps filled the Chamber, even though everyone should have known that Scrimgeour would ask for the Veil - if he hadn’t, he would have been seen as trying to downplay Malfoy’s crimes. That wouldn’t have been a smart move for an ambitious Ministry employee.

To Hermione’s surprise, Parkinson rose to speak for Malfoy. She hadn’t expected anyone to risk their reputation like that - especially not someone already known as Malfoy’s ally.

“Honoured members of the Wizengamot! While blood magic is a vile art, the accused wasn’t the one who practised it. There might not be much of a difference between the one who hired someone to do a task and the one who did the task, but a difference there is. And while the prosecution tries to brush it away, the fact remains that he didn’t know what kind of sacrifices would be required for his task. He didn’t want to know, indeed - and what is that but a sign of shame and regret?”

Parkinson shook his head.

“And while past deeds do not outweigh his recent crimes, I do have to point out that the accused risked his life, and more, to save this country when he fought the Dark Lord. He did this not just once, but over months, braving dangers few of us can understand, until he faced the most dangerous dark wizard we have known in open combat, at the side of Albus Dumbledore himself. He did this for us all.”

The wizard took a deep breath.

“And so I ask my esteemed peers to consider his past deeds, his sacrifices, when judging him, and show mercy to a fallen hero.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She had no doubt that Malfoy had had only his own fate in mind when he had started working for Dumbledore. But did he deserve death? Muggle Britain had abolished the death penalty decades ago - and for good reason.

That some would call for the Veil should she ever get arrested also played a part, of course.

In the end, the Wizengamot sentenced Malfoy to life imprisonment in Azkaban, though it was a close call - and, as far as she could tell, mostly thanks to Sirius voting against the Veil; apart from Parkinson, Malfoy’s former allies hadn’t shown any mercy.

Which was exactly what she had expected from people who had tried to destroy her own life and her family’s on a whim, of course.

But they had paid for that. All of them. Well, almost all of them. She hadn’t been able to take revenge on Skeeter before the journalist had been sent to Azkaban. And Umbridge had been executed before Hermione could rob her home. It was good enough, though.

She watched as Aurors led Malfoy away. Sirius was already talking to a few of his allies - working on his first serious proposal, she knew - she had helped write it. And she’d be doing a lot more such work for the foreseeable future - it would take time to reform Wizarding Britain.

And yet, she couldn’t help feeling that she wouldn’t be able to stomach doing that work for the rest of her life. While it was very interesting and challenging, and very important, she craved more than shuffling paper and parchment.

But, for now, it would do.

And, she reminded herself as she saw Harry waiting at the entrance to the Chamber, she had promised to stop doing heists anyway.

But as she was hugging him, and enjoying him hugging her, she also knew that she could do more than heists. Eventually.

*****

 


	67. Epilogue

**London, Diagon Alley, May 14th, 2003**

Mundungus Fletcher didn’t have to go through the Leaky Cauldron to enter Diagon Alley, but apparating directly to the Alley might draw attention to himself - few did it, and Mundungus would rather not make a scene by startling someone. Certainly not today.

So he nodded a greeting to Tom the bartender and made his way through the thinning lunch crowd towards the entrance to the Alley. A very familiar sequence of taps with his wand later, he entered the Alley proper - ‘the heart of British commerce’, to quote one of the candidates for the upcoming elections whose campaign posters covered half the walls nearby.

The first poster had been the work of a half-blood hat crafter, but others had quickly copied him, and many residents were already complaining about the resulting flood of posters and leaflets. It didn’t help, of course, that Diagon Alley and the equally afflicted Hogsmeade were the only locations where such posters could be used - and every candidate for the New Wizengamot was doing it. Some spellcrafter was bound to make a small fortune by developing a spell that protected a wall from such posters.

Mundungus shook his head as he passed a spot where a dozen posters had been pasted over each other, in some cases so sloppily that the figures on the posters ended up fighting each other at the overlapping borders. Even Hermione had been surprised by the fervour with which Wizarding Britain had embraced its very first general election. But then, the years-long struggle in the Wizengamot that had preceded this had drawn a lot of attention from the population. Many wizards and witches seemed to have only started to care about the right to vote once it had become clear that a sizeable part of the Wizengamot didn’t want them to have it. At least that was Hermione’s opinion.

He chuckled - while the girl was more often right than wrong about such things, far more often, she still hated being wrong with a passion. Which was a good streak for a thief, of course.

Not for the first time, he wondered if his daughter would have been like her. He liked to think so. And he liked to think of her as his adopted daughter. Or at least his foster daughter. A worthy successor of his, in any case, even if she was occasionally still a little too reckless for his taste. At least she wasn’t calling him ‘Mr Fletcher’ any more.

“Hey, Fletcher!”

Mundungus forced himself to smile as he turned. “Black.” He nodded at the wizard. “Jeanne.” He genuinely smiled at her. “And hello, Estelle!”

The four-year-old girl smiled at him. “Hey, Fletcher!” she chirped with a too-familiar grin which didn’t fade even when Jeanne scolded her for being rude. She was her father’s daughter, indeed.

Her little sister Alya, barely a year old, merely blinked at Mundungus from where she rested in her stroller.

“So, what are you doing on this fine day?”

Mundungus refrained from rolling his eyes, Black was still as subtle as a big clumsy dog, as Hermione would word it. “Just taking care of some business,” Mundungus replied. “What about you? Doing some campaigning?”

“No!” Estelle piped up. “Mama said Papa wasn’t allowed to today! We’re going to eat ice cream!”

“Cream!” Apparently, Alya was paying attention.

“Ah.” Mundungus smiled. “An important venture that doesn’t deserve distractions or delays.”

Black either didn’t get the hint or ignored him. “How have you been doing? Still doing your tutoring?”

“Not so much any more.” Mundungus shrugged. He had enough gold - far, far more than enough, actually, since Hermione had insisted on dividing the loot equally - that he didn’t have to work any more. Or knew what to do with his all his money. “But I still keep in shape.” He smiled at Black.

“So do I!” the other wizard quickly retorted.

Jeanne rolled her eyes. “Stop it, you two, or I’ll tell Hermione.”

He was tempted to reply that that would be hard, but that would reward Black for his probing questions. Plausible deniability was important, after all. “How’s the extended family?” he asked instead. That usually got Black to talk about something else.

“Oh, Remus is busy with the exams at Hogwarts. Which means Nymphadora is crankier than usual. She hexed me for merely using her name!”

“She hexed you for asking why she wasn’t pregnant yet,” Jeanne corrected her husband with a toothy smile. “And you deserved it.”

Black pouted exaggeratedly. “I’m just concerned about my cousin and best friend’s marriage. Now that Pansy is expecting, we need to ensure that the decent members of the Black family still outnumber the bigots in the next generation!” He frowned. “If I had known Narcissa would be so annoying about becoming a grandmother, I would have voted to send her husband through the Veil.”

“You didn’t have to keep in contact with her,” Mundungus pointed out. Not even to check if the Malfoy gold stayed lost - which it had so far.

“My esteemed peers would have frowned upon me cutting ties with family - even though they were ostracising her,” Black replied. “But she’s my blood, and apparently innocent of her husband’s crimes, and cutting her off would have negatively affected my reform policies.”

Mundungus shrugged. That was Black’s problem, not his. Mundungus wasn’t hobnobbing with the Old Families. Even though he was probably richer than some of them - some of the ones they hadn’t robbed, to be precise, though even those were still quite well off by any standard other than that of the Old Families’.

Not that he could show his wealth, of course - although he had spread the news that Mr Smith had recently come into an inheritance of some substance. Just in case he suddenly had a need to socialise with the Old Families. You never knew what might come up. And the wealth also came in handy for new fake identities, such as the one he’d be using later today.

“Well,” he said, “I would love to stay and chat, but I do have business to attend to.” He ignored Black’s offer to help with that, just as he ignored Jeanne’s glare at her husband. “I wish you success for your own election campaign, of course.”

Bowing at the three witches and nodding at Black, he bid them adieu. He had a job to do, and it wouldn’t do to mess up.

What thief worth their salt had never dreamt of robbing Gringotts one day, after all?

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, May 15th, 2003**

_Jackalope Observed in Natural Habitat for the First Time!_

Harry Potter carefully read the article in The Quibbler. He had already known that Luna and Ron’s latest expedition had been a success thanks to the letters they regularly sent, but he hadn’t known the details. Well, not the details in the article - Ron’s last letter, co-written by Luna, had been full of other details, both personal details Harry could do without and also the kind of details that might come in handy in the future. Provided Harry would one day be facing a Skinwalker. Although he doubted that he’d use Ron’s tactics to deal with the creature - unless there was a handy cliff nearby.

He put the magazine down for a moment to take a sip from his tea. It wasn’t the best brew - Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour was famous for their ice cream creations, not their beverages, apart from milkshakes - but it was decent enough. And the parlour was in a central location in Diagon Alley. Just in case there was trouble.

Such as the witch approaching him with a too-wide smile, too-tight robes and a too-swaying gait. Harry shifted his weight a little, as if he were just stretching, and used his wand to summon the cup with the sugar cubes. Slowly, of course, so it would look natural that he had his wand in hand.

“Oh, Mr Potter! The famous Boy-Who-Lived! Most dangerous former Auror in Britain!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hello, Tonks.”

Her sultry smile changed into an exaggerated pout as she sat down opposite him. “How did you know?”

“There aren’t many who call me a ‘former Auror’,” he replied. Only a number of other Aurors, and he knew all of them on sight. Which meant that anyone he didn’t recognise would either be using Polyjuice Potion - or would be Tonks. And he had seen her stumble a little upon entering the parlour.

“Phooey.” She slumped in her chair.

Loud cackling laughter drew Harry’s attention to the entrance. Moody stood there, shaking his head before walking towards them.

Harry cast a privacy charm, but the old Auror cast one of his own, of course. “Told you, girl - can’t fool a wizard I trained from scratch that easily.”

Tonks snorted but didn’t contradict him. She did change the subject, though, by addressing Harry with a wide grin. “So, what are you doing here? Some special secret mission for Scrimgeour to test if Fortescue’s latest creations are suitable for our new Department Head?”

Harry had seen better attempts to gather information. “If I were, I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you.” Scrimgeour expected discretion, after all.

“Phooey.”

He chuckled at that. “So, how’s the Corps these days?”

Tonks frowned at him. “You mean to tell me that you don’t know? You’re a lousy secret agent!”

“I’m not in the habit of spying on the Ministry,” Harry said. Technically, he wasn’t lying - Sirius kept him informed of the important developments. But gossip and private news usually weren’t covered in the ‘briefings for Potter, Harry Potter’, as his godfather liked to call their talks. “How’s Bathilda doing?”

“You know, you could ask her yourself,” Tonks said. “Visit her while she’s on maternity leave.”

“I wouldn’t want to stress her unduly,” Harry replied, feeling briefly guilty. “And you know how she is when I talk with her husband.”

“‘Talk’? Is that what you call it?” She grinned again, and Moody cackled.

Harry shrugged. “Nott still hasn’t learned to be civil.”

“I bet he says the same about you,” Tonks muttered.

“Well, he’s wrong,” Harry said, grinning. “So, she’s doing well?”

“Yes. I expect you’ll get a notice about her giving birth soon - provided she still thinks you deserve one even though you left the Corps.”

Harry snorted. That was an old argument. “It wouldn’t have been the same without Ron.”

“As if he’d have left you if you weren’t alright with it!” Tonks shook her head.

“Dawlish still making trouble?” Harry changed the subject.

“He’s as paranoid as Moody here,” Tonks said. “He’s still insisting that the hunt for the Night Nargles should continue, even though they haven’t been seen in years. Not after they lost one to Malfoy’s curse.” She shrugged. “But Shacklebolt keeps him under control.”

Which meant Dawlish wouldn’t be allowed to bother Harry and his family. Not officially, at least.

“Why are you asking?” Tonks frowned. “Is he again claiming that I’m impersonating Hermione to cover up the fact that she died years ago in Malfoy Manor?”

That hadn’t been a fun incident. Harry shook his head. “No, I’m asking because he’s lurking around the corner, trying to spy on us with some Extendable Ears. You didn’t notice?”

Moody cackled again. “I keep tellin’ her she needs to pay more attention.”

“You’re a paranoid nutcase,” Tonks muttered. “I’ll tell the Head Auror.”

“He knows me,” Moody said.

Tonks rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.” She sighed. “So, how’s the family?” She smiled at Harry. “Anything in the works, you know? Marriage, maybe?”

Harry’s smile grew more polite. That was a touchy subject at Grimmauld Place. Everyone had a strong opinion about it - especially those already married, even though it was none of their business at all. He shook his head. “Nothing new. Hermione’s in France for a couple of days, sorting through new books.”

Moody snorted at that. Harry glanced at him, but then Tonks spoke up. “More books? That witch is obsessed! Do you even have any space left for a bed in your rooms?”

Harry laughed. “She’s very good with Extension Charms.” Among other things, of course.

“Well, don’t let Dawlish hear that, or we’ll have another diplomatic incident with the French,” Tonks said. “The last one made Bones quit.”

Probably helped along by his new career, Harry thought. Scrimgeour had been angling for Bones’s position for years, after all. Out loud he said: “Only because Skeeter used the opportunity to avenge her prison sentence.” That wasn’t entirely wrong, of course.

Tonks scowled. “If only we had known at the time that she was an illegal animagus…”

“Let’s hope she’ll have learned her lesson next time she gets released from Azkaban,” Harry said. And to think it had been Dawlish who had managed to expose and arrest the journalist! Of course, he had been trying to catch the Night Nargles at the time. “And how’s the new training regime going?” Harry asked after a moment.

Moody scoffed. “Still too soft! It’s not as bad as before, but we’re still coddling them! If I were in charge...”

Harry nodded. “It looks like there are still more reforms needed, then.” He had hoped the nepotism and substandard recruiting and training would vanish once the reform of the Ministry started.

Tonks huffed. “No, you two bloody nutcases! You’re not in charge because you’d drive away all our recruits after one lesson! Or put them into St Mungo’s! Or both!” She glared at Moody.

The old Auror cackled again. “My offer of training’s still open.”

“I don’t want to end up like you or Harry,” Tonks shot back as she rose. “I’ll tell Shacklebolt that Dawlish’s making a scene again. Don’t curse the staff in the meantime because you think they’re assassins in disguise.”

Harry sighed as he watched her walk away.

“She’s not that bad. Just stubborn. Once she comes around, she’ll be a great Auror,” Moody said.

Harry nodded. That was good to know. And there was something else he wanted to know. “To think that he’s still hunting the Night Nargles after all these years. Everyone else has stopped.” Which included Moody.

The Auror shrugged. “Being stubborn is a good thing for an Auror.”

That didn’t tell Harry anything. He shrugged. “So, just how good is your eye? Professional interest, you know.” He tapped the frame of his glasses.

A familiar twisted grin appeared on Moody’s scarred face. “I haven’t yet found any protections that can really block it, apart from the old, now illegal, ones,” he said. “Now if only there were a matching ear…”

Ah. Harry nodded. “Or at least a better listening charm.”

Moody’s grin grew even more. “Well, that’s why you learn how to read lips. Good way to pass the time, too.”

Harry managed to keep smiling. So Moody had known. He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Sirius and Hermione’s reactions will be memorable, he thought. But that was something for later. He had a job to do, after all.

He activated the enchantment on his glasses and started to study the street outside - and the ground beneath it.

It wasn’t as if Moody were the only one with a unique See-Through-Walls Charm, after all - the Elder Wand was very handy for such things, even if it had taken him some time to learn how to enchant his glasses with it, instead of having to cast the spell every time he needed it.

*****

**London, Gringotts, May 15th, 2003**

Hermione Granger took another bite from her sandwich before craning her neck - analysing wards was tiring work. Especially strong wards. She had to hand it to the goblins - the protections on their vaults were almost as good as they claimed. But ‘almost’ wasn’t good enough to stop her. Not when she had all the time she needed to work through their protections - from inside the vault. And all the help she could wish for, as well.

She resisted the urge to pat her pocket, where the vial with goblin blood Mr Fletcher - ‘Mundungus’, she reminded herself, not for the first time - had acquired for this heist rested. She snorted - the fact that the goblins were using blood magic to defend their vaults explained a lot. That information would certainly make for an interesting discussion next time the goblins complained to the Ministry. She shook her head, remembering Harry’s reaction when the old Curse-Breaker they had interrogated had spilt that secret. He might not be an Auror any more, but he’d certainly retained their attitude towards the dark arts.

In hindsight, it was almost obvious - blood magic allowed the creation of the strongest protections, and since it was usually done with a ritual, the lack of wands wouldn’t be too much of a problem. And it also made it easier to have the magic on the vault doors react only to goblins, and not to wizards or witches.

But it also meant that if you had goblin blood at hand, and had enough experience dealing with blood magic - and after several years working with Harry hunting down blood mages and other dark wizards, Hermione certainly knew her way around blood wards - you could cut through the best goblin defences in much less time than anyone would expect.

That didn’t matter right now - the trunk Mundungus had used to smuggle her into Gringotts contained enough food and drink for months so she could work at her leisure - but it would matter once she wasn’t breaking out of this vault any more, but breaking into the target vault. Then she would be on a tight schedule - and would have to take the patrol schedule they had discovered, thanks to Harry’s conversations with the snakes the goblins used to hunt down rats, into account as well. But, she grinned at the thought, since she had already analysed this vault’s protections - for his latest fake identity, Mundungus had picked a vault very close to the target vault - she would have a distinct advantage.

Once she had cracked this vault’s defences, of course. Which would take a little longer.

Not that it mattered - there was plenty of slack in the heist’s schedule; there was no point in rushing things if you could take your time. This wouldn’t be a repeat of Bulgaria; Harry hadn’t let her forget that little incident for weeks, even though she hadn’t really been in any danger from that vampire’s minions! And he had duelled the vampire himself, despite the risk!

Shaking her head, she finished her sandwich, took another sip from her soda and went back to breaking through the goblin wards separating her from Gringotts proper. She was on a heist, after all - and it was a heist, no matter how often Harry called it a mission.

*****

**London, Diagon Alley, May 15th, 2003**

“Yes, everything’s fine. As soon as the goblin patrol’s passed through this hallway, I’ll be out of here and starting on the target vault. Don’t worry - nothing’s changed since you last checked. Half an hour ago.”

Hermione sounded a little exasperated, Harry Potter couldn’t help noticing. “Sorry,” he said. He couldn’t help worrying - Hermione was stuck in that vault, and if anything went wrong, he wouldn’t be able to help her. Not even the Elder Wand would let him singlehandedly fight his way through Gringotts’ guards down to the vaults.

Which was why he was about to descend into the tunnels below Diagon Alley, of course - fighting his way through Gringotts was one thing, breaking into one of the tunnels the goblins shouldn’t have been digging in the first place was another.

“It’s alright - I know it must be boring waiting out there,” she said with a smile.

“Not that boring, actually,” he admitted.

“Oh?” She was frowning in that slightly pouty way that made her look cute, he noticed.

“I spent the afternoon strolling through Knockturn Alley.” He grinned.

“Scaring the locals?” She didn’t stop frowning.

“Creating a distraction, actually,” he defended himself. “Everyone will think I was scouting the area.”

“Casing the joint,” she interrupted him.

He narrowed his eyes at her. This was a mission for the Ministry, not a heist, no matter what she said. “They’ll fear I’m planning to arrest one of them. That should keep anyone from bothering our _mission_.”

“Ah.” She nodded approvingly. “We’ll make a proper thief out of you, yet,” she added with a smirk.

He scoffed. He might not be an Auror any more, but he was still hunting criminals. Just with ‘a more flexible approach’, as Sirius had put it. Besides, even Hermione and Fletcher rarely broke _British_ laws these days. “I’m going down now.”

“Alright. Be careful.”

Harry snorted. He was always careful - he only took calculated risks. “That’s my line,” he reminded her.

She sniffed. “Albania.”

“Bulgaria.”

“That doesn’t count!”

“Sure it does!” He grinned. “Anyway, I’ll have to go now to be ready when you start the mission.”

He almost managed to turn the mirror off before she snapped: “The heist.”

Fletcher, sitting in a conjured chair at the window of the flat the thief had rented for this mission, sighed. “And I thought her quarrels with Black were bad...”

“She’ll come round,” Harry told him.

“That’s what she says about you.”

Harry snorted, nodded at the thief and disillusioned himself before moving the flat’s second bookshelf, revealing the passage Fletcher had dug into the sewers. “Call at once if anything suspicious happens,” he reminded the man.

“Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Fletcher shot back.

Harry shook his head as he descended. He was only trying to help.

A few minutes later, he was in the sewers proper, using the enchantment on his glasses to see in the dark - using a Wand-Lighting Charm would have given him away, disillusioned or not - and to look through the sewer walls.

The goblins had protected their tunnels against such spells, of course. And they had been clever enough to not simply block See-Through-Walls Charms, but fool them into showing packed earth.

But they couldn’t fool charms cast by the Elder Wand. Harry had found their illegal tunnels weeks ago.

Harry smirked as he approached the closest one, his wand already moving. The goblins had thought they were clever, preparing these tunnels for the next rebellion. But they hadn’t been clever enough.

A flick of his wand shrunk the stones forming the sewer’s wall, and a few swishes later, enough of the earth behind it had been vanished for him to step into the small tunnel he had just created and restore the stones behind him.

And then it was just a matter of time before he reached the goblins’ tunnel he had picked out earlier.

*****

**London, Gringotts, May 15th, 2003**

Hermione Granger checked her watch. It was time. She had waited five minutes past the scheduled time for the patrol to pass - the goblins were rarely delayed, but you never knew - and the clock was now ticking. She only had two hours to break out of this vault and into the target one.

Fortunately, she had already subverted the protections on this vault. She disillusioned herself, activated her mask’s enchantment and gave the complicated protection scheme a last look-over. She didn’t find any fault in her preparations. She still wet her lips - you never knew, after all - then dipped her wand into the vial with the goblin blood before stabbing it at the vault’s door with a twist of her wrist.

For a moment, nothing happened. She held her breath. If she had made a mistake…

Then the vault door slowly swung open, and she relaxed. She had done it - she had the measure of the goblins’ protections!

Grinning, she snuck out, quickly checking the sides of the ledge - empty, as expected. And she couldn’t hear anyone nearby with her listening enchantment either. Nodding, she approached the edge in front of her.

The target vault was on the ledge two levels below her, but the abyss went much, much deeper. She couldn’t even see the bottom - though she suspected that was the effect of an obscuring enchantment; her detection spell couldn’t see that far. Supposedly, the only way to reach the lower levels was by minecart - on rickety-looking rails, through security checkpoints manned by goblins around the clock and Thief’s Downfalls.

The walls of the chasm were protected against magic and mundane climbing tools - she had known that before confirming it with her mask. Brooms wouldn’t work. Ordinary climbers would fall to their deaths when their Sticking Charms and other spells failed to work or their hooks were spat out by the stone walls.

But she was a professional thief, not an ordinary climber. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a disillusioned rope. A Sticking Charm and a sailor’s knot later, it was safely anchored to the unprotected wall inside Mundungus’s vault. And a conjured stone cover on the edge of the ledge ensured that no enchantments on the chasm’s walls would cut it.

Rappelling down a rope was child’s play for a trained cat burglar. Hermione reached the correct ledge in less than a minute, even with gathering up the rope’s slack so it wouldn’t reach further down. A minute later, she was standing in front of the target vault, number eight hundred and twelve.

That left her with a hundred and fifteen minutes to crack the vault’s protections. Child’s play, she thought as she went to work.

It took her a hundred and five minutes - the vault had far more additional protections than she had expected for what was supposed to be a fairly regular vault like the one Mundungus had picked. Fortunately, none of them had been particularly difficult to disarm. It had just taken a long time. Longer than planned - she had almost expected Harry to call her and check that she hadn’t managed to get herself captured by the goblins. Honestly, sometimes he was worse than her parents - although they didn’t know about her real job and were only worrying about her apparent lack of a fulfilling career.

But now she was almost done. Once more, she covered her wand’s tip with goblin blood - and didn’t that sound far more violent than it actually was? - and then touched the lock in front of her, twisting her wrist as she cast an Unlocking Charm.

And once more, after a second that felt like an hour, the vault’s door started to open. Yes!

Grinning wildly, she slipped into the vault before the door had finished moving, and took stock of its contents. Two chests, one trunk that looked like a standard Hogwarts trunk - that might be a ruse - and a strongbox. One of those would contain the records of Adrian Rowles’ businesses in the New World, which in turn would reveal just how he had made his fortune before his untimely and rather suspicious death - and also, or so Harry hoped, clues that would lead them to that elusive French blood mage. The others would contain parts of said fortune.

Hermione grinned. It was too bad that she would be forced to take everything since she lacked the time right now to safely search the vault! She opened her enchanted pocket and flicked her wand.

A few Summoning Charms later, the vault was empty, and she slipped out. By the time the door had closed, she was already back at her rope and starting to ascend. Five minutes left until the patrol would arrive and see the open vault above. Four minutes left by the time she reached the ledge.

Enough time to slip into the vault Mundungus had acquired and wait them out. That would be the smart, safe way. Mundungus could come back tomorrow and carry her out in his trunk with no one the wiser. The perfect heist.

But the Ministry didn’t want a perfect heist. Scrimgeour wanted a public incident that exposed the tunnels the goblins had dug to attack Diagon Alley in the next war. That was why Harry had dug a tunnel of his own and was now waiting for her.

If Hermione was expected to make a scene anyway, it didn’t make sense to bother with hiding beforehand. Snorting, she vanished the rope and stone cover and closed the vault’s door - Mundungus might want to use both the vault and the cover identity again - and waited.

A minute later, she saw the patrol turn the corner. Four goblins, bristling with primitive weapons and marching in step. Hidden by her Disillusionment Charm, she shook her head, then flicked her wand. The stone floor in front of the patrol suddenly grew, looming over them, then flipped over, trapping them in a makeshift prison.

A prison short enough for her to run up to it and jump on top, then back down its other side as alerts started to go off in the bank.

Perfect.

She dashed round the corner and up the next stairs, conjuring a few walls behind her as she ran. Mundungus had scouted the area during his visits to the vault. The next security checkpoint was a floor above her - they would be charging down now, but a few quickly conjured walls at the stairs would stop them. Long enough, at least, for her next move.

She eyed the ledge across the chasm, one floor above her. Magical flight didn’t work. Ropes would get cut. But there were ways around that.

She conjured a steel plate and a steel tube, stuck together, on the ground. A flick of her wand filled the tube with powder, and another conjured a second, slightly larger steel tube - although one with fins - that neatly fit over it and was capped with another, thick plate, upon which she stuck a steel basket.

She licked her lips as she checked if the device was properly aimed, then stuck a fuse in the opening at the bottom and climbed into the basket.

Five seconds later - the goblins would be breaking through the last of her walls by now thanks to their enchanted pickaxes - the improvised mortar went off, shooting her up and across the chasm.

Even after dozens of tests, it was a rush to be propelled through the air like this. She barely refrained from yelling with glee as she cleared the ledge right before she reached the top of her ballistic arc and she jumped off of the plate.

The landing was a little harder and less graceful than planned - she would have bruises in the morning - but she managed a roll and came up running. As she rounded the next corner, she tapped the mirror in her pocket twice.

A moment later, she heard an explosion from the tunnel she was sprinting towards - Harry must have heard the mortar going off, and decided to rush things. Typical!

But she had other things to worry about. Like the mine cart coming up behind her, full of yelling, bloodthirsty goblins. She reached into her enchanted pocket and gave them something to worry about - Weasleys’ Improved Silly Putty. A quick Banishing Charm propelled the glop towards the rails. A moment later it hit and expanded into a huge mass of slimy, sticky goo.

The mine cart drove into it but failed to push through, trapping its passengers in the sticky mass.

Hermione laughed as she turned the next corner - she would have to buy Ron something very nice for bringing the inspiration for that back from his latest expedition to the New World.

She stopped laughing, though, when she heard footsteps behind her - many, loud footsteps. She dropped a few more ‘surprises’, but those wouldn’t stop such a large number of goblins. Not in Gringotts, where they had the advantage.

But all she had to do was stall them a little longer. And her caltrops, bouncing screamers and instant tripwires would do that. As would a few more walls.

There was Harry - his face hidden by a sensible mask and standing over the prone bodies of half a dozen goblins. “Incoming!” she yelled.

“I know!” he yelled back. “Get out!”

She wanted to argue, but there were dozens of goblins close behind her, and she’d rather not block his line of fire. So she slid past him, into the tunnel he had dug, before she turned around. And winced.

Harry wasn’t blocking the goblins or stalling them. He was casting overpowered Banishing Charms that smashed into her pursuers, bowling over entire ranks of them. She even saw sparks fly when one goblin was slammed into another, and their armour clashed. It didn’t take him long deal with the whole troop after her. But there would be more coming. Many, many more - and not even the Elder Wand would make that an easy battle.

“Let’s go!” she hissed as soon as the last goblin went down.

He turned and followed her, rushing through the tunnel towards the sewers of Diagon Alley.

As soon as they reached the sewers, Harry stopped and looked up. She knew he was using his enchanted glasses. “No one above us,” he said.

“No Anti-Apparition Jinxes in effect,” she said. “Let’s hope that this won’t start a war.”

“It won’t,” Harry said as he aimed his wand at the ceiling. “The treaty grants them the right to deal with thieves as they see fit - but also absolves us of any responsibility.”

She knew that, of course. But she wasn’t certain if the goblins would share that opinion. Although it wasn’t as if it mattered - they couldn’t afford a war. Especially not once it became known that their famous security had been breached.

Which it would - that was why Harry was vanishing the ceiling above them, opening the sewers, and the tunnel leading to Gringotts, to Diagon Alley.

“Done,” he said. “Auror patrol’s on the way.”

“Ready,” she replied as she grabbed his hand. A moment later, both of them appeared in the prepared safe house in muggle London.

Hermione sighed and pulled off her mask, smiling widely. “That was a perfect heist!”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “A perfect covert mission, you mean.” After a moment, he sighed. “How much did you steal?”

She grinned. “I don’t know - there was no time to search the vault for the records, so I had to take everything.”

He groaned. “I should have known.”

She nodded as she pulled out the loot. “Yes, you should have. Besides, if Scrimgeour expects us not to pilfer any gold, he would need to pay us much, much better.”

“It’s not as if we need the money,” he retorted. “Between the bounties, my inheritance and your, albeit illicit, fortune, we are rich.” He faced her.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she shot back, baring her teeth at him. “It would be morally wrong to pull off a heist without stealing anything!” She refrained from drawing attention to her bracelet with her trophy coins.

“It is morally wrong to steal!” He shook his head at her.

“Not when you’re working for the government!” She took a step closer, craning her neck slightly to look up at him.

“Officially, they don’t even know you exist!” He was almost growling, showing his teeth.

“And that’s how I like it! That way, they can’t complain about our heists!”

She grabbed his head with both hands before he could try to tell her again that this wasn’t a heist and kissed him.

He kissed her back as she pulled his robes off him.

*****

The End.

*****

 


End file.
